Chapter 8 #2
“Are you guys comfortable posting?” Presley asks Milo and Brandt, continuing to ignore me and my comments. “Or would you prefer I just handle it for you?”
“You,” they say in unison. I could have told her that.
“In fact,” Brandt continues, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his phone. “Can we address this? Because that’s not fucking cool.”
He scrolls for a second, then passes her his phone. I peel away from the bar and move over next to Presley so I can see it.
The post is from some company called Wink & Shine, who from the looks of it makes moonshine.
There’s a pretty pink label plastered on the front of a frosted bottle, a pale pink liquid filling half, set on a picnic table, with watermelons in the background.
The words “Ladies, time to get your party mode on” are strategically embedded over the image.
Oooof…
Southern Brothers has four signature brews—Party Mode, Sob Story, Silver Lining Sour, and Blue Jeans in Low Beams. Party Mode and Sob Story were the two that they started with, and the ones that put them on the map.
They were, and still are, Milo and Brandt’s babies.
Their pride and joy. One does not mess with those beers.
“I don’t see a problem,” Presley says, handing Brandt back his phone.
Of course she doesn’t…
“Don’t see a problem?” Brandt scoffs. “They’re using our brand name in their marketing. Trying to imply shit.”
“I see that. But party mode doesn’t belong to just you.”
“We have the trademark.”
“For the beer. The logo. But that doesn’t give you the right to police who uses the very common phrase party mode.”
“So, they can just do this? Even though it’s clear it’s a knock on us?”
“Who is Wink & Shine exactly?”
“Some new moonshine company. From what I can tell they are specializing in fruity flavors and targeting women.”
“Perfect.” She starts to scribble something in her notebook, her hand moving so fast I’m half surprised the paper doesn’t catch fire. “We can totally use this.”
Use this? I glance over at my brother and his best friend, both of whom look just as confused as I am.
That’s not stopping Presley though. She continues to scribble, focused and dialed in on something.
If we were in a cartoon there would be a lightbulb flashing on over her head, and I’m mesmerized watching this.
“How?” Milo asks, leaning against the bar.
“Social media ‘wars’ are totally a thing,” she answers, using her fingers to make quotes around wars. “I’m sure you’ve seen them, where two companies battle each other with snappy retorts. Since they are another spirits brand, we can think of something fun and clap back.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I sip my beer, still unable to look away from the pretty brunette a couple of feet down from me. Just like in high school, she’s smart and quick, and all sorts of things that make me want to know her. Leaving me even more pissy that I feel this way.
Milo glances at the clock on the wall. “We should probably wrap up. Pints and Purls will be getting here pretty soon, and once they do, all bets are off. If you want to stash all your work stuff in the office before your date gets here, feel free.”
Date? Presley has a…date?
My stomach clenches, a wave of jealousy washing over me. No, no. That’s not jealousy…it’s…
Fuck. Yeah, that’s jealousy. Shit.
“A date?” I choke out, unable to hold it in.
Who the fuck is she going out with? And why does that bother me so much?
“Yeah, that’s that thing where you ask someone to go do something with you.
I realize it’s not something you’ve maybe ever personally experienced, but it’s actually quite the popular trend,” Presley snarks.
Her voice is sweet, borderline saccharine, a matching smile spreading across her face.
Batting her eyelashes, she gives me a sassy lift of one shoulder, making her dress shift just enough to give me a peak at her thigh.
Heaven help me…
“I know what a date is. I just don’t know anyone who would want to take you on one.”
“Believe it or not, Jace is actually the family romantic,” Milo chimes in.
“Doubt that,” Presley mutters.
Her phone chirps and she turns her attention to it. Unable to help myself, I close the gap between us so I can take a peek. Peering over her shoulder, I scan over the text conversation currently displayed on her screen.
Edgar:
I could make Wednesday work. You?
Sure. I have a meeting at Pour Decisions at 3:30. We could meet there? Say, 5p?
Sounds good
She’s going out with a guy named Edgar? What…is he eighty-six years old?
I scan down, eyes landing on the most recent message.
Edgar
Hey.
Hey? That’s what this dude says? Come up with a better line, sir.
Presley doesn’t seem to mind, her thumbs tapping out a response.
Hi. Just wrapping up my meeting. I’m the brunette at the bar in a sundress and cowboy boots.
She left out the part about how she looks good enough to eat. That her entire outfit and sassy demeanor is mouthwateringly cute, making her damn near irresistible. That willpower alone might not be enough.
A defense mechanism is absolutely necessary.
“Do you even know this dude?” My voice is harsh, judgy, and much louder than I intend. Presley jumps, not realizing how close I am now. “Do we need to add Internet safety to the list of things we’re going to cover? How to safely meet up with strangers?”
Presley glares at me. More daggers. No, actually, these might be laser beams. Ones she’s trying to drill a hole with straight through me. Can’t blame her there.
“I didn’t meet him on the Internet,” she defends. “Not that it’s any of your business, but our mothers are friends and thought we might hit it off.”
“Don’t worry, we got your back if he’s a creeper,” Milo says, pushing back from his spot on the bar and tossing a towel over his shoulder. “All three of us.”
Speak for yourself, big brother…
Her phone chirps again, a new message popping up. Presley tilts her phone away from me to read it, but she’s unsuccessful from completely obscuring my view. With six siblings, I’ve gotten very good at being a nosey ninja.
Edgar
About that. I’m not going to make it. Something came up.
Something came up. Wow. Dude might as well just tell her that he has to wash his hair.
Presley deflates slightly, an almost imperceptible nod paired with a smile that tells me she half expected this.
It doesn’t stop her disappointment from seeping through.
Or from the whole scene feeling like a punch to my gut.
As much as it irked me that she was going out with someone else, I dislike it even more that she’s feeling like this.
Totally understand. Just LMK if you want to reschedule.
She clicks her phone off, not even bothering to wait to see if he responds. She straightens herself out, and I step back quickly, not wanting to give it away that I was still reading over her shoulder.
“Everything good?” Milo asks.
“Little change of plans. He’s running late at work and asked if I could come to Tifton instead.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. To be fair, she covers it well. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe her. This is something she’s clearly had a lot of practice with.
Gathering up her stuff, she shoves it in her tote bag and slides off her barstool. Her outfit is even more adorable when she’s standing, stealing my attention and frying all reasoning and logic in my brain.
“Well, I’m off,” she announces. Turning to face me, she gives me a pointed look, a cocky smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “I will see you Friday at two. And if you’re late, I will find a way to make you pay for it.”
Turning on her heel, she marches out of the bar, the ruffles on the bottom of her sundress swishing back and forth across the back of her beautiful legs.
“I don’t know if you know this,” Milo says, his voice turning brotherly. “But being mean to the pretty girl isn’t going to make her like you. So knock off the third-grade playground antics.”
I scoff. “What makes you think I want her to like me? I want her to leave.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Brandt chimes in, pulling out a keg from under the bar. “You were watchin’ her like you’re a little kid seeing Santa for the first time.”
“Bite me.”
“That sounds like more of a request for Presley.” Brandt chuckles.
I shake my head, picking up my beer and slamming back the rest of it. I’m not sticking around if that’s how these two are going to be. The last thing I need is their shit. I get more than enough of it from Owen.
Pulling out my wallet, I slam a twenty down on the counter, giving Milo a look that I know he’ll understand. A look that tells him to knock it the fuck off. All I get in return is a laugh.
“Keep the change,” I tell him, before turning on my heel and making my way to the door.
Pulling out my phone, I text Owen.
Time for food. See you at the Slice.