Chapter 9
nine
. . .
JEREMY
Mistletoe Brewing Company’s new holiday ale was decent. Not great, but … good.
I took another sip, letting it sit on my tongue for a second before swallowing. “Needs more cinnamon, I think. Or nutmeg. One of ‘em—I can’t tell which.”
Stella McKinley leaned against the counter at her back, her dark lipstick a sharp contrast against her pale skin.
She’d traded in her full goth look from high school for something more professional goth, I guess.
Still black everything, still the same fuck-you energy she’d always had, but now she owned a successful brewery, instead of just brooding out at the Holly Point parking lot.
“That’s incredibly helpful, Jeremy. Thank you for that detailed and specific feedback.”
“You’re welcome.”
She rolled her eyes but made a note on the pad beside her anyway. “I’m thinking about calling it ‘Mistletoe Mischief.’ Too cutesy?”
“Way too cutesy. You’d hate it immediately.”
“Fair.” She crossed out what she’d written. “What about ‘Winter's Bite’ instead?”
“Better.”
We’d been going over last-minute details for Saturday for the past twenty minutes. Stella was providing the beer—a selection of her year-round favorites, plus a seasonal special.
“So we’re set then,” Stella said, flipping her notepad closed. “Three kegs, the portable bar setup, and I’ll bring Colin to help pour.”
“Sounds good.”
“Just to confirm, I’ll be set up near the cheese station?”
“Jemma wants a ‘beverage and bites’ corner, or some shit like that.”
Stella’s mouth twitched. “How very Pinterest of her.”
“Don’t even get me started. Between this and her wedding …” I shook my head, my eyes rolling.
My sister was usually a very chill woman, but she was well on her way to losing her damn mind.
I shouldn’t give her too much shit, though.
When she and Todd got married, his mom had pretty much railroaded Jemma into the big, traditional religious wedding, commandeering the guest list and forcing Jemma into all sorts of situations she wasn’t happy with.
This time around, Charlie had told her she could have anything she wanted.
It seemed that what my sister wanted was something out of a boho fever dream.
The bell over the door chimed, and a guy in a brown UPS uniform walked in, pushing a dolly stacked with boxes. He was maybe in his late twenties, fit, and with one of those carefully maintained beards that probably required all sorts of hipster products.
His eyes landed on Stella, and his whole face lit up. “Hey, Stella.”
“Hey, Matt.” She pushed off the bar and pointed toward the door that led to an “employees only” section of the brewery where Stella had set up a make-shift office when she’d opened the brewery a few years back. “Same place as always.”
“Got it.” Only, he didn’t move right away. Instead, he stood there grinning at her like an idiot. She stared back at him for a few long seconds, and his cheeks turned pink. He cleared his throat and said, “Uh, new shipment of glasses?”
“Yep. Holiday designs.”
“Nice,” he replied, nodding his head. “You, uh, doing anything special for the season?”
“Working, mostly. Big event out at Winterberry Farm on Saturday.”
“Oh yeah? That sounds cool.” He finally started moving toward the back. “Maybe I'll stop by.”
“You should,” Stella said, her tone completely neutral.
I watched him disappear into the back room, then turned to Stella. “You should give him your number.”
She didn’t even look up from wiping down the bar, but I saw the way her lips tipped down into a slight frown. “It’s not like that.”
“Um, it’s definitely like that, Stella. He was practically drooling.”
She shrugged, still focused on a nonexistent spot on the bar. “Whatever.”
I studied her for a second. Back in high school, some of the assholes on the football team used to give her shit for being chunky, which was bullshit then—and now.
Stella McKinley was a knockout. Always had been.
She was tall, built like those old pinup girls with curves in all the right places, and covered in intricate ink that likely cost a fortune.
When I’d first moved back to town and I’d stopped in to her brewery, I’d thought about asking her out.
But within five minutes of talking, I realized we were too fucking similar—both stubborn, both prone to brooding, and both seriously allergic to small talk.
We would have driven each other insane before the date was even over.
But that didn’t mean other guys couldn’t see what I saw. Matt sure as hell did.
It pissed me off that Stella couldn’t see it, too.
“He’s my delivery man, Jeremy.”
“So?”
She looked at me then, and said, her voice deadpan. “So … that means he has my number. And my address. And he pretty much knows every store I shop at—including the sex shop where I buy my vibrators.”
And there it was. Stella might have traded her heavy eyeliner and band t-shirts for a more polished look, but she’d never grown out of wanting to shock people, especially when she was feeling defensive.
I couldn’t relate at all.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. “Okay, yeah. Fair point. What’s that saying—‘if he wanted to, he would’?”
She pointed at me. “Yes, that. Exactly.”
Matt reappeared then, shooting Stella one more hopeful smile before heading out with a lift of his hand in farewell. “See ya next time.”
The bell chimed again as the door closed behind him.
She turned to me, her arms crossed over her chest. “Speaking of pathetic puppy dog looks … are you still pretending you’re not hopelessly in love with your former best friend?”
I nearly choked on my beer. “What?”
“Oh, please.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone, swiped the screen a few times, and then turned it toward me. It was a picture someone had posted of me and Harrison on the cold, snowy ground after I’d tripped and accidentally tackled him. The look on my face was …
Yeah, okay.
“You know that game ‘fuck, marry, kill’?” she asked, shoving her phone back into her pocket. “It looks like you wanted to do all three at once.”
Heat crept up the back of my neck, and I cleared my throat. “Well, I’ve given up on ‘kill.’”
She stood up straighter, her eyes lighting up. “And?”
“And we’ve definitely fucked.”
Stella’s eyebrows shot up under her dark bangs, and she slapped both palms on the bar top, leaning forward. “I fucking knew it.” She made a rolling gesture with her hand, fingers beckoning. “Go on …”
I stared down at my beer, my stomach clenching.
Saying it out loud would make this real.
Make it something I couldn’t take back or pretend I didn’t feel.
But I’d known it since the morning after our first night together, when I’d woken up next to him and hadn’t wanted to leave.
I knew it when he’d looked at me across the table at Dockside yesterday, and I’d felt my entire chest crack open.
Knew it every single time he smiled at me, and I forgot how to breathe.
I was in love with Harrison Prescott.
Had been for half my goddamn life.
And I wanted forever with him.
“And, uh … I’m …” I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had settled there. “I’m … thinking about the ‘marry’ part, actually.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the refrigeration units humming in the back.
“Holy shit,” Stella said finally. She leaned forward and lowered her head slightly to catch my eyes, since I was still staring into my beer as if it held the answers to life. “You’re fucking serious.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah. Fuck.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “We’ve been together for less than a week. It’s insane to be thinking about that already.”
Stella bent at the waist and rested her forearms on the bar top, her expression shifting into something I didn’t see from her often—stone cold seriousness.
“You want my advice?” she asked.
“Do I have a choice?” I asked with a smirk.
“No.” She held my gaze. “Stop being in your head about whether it’s too soon or too fast or too …
whatever. Life doesn’t care if you’re ready, Jeremy.
Moments pass. People move on. And then you’re stuck with nothing but regrets and ‘what ifs’ because you were too chickenshit to say what you actually felt when you had the chance. ”
Something uncomfortable twisted in my gut. Stella wasn’t usually the type to give grand speeches about life and love.
“That sounds like experience talking,” I said quietly.
As far as I knew, Stella hadn’t dated anyone in a while.
Years, maybe. Though I’d heard some rumors floating around town about her and Cade Murphy—something about them having history and a New Year’s Eve party that got out of hand.
But I wasn’t a gossip, and I tried like hell to avoid people who were, so I’d never asked.
Now, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if her speech just now was about him.
Maybe you are a gossip after all, I thought, because I sure as shit wanted to know.
She shrugged, her walls coming back up. “Maybe.”
“Stella—”
“Don’t.” She straightened, picking up my empty glass. “Point is, you already wasted seventeen years. Don’t waste any more.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a text from Harrison.
Harrison
Wine’s breathing, pasta sauce is simmering, and last night’s hockey game is queued up to watch. Still targeting 7?
I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face.
“Oh my god,” Stella said, her voice full of amused disgust. “Your face.” She made a gagging sound in the back of her throat.
“What about my face?” I asked, fighting the grin I knew was growing.
“You look like a golden retriever who just got told he’s a good boy.” She made a shooing motion with both hands. “Go. Get out of my brewery. Go home to your man before you start wagging your tail.”
“Fuck off,” I said, but I was already standing, smiling like the love-sick fool that I was.
“Yeah, yeah. See you Saturday.”