Grumpily Ever After (Stick Taps)

Chapter One Noah

Chapter One

Noah

“No.”

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But—”

I hold up my hand, interrupting my younger sister’s begging before it actually works. I’ve told her yes countless times in her twenty-six years on this earth, but I’m putting my foot down this time. For the sake of my sanity, I have to. “No, Izzy. My decision is final.”

She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “But I don’t understand why it’s final.”

“Because last I checked, Stick Taps is a cidery, not a wedding venue.”

“It can be both!” She tosses her hands into the air. “Especially for my wedding. I’m your little sister, Noah. Don’t you want to see me married somewhere beautiful, like all this gorgeous land you have, and not at the community center like literally everyone else in this town?”

“Not literally. The Middletons were married down by the pier last month, and it was a fine ceremony. Why not get married there?”

She turns her nose up. “Because it’ll look like I copied them.”

She can’t be serious. There are only so many places to get married in a town of roughly twelve thousand people. It’s not like whatever place she chooses will be wholly unique.

“Big whoop. There aren’t that many venues in Port Harbor. Bound to be some repeats.”

“Exactly! That’s my point. But here you are, sitting on a gold mine . . .” I level her with a look, and she holds her hands up innocently. “I’m just saying. You could make a killing by renting this space. Why not use my wedding as an advertisement?”

“Which is it, Iz? Do you want to be unique by having your wedding here, or do you want everyone to copy you?”

“Whichever gets you to say yes.” She blinks up at me with those damn brown eyes—the same ones my father and I have—that I’ve never been able to say no to and a grin that nearly has me saying yes.

Somehow I resist, shaking my head. “No. It’s not happening.”

She groans, tossing her head back dramatically as I reach for a rag and start wiping down the bar that isn’t even remotely dirty.

While Stick Taps is usually packed, we’re having a lull today, and I suspect it has to do with the 5k happening near the harbor. Izzy has been my only customer in hours, so I’ve cleaned this bar top at least fifty times since then.

Still, it keeps me occupied while my sister continues her attempt to get me to rent out my cidery to her.

If I’m being honest, I can see her point. There’s a lot of space with the five acres of land, and being in Washington State, we have no shortage of beautiful scenery, especially not with the mountains in the backdrop.

The biggest issue would be where. Does she want a tent wedding? Or something in the open air? Would I have to construct something for her to get married under? Does she want the reception here too?

My mind drifts to the big barn we have sitting on the property.

We haven’t done anything with it since we bought the land except use it for extra storage and to house all our cardboard boxes.

There’s a giant tractor sitting in the middle that doesn’t run, and the roof has more holes than it does good wood.

I keep saying I’ll refurbish it, but I haven’t had the time.

I’ve been too busy building the cidery to worry about the aesthetics of the farm.

This could finally be my chance, though. I could— No.

I shake away that thought, not wanting to go down that road.

A good excuse to finally do something with the barn aside, I don’t want Stick Taps to be a wedding venue.

I bought the farm to run a cidery, not host weddings.

Besides, it would be a bit hypocritical of me to do so.

After my marriage ended in a heated divorce, I don’t exactly advocate for tying yourself to one person for a lifetime anymore.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love—I’m not entirely coldhearted—but legally binding yourself to someone? Been there, done that, got the receipts from lawyer fees to prove what a massive mistake it is.

“You don’t understand, Noah,” Izzy says, reaching over the bar and grabbing a bowl of mixed nuts. She sets them in front of her, then picks through them for the cashews I know she loves.

I want to yell at her for it, but it’s clear she’s having a rough day. Instead, I move to our small pantry, grab a can of fresh ones, pour them into a bowl, and swap that for the nut mixture she plundered.

“Thank you.” She digs into them instantly.

“What don’t I understand?”

“Huh?” she asks, still focusing on her snack.

“You said, ‘You don’t understand, Noah,’ so I want to know what I don’t understand.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sag in defeat. “I just . . . I wanted to get married somewhere I love, and I love this place. It feels like home to me. I didn’t want my wedding to be impersonal, you know?”

Well fuck if that doesn’t hit me right in the chest.

When I married Chelsea, it was as impersonal as you could get. I was barely involved in the planning, though it wasn’t for my lack of trying. Every suggestion I gave her was squashed in an instant. So I stopped trying.

Izzy isn’t the same as me, though. She won’t give up so easily, which is why she’s still sitting here begging me to use the farm.

“Besides, the community center was already booked for a wedding that day.”

Ah, and there it is—the real reason.

“You’re telling me this town has two weddings on the same day? How will the citizens decide which one to invade?” I say sarcastically.

She tosses a cashew at me, immediately replacing it with another and popping it into her mouth. “We’re getting married in ten weeks and don’t have a venue. What the hell else are we going to do?”

“I have a very simple solution.” I pick up the discarded cashew and toss it into the trash, then grab a rag and an already-clean glass, settling back against the counter.

I polish it because I need something to do with my hands.

“Change your wedding date. You’re trying to cram planning a whole wedding into ten weeks for no reason. ”

“It’s not for no reason. I want to get married on my anniversary and don’t want to wait a whole year. I’ve already waited long enough, and it’s more romantic to get married on your anniversary.”

“Romance, schmomance.”

She groans. “Ugh. Don’t start with your anti-love stuff.”

“I’m not anti-love. I’m anti-marriage. It always ends in disaster.”

“Just because your marriage to Chelsea didn’t work out doesn’t mean all marriages won’t. Our parents are still married.”

Shit. She has me there.

I run the towel around the inside of the glass again. “They’re the exception.”

“Craig and I could be the exception too.”

Maybe she’s right. Perhaps they could be the exception. But I wasn’t, and I don’t want that same heartache for her.

“I’m just saying you can continue to date. You’re already living together. It’s not like being married will change things all that much. It will—”

She holds her hand up, stopping me. “Save it. I’ve heard your ‘marriage is a terrible idea’ speech enough times since your divorce. Just let me sulk.”

That’s precisely what I do. I let her sit there and eat my cashews while she goes on and on about all the things she still has to do but can’t because they don’t have a venue, because—shocking to no one—everywhere is booked already.

Of course it is. She’s rushing the wedding.

She could have everything she wanted if she’d just give it time.

Her troubles make me feel slightly guilty for saying no, which I’m sure is her goal.

For as long as I can remember, Izzy has had me wrapped around her finger. We might have a twelve-year age difference, but it’s never felt that way.

I’m sure part of that might have been because I was busy as hell trying to carve my way into the NHL, and I didn’t have time to be annoyed by her, but still.

I remember when she was just a little bundle of pink and how I’d hold her in my arms like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

Now she’s getting married. It’s wild how fast time moves.

“You could rebuild the barn like you’ve been talking about and a new chicken coop to keep Tootsie from getting out. This could be your reason,” she says, voicing my thoughts from earlier.

I hadn’t even considered finally building a new coop for our chickens, but she’s right. Our resident escape artist, Tootsie, knows exactly how to break out of our current enclosure, no matter how many times I rig it so she doesn’t.

Still, I don’t want this place overrun with overly opinionated in-laws, bridezillas, and whatever else comes with planning a wedding.

It’s too much in an already jam-packed calendar.

We already host events—like weekly trivia and bingo—plus musical guests on weekends, not to mention the production schedule we have to keep up with.

Juggling weddings on top of that is too tall an order.

Besides, what if we suck at it? Isn’t a wedding supposed to be the “happiest day of your life”? What if we don’t live up to that? What if we can’t deliver? What if I can’t deliver?

There’s too much damn pressure that comes with it, and I don’t know if I’m the right person to make that happen.

But I don’t voice that fear. Instead, I sweep my hand out toward the empty taproom. “Kind of running a business here, Iz.”

“Which is why you have Ezra to help you.”

“What am I helping with?”

The man in question appears at the end of the hallway leading to the back office.

He’s got his laptop tucked under one arm and a stack of papers in his hand.

He grimaces as he takes a seat at the bar, and I know the height of the stool makes him uncomfortable.

But he ignores it, pretending it doesn’t hurt as he settles into a spot, situating his things.

I ignore it, too, knowing he hates it when anyone says something about his limp, a result of a hockey play gone wrong. It’s the same play that knocked him out of the NHL after just eight years.