Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NORA
“We’ll have to move the double date again,” José tells me. “Pansy’s got some kind of bug this time. Seems like the flu. I doubt she’ll be a hundred percent better by Monday.”
It’s Saturday afternoon, and we’re sitting in my office, having a check-in about our operations.
We’re also hiding from the bachelorette weekenders starting their party off large at The Ginger Station.
It’s two o’clock, and they’re playing catch with a blow-up dick.
It’s a cartoon version with a smiley face, but I have a strong presentiment we’ll be getting complaints from the group of parents who came here to hang out and let their kids run wild.
One of the kids, a deceptively innocent-looking little girl with pigtails, already tried climbing the trellis in the beer garden, which is ornamental and not weight-bearing.
No doubt the kids are trying to figure out how to steal the inflatable dick so they can play catch.
José’s waiting for a response about Pansy, so I say, “Oh, too bad. Do you need to go home and take care of her?”
I’m thinking: Does this have anything to do with Cormac’s texts?
Cormac said he was going to message Pansy about Bradley last night. Maybe she’s scrambling today, trying to figure out who’s been texting her.
I remember that sickening feeling.
Oddly, the thought of her experiencing it too doesn’t please me as much as I thought it would.
José rubs his forehead with two fingers. “She basically kicked me out this morning. She doesn’t like people seeing her sick.”
I nod, trying very hard to look sympathetic.
Would a knitted brow be too much?
Nah, I’m going for it.
“Is there something wrong with your face?” he asks.
“An itch,” I say, scratching my forehead with my middle finger.
He rolls his eyes skyward. “Look, are you sure you want to go bowling at all?”
“Yeah, of course. Pansy seemed really sold on it, and Cormac and I felt bad for letting her down last time. We can do it the Monday after next. It’d be easier for both of us to get away when the brewery is closed.”
He eyes me incredulously. “You mean it?”
Well, no, I’d rather eat broken glass than bowl with Pansy. But the look on his face makes me feel like a shitty friend.
Actually, now that I’m looking at him more closely, he’s a bit haggard. Like he hasn’t been sleeping. Or maybe she really is sick, and he has it too.
I back my chair up a few inches, because no thank you, I do not want to be vomiting in a bowl for several days straight.
José sighs. “Really?”
I lift my hands. “I’m a shitty sick person too. I’d rather not risk it.”
“That’s not what I meant. You honestly felt bad for letting Pansy down?”
“Fine, obviously we didn’t feel bad per se,” I admit, allowing myself a smile, “but whatever, we’ll go bowling if she wants to bowl. Anything to appease her that doesn’t include letting her remodel the entire brewery.”
He leans back in his chair and folds his hands. “Her plans for the bathrooms weren’t bad.”
A smile stretches across my face, because damn, this is the closest he’s come to admitting he doesn’t want to throw money at her hobby business.
“You know we don’t have the budget for any of that. Not when it’s not going to increase our revenue.”
He nods. “Yeah, I know. I’ve told her, of course, but she gets excited.” He rocks forward in his seat and keeps his hands together. “But bowling…I can’t wrap my head around why you’d agree to it.”
“You wanted me to play nice.” I press a hand to my chest. “Maybe this is me, playing nice.”
“Bullshit. You got a C-minus in bowling, and you hate losing.”
“I knew you were going to bring that up,” I grumble. It feels nice, though, talking to him like we’re old friends again. Like the past year—hell, maybe even the past couple of years—was a weird fever dream.
“You don’t have to go bowling.” He looks off in the distance. “Look, I’ll say it again. It was really fucking embarrassing what she pulled the other week, trying to pitch to Cormac. I still don’t totally get the two of you together—”
I give him an arch look.
He rolls his eyes skyward. “Fine, but anyway, I know what he must think about Pansy. I’ll make sure she doesn’t keep bugging him about it.” Leaning back again, he says, “Anyway, how’s your flower beer coming along?”
“Jesus, we’re definitely not calling it that.”
He grins. “How about the Love Potion?”
“Are you getting these names from Pansy?”
He shakes his head, but his smile doesn’t slip. “You got the idea for this one from Cormac, didn’t you?”
I shrug, not wanting to think about what that might mean.
“Okay, Nora. Have it your way.” His expression shifts, becoming more serious. “But I don’t know why you won’t admit it. I’ve never seen you like this with a guy.” There’s a note of hurt in his voice I’d rather not think about right now.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my pulse jumping.
I can’t have real feelings for Cormac. Putting every other reason aside, I’m a liar, and he’s possibly the most honest man alive.
And you’ve got him lying and sending unfriendly anonymous texts after a few weeks. What’ll happen if you’re together for a year?
A horrible feeling seeps into me, as if someone just slopped me with that radioactive green slime from old Nickelodeon shows.
Am I corrupting Cormac?
Am I the Pansy in our twosome?
Fuck, I don’t like that thought one bit, but I really think I might be. Cormac has done so much for me, and I’ve done almost nothing for him in return. Yes, I’m sleeping with him, but that doesn’t count. I’ve enjoyed every minute of being with him. But what have I actually done for him? Just him?
I watched Cookie, but that hardly counts.
There’s the ginger beer, but that’s not specifically for him.
I want to do something for him. Something special that shows I appreciate him.
“You have a very strange look on your face,” José comments.
“Look at you, being all over my facial expressions today.”
“It’s just—”
“He did inspire the pear and wildflower ginger beer,” I admit, even though it physically hurts me to make myself vulnerable. “I guess maybe I’ll name it after him.”
“The Cormac?” he asks with a laugh.
“The Muse.”
He watches me with a long, knowing gaze. “You’re really serious about him, huh?”
I open my mouth, hoping some kind of answer will spill out, but at that exact moment, a screech pierces the office from the tasting room.
It feels strangely appropriate.
José heaves a sigh. “I’d put a hundred bucks on those kids getting hold of the inflatable dick.”
“Why would I put money on a losing bet?”
He smiles as he gets up, and then turns to face me before leaving. “Thank you, Nora. Thank you for being cool about this.”
“Of course. I’ve got your back.”
I always have. Always. Because he had my back when it counted. I had the vision for our business, sure, but he poured his resources into opening this place, and he’s fought for it as hard as I have. He’s been a true friend—one who’s believed in me—and I’ve tried to be one to him too.
“I know you do,” he says.
Another shriek rents the air, and he huffs and goes scurrying off, but I know he loves it. We both thrive in chaos and busyness. We thrive in the hustle. Anything else would be boring and lifeless.
I’m Nora Takes Things Too Far, and José is my male counterpart. That’s why I’m doing this. I want him to be happy, the way he deserves.
I take out my phone to text Cormac the news about bowling, and also because I’m dying for an update on Ann’s date.
It was supposed to take place this afternoon.
Cormac confirmed earlier that Mick and Liam were still planning to go with him.
I wanted to go too, but I didn’t want to ask. It felt like I would be overstepping.
When I turn on the phone, I discover he’s already sent me several messages:
Do you have a fire extinguisher?
Never mind. Middle-of-the-night freak-out. But do you?
And then, a few minutes ago:
They say a picture speaks a thousand words, Nora Leigh.
This last text is followed by a photo of Ann sitting in a booth across from George Cronin, a huge bouquet sitting on the table between them.
Holy shit.
I haven’t seen many recent pictures of the guy, but it’s most definitely him.
I stand up, immediately needing to tell someone, although I can’t exactly announce the news in the tasting room. There would be a stampede on the bakery.
But there’s no way I’m sitting in here, looking at the month’s expenses, when there’s a freaking movie star on a date with Ann a few minutes’ drive from here.
I need in on this, and I know Hannah would absolutely eviscerate me if I didn’t tell her about it.
Briar and Sophie probably couldn’t care less, but if we’re going over there to peek in through the window, then it only seems right for them to get arrested for being Peeping Toms right alongside us.
So I send off a quick text to my friends before leaving through the front so I can tell José.
When I walk into the tasting room, I have to swallow a laugh, because José is holding the inflatable dick tucked under his arm while the girl with blond pigtails tries to jump up and swat it from him.
Two women are standing directly in front of him, obviously pissed off.
One of them is wearing a pink “Mom Therapy” T-shirt with a full glass of red wine depicted on the front, while the other is dressed in a pink tutu and a T-shirt that reads “Bride Squad.” At a guess, the child’s mother wants the inflatable dick out of commission, and Bride Squad wants it back.
I walk up to them. “What seems to be the problem?”
I deserve an Oscar for not laughing.
José’s lips twitch. “Escaped…paraphernalia. There’s been some discussion as to whether it’s appropriate.”
“It’s not,” snaps the woman wearing a “Mom Therapy” T-shirt.
“It’s a cartoon. Lighten up,” retorts the woman in the tutu. “Besides, what are you doing bringing your kid to a brewery in the middle of the day?”
“She has every right to be here,” the other woman replies in a clipped voice. “But you don’t have every right to be rude and vulgar.”
“She does, actually,” I say, before turning back to Bride Squad. “Sorry, though, no inflatable dicks before five. It’s a hard house rule. You’re going to have to deflate it. It can…” I meet José’s gaze, daring him to laugh. “Rise to the occasion later.”
I get a flash of his dimple, and it feels fantastic. Our friendship is returning. We’re supporting each other, making each other laugh. This is the bedrock of The Ginger Station’s success—José and me, friends.
We exchange a nod, and he tells Bride Squad, who has begun eyeing him with more-than-friendly interest, “I’ll return your contraband when you’re ready to leave.”
“I’ll be back later,” I say for his benefit. “Cormac needs me for something.”
He seems annoyed, but I’m sure that’s primarily because Mom Therapy, Bride Squad, and the kid, who is thankfully short, still have him surrounded.
“Back off, ladies,” I say, clapping my hands. “There will be no touching of the staff.”
I start laughing as soon as the words register in my head. José grins, the pissed-off mom murmurs about shitty reviews, and I turn to leave.
I feel surprisingly good.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m about to see Cormac.