Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
HATTIE
The next morning, I stir when Beck’s alarm goes off. I roll over and grab his wrist before he slips out of bed.
“Yes,” I mutter, eyes still closed.
He stills beside me. “What?”
I peel one eye open. “Yes, I’ll go into business with you and help you buy out your uncle.”
The pale pre-dawn light is just enough for me to see the way Beck’s face softens. He wraps his arms around me and presses a hard kiss to my lips.
“Good,” he whispers, those sunshine footprints crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Go back to sleep, love.”
I do. Because I’m never waking up early again.
When I come downstairs with my laptop hours later, Pop’s at the kitchen table, a torn-up sales contract in front of him.
“What?! You’re up? And it’s not even noon?” Beck’s dad teases in his gruff voice. “I’ll alert the media.”
I snort. “You just want a reason to DM Savannah Guthrie.”
He tries to hide a chuckle behind his coffee mug.
While I pour my coffee, I scan the kitchen.
Two slices of sourdough await me in the toaster, as do two boiled eggs on a nearby plate next to a jar of orange marmalade and the butter dish.
I may never get used to the rush of warmth I get whenever I come downstairs to find that my guy has left me with breakfast—either made or at the ready.
God, I love him.
I set myself up across from Pop and crack open my laptop while I peel an egg.
“Congratulations,” Pop mutters, eyeing the destroyed sales contract.
I shrug. “I don’t think I managed it on my own. Thanks for the help.”
Pop tilts his head. “Can’t imagine your parents were too thrilled about your plans.”
“Nope. But it’s not the first time I’ve upended their expectations. They’ll live.”
“They may never forgive us Oliviers.”
“They will when we make a killing.” I chomp into a piece of toast slathered in butter and practically dripping with orange marmalade. I hum around the bite, lick my fingers, and finish my thought. “Which brings us to our next project,” I mumble with my mouth full.
Pop’s eyebrows are like bristly caterpillars, one of them menacing the other. “Our next project?”
“Yep,” I say with a nod. “Nothing in our buyout plan funds distilling expansion. We need to figure that out sooner rather than later. That’s the best way for us to get ahead.”
“Got any bright ideas?”
I chomp another bite while nodding. “A subscription service.” Except it comes out like, “Ah shuh-swip-shun sherface,” and Pop just scowls at me.
“And here I thought having a young lady in the house would class up the place,” he grumbles.
I have to cover my mouth before I spray him with crumbs and laughter. “Sorry.” I swallow a gulp of coffee to wash down my mouthful, knowing full well my absent table manners would mortify my mother and likely kill my grandmother.
It’s kind of nice that Pop ribs me instead of pinching me on the elbow or browbeating me. The Olivier household is a lot more relaxed than my family’s. And I like it.
Still, I vow to do better, if only to show Pop the respect he and this comfortable home deserve.
“A vodka subscription service. I’ve done a little research.
Offering three-month, six-month, and twelve-month pre-paid options would give us a cash infusion with a little bit of time to scale up production, and we could cap our numbers if we started to get too many orders—which is a good problem to have, but I doubt we’ll have that the first year,” I explain, slicing one of the peeled eggs in half before sprinkling each side with salt and pepper.
“And since Beck likes experimenting with different varieties and flavors, he could pre-determine what would be available. It wouldn’t have to be a monthly subscription. It could be quarterly.”
I shrug and pop egg into my mouth. Pop stares. I chew and swallow before continuing.
“Spirit subscriptions are definitely for more affluent customers, but we’re not limited to this area.
It’s a good way to spread brand awareness all over the country without having to be a massive producer.
We would just need to put out some targeted media—like on Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube.
Posts with video shorts of the farm, this house, and supercuts of the planting, harvesting, and production process would get attention—especially if Beck stars in them.
Who doesn’t like watching a hot farmer?”
Pop chokes and has to raise a shaking hand to cover his mouth, but his eyes gleam.
“I’ve already turned in my final project for Principles of Marketing, but this’ll be great for the Operations Management term assignment I’ve been putting off,” I explain, logging into the course portal.
“My project needs to be on enhancing operations for an existing business, real or imagined. Would you help me document some baseline details?”
Across from me Pop jerks, sitting up straighter than I think I’ve ever seen him. “H-help you? How would I—”
“Answer questions. Like how long Olivier Family Farms has been in operation as an LLC. On average, how many employees are there? General ROI and P&L figures for the last, say, five years,” I say with a shrug. “That sort of thing.”
He blinks owlishly behind his glasses. “Well… yes. Of course, I can do that.”
I beam at him. “Great! This’ll be sort of fun—for a school assignment.”
And it is.
We’re still at it when Beck comes in for lunch a couple of hours later, building out my slide presentation with old photos of the farm throughout the years. Pop has even found a bill of sale for their first harvester back in 1951.
When Beck takes in my slides where I’ve mocked up plans for the subscription service, he stares at me.
Not unlike the way his father did earlier this morning.
“A subscription service… Hattie. My God. You’re a genius,” Beck says, his voice all low and rough with awe.
We talk through lunch—turkey sandwiches and the Olivier’s own persimmons—and then Beck calls Javier to have him take over the alfalfa harvesting for the rest of the day.
Then we really dive in.
Beck estimates we can offer three flavors a quarter. We spitball lists. Caramel, Pecan, and Satsuma for fall. Espresso, Cinnamon, and Cayenne for winter. Mulberry, Lavender, and Lemon for spring. Honey, Basil, and—even though I argue against it—Cucumber for summer.
Sure, I don’t drink vodka. I don’t drink. Period. But cucumber as a drink flavor? Really? Sure, I love a fresh cucumber, tomato, and avocado summer salad. But the one time someone at Spa Mizan gave me cucumber water, I embarrassed Mom, Margaret, and Grandma Eloise when I spat it into a trash can.
Combining that flavor with alcohol is a cry for help, if you ask me.
But I was outvoted. Soundly, when we FaceTimed Griffin and Kennedy to get their thoughts on the whole enterprise.
They loved all of it. Including cucumber-flavored vodka.
But one victory I managed to score on the call was convincing all four men—including Pop—to agree to be in footage we’ll post on social media and YouTube.
Because Beck—as I’ve mentioned—is Farmer Hotness. And even though I think he’s empirically more attractive than his twin, they are, well, identical.
Allegedly.
And Beck, Griffin, and Kennedy together?
May I just say, we are going to sell some vodka.
Add Pop to the mix with the clear family resemblance and the bonds these men share? And we have a story to tie to our brand. Especially when we include old family photos in our promo footage.
I snap pictures during the FaceTime call and drop those into my slide presentation along with the ones of Beck’s grandparents, great-grand-parents, and wedding pictures of his mom and dad.
God, she was pretty.
And I can tell in the pictures of her and Pop together, they had what everyone wants. In most of the candids, they are looking at each other, not the camera.
“You need pictures of the two of you in your presentation,” Griffin says, across the video call.
I make a face. “I’m not putting a picture with me in it in my presentation.”
“Why not?” Beck, who’s sitting right beside me at the kitchen table, asks. “This whole thing is your idea. Your brilliant idea.”
I turn to him. “Anyone with a little business knowle—”
Click.
The unmistakable iPhone photo-shutter sound interrupts me.
I whip my head back to the screen of my laptop to see Grif and Kennedy grinning at us. In another instant, they’ve thrown the image up for everyone to see.
My breath catches.
Because what I see makes my heart stutter. Me, eyes locked on Beck, beaming under his fresh praise. Beck, the look in his warm, amber gaze soft and adoring.
Adoring me.
It’s the sweetest thing I’ve seen in… in… maybe in my whole damn life, and it sure as hell isn’t going in my presentation.
But it is going in a frame. Real heckin’ soon.
“That’s a great picture,” Beck says, his gaze back on the call now.
“But it’s not for Hattie’s professor and fellow students.
” He rises from the table, phone in hand, and takes a minute lining up my laptop and the angle of his phone propped against an empty coffee mug so that the view captures all of us in frame—even Griffin and Kennedy on the screen.
He sets the timer and jogs back before throwing an arm around me. “Everybody say, return on investment!”
Everyone else says it. Then I bellow, “NET PROFITS!”
The picture captures all the men cracking up and me, making an extra derpy face as I pronounce the F in profits.
Oh, well.
My stomach chooses this moment to growl unashamedly, and with no preamble at all, I am done working.
“I’m hungry,” I blurt. Then sniff and sniff again. “And something smells really good. Is that gumbo?”
A scan of the stovetop shows nothing as promising as a stock pot. In fact, all four burners are empty. My heart sinks along with my stomach.
But then Beck saves the day.
“I defrosted some gumbo in the microwave. And rice is going in the pressure cooker.”