Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
BECK
She’s even prettier than I remembered.
As if that were possible.
And she’s here—even though I nearly blew it.
Grif knew I was meeting someone, but I should’ve reminded him she was on her way.
I had to go back to the truck for the second case of vodka, and I thought I’d only be a minute.
But on the way back, I ran into Ms. Hanson, my high school 4-H sponsor, and when she asked about setting up a field trip to the farm for her current club, time got away from me.
When I got back to the stall to see Hattie bolting, my heart dropped into my boots.
But she’s here now. Letting me hold her hand.
No, not letting. Demanding that I hold it tight.
Damn.
She’s like a freshwater spring shooting up from the earth. The most natural thing in the world, yet still a surprise.
Beautiful. Mysterious. Goddamn refreshing.
Locking her hand in mine, I lead us back to the market. We snake through shoppers who push strollers, walk their dogs, and eat their kettle corn without looking where they’re going.
The line is five-deep at our booth, so I tug Hattie with me as I duck beneath the canopy. Smiling, Grif calls a distracted hey, but he’s ringing up a customer, and he’s been so busy, he hasn’t had a chance to open the case I brought back.
“Just give me a minute,” I tell Hattie, squeezing her hand tighter before letting go.
She looks from Griffin to me, nods tightly, and swings her gaze back to him.
And I’d be a liar if I said the move doesn’t take a swipe at my ego. But I shrug it off and pull four bottles from the crate—nearly the last case of my stash.
I blame Griffin.
And Javier.
But mostly Griffin.
Javier might have suggested we give away free samples today, but Griffin was the one who insisted. Who pushed until I had to give in.
And now the first ten bottles are gone—five of the original and five of the pecan and maple infused—leaving us with the two we opened for samples. Which is why I had to go back to the truck.
It was also my brother’s idea—after his third vodka and soda—to break out his laptop, open Canva, and “design” a label.
This brainchild put us at Walmart after ten o’clock last night, buying Avery shipping label paper.
Honestly, the end results aren’t terrible—for a last-minute, over-the-legal-limit effort: Olivier’s Organic Farm-to-Bottle Sweet Potato Vodka.
For the original blend, Olivier’s is printed at the top of the orange label and Vodka near the bottom, both in a large, heavy sans serif font that seems to take itself seriously.
And between those two words is the lighter but still distinct: Farm-to-Bottle Sweet Potato.
In lettering that looks like a stamp, he’s included the alcohol content, batch numbers: 001, a bottled-on date, and then, in tiny print: Distilled in Carencro, Louisiana.
I must admit, it looks legit.
The label for the pecan and maple infused blend is essentially the same, but instead of an orange background, the label is white with orange and brown lettering. Nothing fancy, but clear.
Maybe that’s why we’ve sold half of my stock already.
I line up each pair of bottles behind the open samples to make it easier for Grif while he covers the booth solo.
“Just one second,” he tells the next woman in line, and then he turns to Hattie with a self-conscious grin. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I’m Griffin, Beck’s brother.”
He thrusts out a hand to her, and Hattie studies it for a second before taking it with her own.
“I’m Hattie,” she says, pumping his hand twice before dropping it. Then she turns fully to me. “You’re not identical.”
She says it with such authority, I hate to contradict her. “Except we are.”
Hattie blinks at me. “Identical twins, yes. But you’re not identical.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I mistook him for you. There are so many differences.”
I can’t help it. Neither can Grif. We both chuckle.
“My own husband mixed us up at the checkout line at Walgreens once,” Grif says, wincing at the memory. “Damn embarrassing.”
I snort. “What did you have to be embarrassed about? It was my ass getting grabbed.”
Griffin nods adamantly. “That’s what gave it away.” He sniffs self-consciously, raking a hand through his hair. “Apparently, my butt is more supple than yours.”
Now, this part I haven’t heard, and I may never let my brother live it down. “Supple? You mean soft.”
Grif rolls his eyes, and instead of having a laugh at his expense, Hattie frowns, studying him again. “Is your husband vision impaired? Is that why he could only tell you apart by feel?”
My laughter almost takes me down.
Griffin’s eyes bug. “Kennedy has 20/20 vision, thankyouverymuch,” he says with pretend annoyance. “He mistook Beck for me from behind. He could only see the side of his face in profile.”
But this explanation doesn’t seem to satisfy Hattie. Her frown just deepens. “But your hair and skin tones are noticeably different. If I would’ve known Beck had a twin brother, I never would have made the mistake. Even just seeing you in profile.”
Griffin and I glance at each other, and I’m sure our confused expressions match, well, identically.
Hattie turns to me, her eyes moving over my face. And I have to admit I’m glad she’s focusing on me now, not my brother.
Because I’m jealous. Dang.
“Beck—” The way she says my name makes my chest fill. “You clearly spend more time in the sun. Your hair is lighter, your skin darker, and you have more creases around your eyes from squinting against the brightness.”
“B, your girl just said you have crow’s feet.”
I shoot Grif a glare, but that’s when Hattie takes my chin and angles my face back to hers. And, man, that’s hot.
“But the real difference—” Her gaze softens as she looks at me. She’s so close, kissing her would be easy. Not just easy. Inevitable. “Is the color of your eyes. Yours are amber,” she says it with a hint of reverence, her azalea petal lips blooming into a soft smile.
Griffin clears his throat, making me wonder just how long we’ve been gazing at each other. He’s looking at Hattie with skepticism.
“We both have brown eyes,” he says flatly.
Much to my disappointment, Hattie releases my chin and shakes her head.
“You have brown eyes. Beck’s are amber. Variations in eye color come from genetic mutations.
The two of you may have started off as the same fertilized egg with the same genetic package, but gene expression can vary along the way. ”
Griffin raises a brow at me, all snark. “Takeaway: you’re a mutant with crow’s feet.”
Hattie stiffens, looking at him and then back to me. “Was that rude? Did I say something rude?”
I shake my head, grabbing her hand again and squeezing tight. “Hell, no. Ignore him.” I give my brother the stink eye. “We’re outta here. You got this?”
“You know it.” Then he flashes Hattie a genuine smile. “Go. Enjoy yourselves. Hattie, it was great meeting you.”
Holding Hattie by the hand, I lead us into the crowd, aiming for the Hunt’s Roasters stall. But she drags her feet behind me.
I turn around and find her frowning in distraction.
“You okay?”
She blinks at me.
God, she’s so beautiful. I think I’m crushing over her frown.
“You’re not a mutant with crow’s feet,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s not what I meant.”
I step back to her, closing the distance between us, realizing she’s worried. She’s actually worried.
“Hey—” I lift my free hand, aiming to caress her cheek, but I drop it when she flinches. So I squeeze the hand I’m holding instead. “Griffin was joking around. Neither one of us thought you said that.”
But her brows only cinch tighter. “But I do that.”
“Do what?”
“Blurt things that are true but that people don’t want spoken. Say exactly what I’m thinking.”
“I like that about you.” When I smile, I notice that her focus drifts to my mouth. I like that too. “I like knowing what you’re thinking.”
She blinks in triple time, meeting my eyes again. “You do?”
“Yeah, of course.” I step in a little closer but make no move to touch her anywhere else but the hand I’m already holding. “It’s… it’s like a gift. I don’t have to guess. I know what I get from you is real. No masking.”
Hattie scoffs. “I mask all the time.” For a moment, a look of exasperation flickers over her face, there and gone in a flash, but I see it. I see the toll it must take on her to… to…
Be what others expect?
I shake my head. “I never want you to do that with me.”
She stares at me wide-eyed. The moment stretches, and then she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to that.”
“To what? Someone telling you not to mask?”
Hattie nods. “Yeah. It’s like hearing you don’t have to wear clothes.” She flings out her free hand. “Like you could peel everything off and go naked.”
The mental image of Hattie shedding her clothes has me clearing my throat and shifting my weight.
I give a slow nod. “I’d… be okay with that too.”
Her surprised laughter is like firecrackers. “You are naughty, Beck Olivier!” She shouts this to the whole park.
All I can do is laugh.
We’re only a couple of stalls from my booth, close enough for me to see Griffin shoot me an intrigued look over a customer’s head. He’s not the only one staring, and I couldn’t care less.
“C’mon.” I tug her hand gently. “Let’s get some coffee.”
Hunt’s Roasters is on the last row of the market, but the way the aroma of roasting coffee hangs in the air, I could find their stall blindfolded.
Naturally, the line is long.
Which is fine because I’m in no hurry. I want to pack as much into this morning with Hattie as I can.
“That smells really good,” she says, stepping out of line to get a glimpse of our destination.
“Best coffee I’ve ever had,” I swear. “I buy a bag from them every week.”
She tilts her head to one side. “They sell ground coffee, too? Not just by the cup?”
“Ground coffee. Roasted beans. Cold brew. Whatever your heart desires.”
Her smile brightens those hazel eyes. “My heart desires a café au lait with lots of sugar. Can they do that?”