“We’re not selling,” Griffin says. He doesn’t even need to ask me or Pop. He knows we’d never agree to that.
But Paul looks at each of us in turn. “You should at least hear their offer.”
I shake my head. “Don’t need to.”
“We’ll buy you out,” Griffin says again. But, goddamn, he’s got to know that I am in no position to make that kind of offer.
Griffin must read this on my face. “Kennedy and I will help.”
“How?” My question is nothing but air.
He shrugs. “We’ll get a second mortgage.”
“I can’t let you do that.” No way I could put us in a financial position where failure means not only do we lose the farm, but Griffin and Kennedy lose their house. No matter what this place means to me—what this life means to me—I can’t do that.
Griffin screws up his brow. “I letting this happen. Not ever, but sure as hell not now.” My twin shakes his head, and, fuck, I know what he’s going to do the moment before he does it. “And you’d be a fool to sell now, Uncle Paul. Because Beck is about to make a fortune.”
Paul snorts. Pop jerks to look at me. “You gotta plan to grow marijuana I don’t know about?”
I lock eyes with Grif. Who needs twin telepathy when your faces say it all?
You know I’m not ready to do this.
You don’t have a choice, bro.
Because you forced my hand.
You’re welcome.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Not marijuana. Sweet potato vodka.”
Paul scoffs. “What do you know about distilling? You thinking about taking up a hobby?”
It’s the condescension that gets under my skin. “It’s not a hobby. It’s a plan.” I sound like a defensive kid. Fuck me, this is not how I wanted to do this.
“It’s more than a plan,” Griffin says, grinning with a fiendish pride. “It’s a fucking product.”
Pop turns a confused frown to me. “What the hell is he talking about?”
Grif pushes up from the table. “Be right back.”
“Wait—” I try to stop him, but seconds later we hear the screen door slam behind him.
My heart is jackrabbiting. Sweat pricks my temples and the back of my neck. I. Am. Not. Ready. For. This.
Pop is going to take one look at the homemade labels and roll his eyes. Paul will just snicker.
“You heard me, I’m sure,” Pop grumbles. “What’s he talking about?”
I draw in a deep breath and try to settle my jangled nerves. “I have a distillery—just a small one,” I add when they both reel in shock. “It’s in the east store shed.”
“A—A distillery?” Pop sounds like he’s choking.
“Yeah. A five gallon still…” They both just stare at me. “I’ve been… experimenting with fermentation and distilling methods. With blends and?—”
“Since when?” Pop interrupts, a fresh scowl stamped on his face.
“Um…” I rake a hand through my hair. “About a year?”
