Page 3 of Neat
That’s when the real trouble started.
While the Scooter family wanted to blow full-steam ahead toward innovation, my father was hell bent on keeping tradition. He wanted to remember and honor what had made Scooter a household name to begin with. The more he pushed, the more they pulled his reins. Eventually, he was reduced to nothing more than a glorified paper pusher — and when they assigned him to clean out Robert J. Scooter’s office, it wasn’t only a hit to his ego.
It was a hit on his life.
There had only ever been one fire at the Scooter Whiskey distillery. It happened in that office.
And my father had been the only one to perish in it.
To this day, my mom, brothers, and I have had to live with the mysterious death of my father and no viable explanation as to why it happened. The town buzzed about it — some wondering if foul play was involved, others tsking him for the bad habit of smoking — which the Stratford Fire Department swore was the cause, and which my mom insisted wasn’t possible because he didn’t smoke.
It was a mess — a giant, steaming pile of mess.
It was also another stave of wood hammered between the Becker family and the Scooter family.
Noah, Mikey, and I worked at the distillery for many reasons — but the main one was to keep our family legacy alive. And though Patrick Scooter and his family played along, there was always an underlying tension, like we were some kind of infection they couldn’t be rid of.
But to fire us would be to stir the pot of rumors that they had something to do with our father’s death, and for us to quit would be turning our backs on the distillery our family had a rightful hand in owning and operating.
Even with all that being said, I shouldn’t have been so worked up over the fact that Patrick’s youngest — Mallory Scooter — would be walking through my door any minute now. I shouldn’t have been working my stress ball overtime, tapping one foot under my desk, biting the inside of my cheek as I ran over the words I would say when she got there.
Sure, she was the founder’s granddaughter and the current CEO’s daughter.
Sure, she beared the last name of the family I couldn’t escape.
And sure, she hadn’tearnedthis job — not the way I had. It’d been handed to her, just because of the blood flowing in her veins.
But it wasn’t even any of that that mattered.
Whatdidmatter was that I was the lead tour guide, and rightfully next in line to be manager — and I had a sneaky suspicion she was hired to thwart that.
Another thing that mattered — perhaps what matteredmost— was that I’d had a secret crush on Mallory Scooter since I was fourteen years old.
No one knew that last part — not even my brothers, who kneweverythingabout me. I’d never told a soul that I found her outspoken sass and open rebellion against her family and this entire town a huge turn on. I’d never once stared at her longer than appropriate, never showed the fact that my palms were sweaty every time she came around.
We were the son and daughter of a bitter rival sparked to life decades ago and still burning hot today.
There was no option for me to entertain my infatuation with her, and I’d known that. I’d steered clear of her with little effort over the years. It was easy to do in high school and even easier to do once she left for college. The few times she had come back home made it more challenging, since I knew she liked to hang out at the same places I did. Still, I’d avoided her in every way possible, shoving down any and every urge I had to get to know the blue-eyed girl with the septum piercing who I’d watched scribble in her sketch book from afar all through high school.
But now, I would be working with her every single day.
What was worse, I’d be training her — and likely to take the jobIwas rightfully owed.
Thatwas why I couldn’t sit still, why frustration and giddiness battled inside me as I waited for her to show.
I wanted to see her.
Ihatedthat I had to see her.
I couldn’t wait to talk to her after all this time.
I couldn’t bear the fact that I had to talk to herat all.
Not a single emotion made sense as they fought that war within me, and logic didn’t have enough time to show up and calm them all down before there was a knock at my office door.
I dropped the stress ball in my hand just before it swung open, and I followed that bright yellow, spongey ball as it rolled all the way across the office and knocked gently against the toe of dirty, white, high-top Chucks.
I’m not sure how long I stared at those shoes, only that it was a littletoolong. Because by the time my brain finally processed that I should stand and clear my throat and make my way around my desk to greet my guest, she was watching me with an arched brow and flat, beautifully painted lips.
