Page 79 of Small Town Firsts
“Oh.” I tucked my hands in my pockets. “Maybe send to Lucky’s. We should probably promote the new with ciders Vi—Ronan designs.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Vi?”
I sighed. “Viking. I call him Viking because he’s a damn brute.”
Beckett’s eyebrow lifted sharply. “I see. Do I need to have a talk with him?”
“What? No. I can handle myself.”
He took his hat off and scooped his curls back before fitting it back on his head. “Hmm.”
“Shut up. Not like that.” At least I wasn’t complaining about that part. “He’s just a little intense. You know his personality, since you hired him out from under me. Remember?”
He rolled his eyes. “Let’s not go back to that. Do you think he’ll be ready for August? Or should we push the opening to September?”
I shook my head. “I’ll talk to Ronan today when we do the chef interviews, but I think we’re good there. Ian will also be a big draw. We want to capitalize on it. And he and his band know how to work a room. I’ve already been thinking about utilizing both Lennon and Ian to make it an even bigger event. If he’s amenable anyway.”
“I’ll check with Aunt Laverne. She has a way with him.”
“Good idea.”
“Mind if I take a look at the barn? See what this Viking’s been up to?”
Regrets, I had many. And he’d never let me live this one down. “Sure. I have a key.”
“Of course you do.”
“Shut up.”
I set my empty coffee cup on the bar and we both grabbed another bottle of water on our way out to the workshop.
“Viking, huh? Does that mean we have to use big chalices for the opening day?”
“You’re a menace.”
“I wouldn’t mind a big horned one.” He mimed hanging onto his bottle and a phantom one in the same size with his other hand. “Tankard of ale?”
“Are you trying to live out aGame of Thronesthing?”
“No, I’m definitely going with the Viking thing.”
I rolled my eyes with a laugh as I lifted the key to the lock, but the door was already cracked open. “Shit,” I muttered and was about to step back when I heard the music.
I hadn’t seen Ronan’s truck when I pulled in, but maybe he snuck in while I was talking to Beck. I would have thought he’d come out to talk to our boss, for God’s sake.
Hauling the door open was a lesson in brute strength. Beckett wedged his hand into the crack above my head and added his muscle into it. The unholy screech of the roller on the rusty track elicited a moan from inside.
“Go the fuck away!” Came a bellow I didn’t recognize.
Inside was chaos. There was no other word for it. Empty five and six gallon buckets were stacked like milk jugs at an impromptu fair stall. Not just one, but five of them in a semicircle along the perimeter of the workshop. A smaller metal canister lay drunkenly beside one with three buckets knocked over. In between each of the bucket displays were smaller bottle versions with a whole lot of empty hard cider bottles.
From the scent of the room, I’d say most of them had been consumed the night before instead of from the stash of empties waiting for Ronan’s fermenting tanks.
And in the center of the room were two large idiots.
One was mine—sort of. Though I was rethinking that at the moment.
The other was a stranger who was somehow bigger than Ronan. They were both bare to the waist with a stack of pizza boxes between two chairs they’d stolen from the grounds. The large dark haired one had the top half of his body draped over the arm of the chair as he tried to get out of the sunlight’s line of fire. I couldn’t see his face, just a startling amount of tangled curls dripping onto the cement floor.
