23. Lindee #2
“Yeah, right.” Kyra rolls her eyes. “Just like I wasn’t in love with Davis when I agreed to marry him.”
I sputter out a laugh. To anyone else, that sentence would sound weird.
Because of course you’re in love when you get proposed to.
Only, Davis wasn’t proposing out of love.
Errr, not only out of love. He also needed to get out of some hot water due to a bad investment. And Kyra agreed, because she loved him.
“That was different.”
“Was it though?”
I nod. Because Davis wasn’t being sneaky. He never lied to her about his reasons. He told her from the get-go that he needed to marry her because of that investment. He wasn’t leading her on. He didn’t spend weeks making her think that he was her champion. That he believed in her.
That he wanted a partnership when he was really after something else entirely.
“So…” Rylan interrupts, crashing into the seat next to me. The metal chair wobbles from the momentum, but Rylan corrects himself before he tumbles. “I was just talking to one of the coordinators…”
“And? Did we win?” I ask, ready to jump out of my skin. Holy shit…how did he find that person? How did he convince them to spill? Know what—I don’t care. Especially if this is the news we want.
“I dunno. I didn’t ask.”
“What do you mean you didn’t ask? How could you not ask, Rylan?”
For fuck’s sake…
My older brother waves me off. “Brandt did enter his cocktail months ago. Beginning of February.”
Well, that’s that then. It’s not named after me. We didn’t meet until March. It is just a coincidence.
“But…” Rylan continues, eyes going wide like he’s about to drop a bomb, “he resubmitted two days before the deadline.”
Wait…what?!
“That fucker…” I mutter under my breath. So he didn’t just lie to me. He extra lied. He made adjustments after the creation of Rocky Top Double.
I want to strangle him all over again. Beat him over the head with a heavy object until all the rage has left my body.
“He changed the name.”
Errrr…huh?
“What?” Kyra asks, stealing the word from me.
“It was originally a something smash. Or smash something. But then two days before cutoff, he wrote in, asking to change the name to Cherry Luna.”
Holy shit.
“Why?” Kyra follows up.
Rylan shrugs. “Coordinator didn’t say. But that proves—”
“Nothing. It proves nothing,” I cut him off. “He came up with a different name.”
“Yeah, yours.”
I turn and glare at my brother. “Why will you not let this drop?”
“Because I saw what was between you. And it was…special. And when you have that special connection, you fight for it.”
His voice is wistful. A pang hits me, because I know exactly where his mind is right now. Who is on his mind.
“Give him the chance to explain,” he continues. “Don’t let him walk away because you’re hurt. Don’t get me wrong, Lind. I’m not saying don’t be hurt, just…don’t lose this because of that.”
I listen, trying to absorb his advice. I’m not sure he’s the expert he thinks he is, but I do have to admit that he’s at least got experience in this area.
“It’s not that simple.”
“As the fixer in this family, I’ve learned that sometimes, the simplest answer is often the best one.”
A microphone crackles, stealing our attention.
Turning to face the stage, I say a little prayer, hoping I’m not violating any code by asking God to let me win.
A hippie-looking middle-aged gentleman is standing behind the mic, tapping on it, trying to get everyone’s attention.
Feedback cracks through the air, startling him.
Well, he certainly has everyone’s attention now.
“Hello. I am Franklin Tyler, President of the Society of Liquor, Overproofs, Spirits, and Hops. I hope everyone is enjoying CocktailCon this year.” A round of applause erupts, and I look around, noticing for the first time that most of the lower bowl is full of people.
“For the first time in the history of CocktailCon and the SLOSH awards, we had a tie for one of our categories. Instead of making all our voting members vote again, we thought a fan-voted runoff would be more fun. And we were right! So, it’s without further delay, I announce the winner of this year’s Best Original Cocktail. ”
I grab hold of my sister and brother, squeezing as tight as I can. I try to remember to breathe, but it’s not easy. This is it.
A drumroll plays over the speakers, as Franklin plays at opening the results on his phone. I don’t know if he’s dragging this out on purpose or if he’s just that tech illiterate—really, could go either way—but I need him to hurry up.
“The Rocky Top Double from Tennessee Trouble!”
Wait…wait…did he just…
“Ahhhhhh!” Kyra screams.
“Fuck, yes!” Rylan echoes.
We won. We actually won.
The world stops. All the cheering around me hushes to a soft buzz, my head going dizzy. We won. I won.
Holy shit.
I don’t know who grabs me in the hug first, just that a pair of arms wraps around me and squeezes. Followed by another, and then another, and then more. My whole family. All of us in a great big group hug making me feel like I could suffocate. In a good way.
Yet, something is still missing. The person I want to be celebrating with the most.
Nope, not going there…
I break away, smoothing out my shirt and making my way to the stage.
Everything around me is still fuzzy, the shock flowing through my veins leaving me feeling borderline drunk.
Nonetheless, I manage to shake hands with Franklin, graciously accepting the certificate he hands me.
I even manage to get out a thank you. I think.
If I didn’t, I’ll properly thank him later. The whole committee actually. And write a thank you note. Right now, my brain can only process one thing—we won a SLOSH award.
Kyra is going to have a field day being able to promote this.
Not to mention what Mikayla will be able to use it for in her negotiations.
Tennessee Trouble will be one of a very exclusive list of legacy brands that will be able to say we are winners of a SLOSH award.
I can’t wait to get back home and hang this award in the lobby, showing it off for the world to see.
“Lindee.”
I freeze. I’m barely three steps off stage, the din of the crowd in the stadium coming more and more into focus. But I’d know that voice anywhere. The deep, rough yet beautiful, sweet timbre mixed with a Georgia accent that still fills my dreams. Probably always will.
Brandt Rawlins.
I spin around, and there he is. Five feet away and looking as delicious as always in his jeans and a button-down. Seriously, fuck him for looking this good. It’s not fair.
“Brandt.”
“Congratulations.”
He stops just shy of me, leaving a mere couple of inches between us. My body aches to leap into his arms, wrapping myself around him to celebrate. Kiss him until I can’t breathe and my lungs cry for mercy. But I don’t. I stay right where I am, frozen like a statue.
“Thanks,” I stutter.
I lick my lips, nodding, not knowing what else to do. Everything inside is warring against itself, the anger and hurt over it all still hovering just under the surface, still simmering.
“I never had any doubt that you’d win. You deserve it. And so much more.”
Taking a step forward, he places a hand on my shoulder, leaning in and kissing my forehead. It’s soft, chaste, and simple. A show of respect and affection.
It leaves me absolutely crumbling inside.