Page 24 of Small Town Boy

“You mean spill the beans.”

“Down here we say tea, as in sweet tea.”

I nod, making a mental note. Only, I don’t have any sweet tea to spill. At least I don’t think I do. I stare at Willa, who’s staring right back at me, expectantly. What on earth could she want to know about?

“Noel drove you to work this morning…” she prompts.

Oh…that…

“Willa!” a male voice shouts, cutting me off as I open my mouth to respond.

“In here!” she shouts back, with no more direction than that, like this is some weird game of Marco Polo. It’s fine by me though, since it saves me from having to answer her inquiry. Because right now, I’m not sure I could do that without blushing.

“Where’s… oh, there you are,” her oldest brother, Gus, says, stopping in my doorway. “I was going to ask if you were grabbing Bronwyn for Munch, so never mind. And oh, hi, Bronwyn, welcome.”

“Thanks, Gus. I’m happy to be here.”

He nods, his face as solemn as it was the entire time he interviewed me. I wondered then, and still wonder, if the man knows how to smile. A long, weirdly silent second passes, and then he nods again, turning on his heel and leaving.

“And that’s my oldest brother. I promise he’s not always that weird. But, we should head down to the conference room. Get our first choice of whatever is being served today.”

I follow her lead, taking a left out of my office and making our way down the long hallway. She points out whose office is whose as we wind through the corridor, and I nod as if I’m going to keep this all straight. When we reach the large wooden double doors to the executive conference room, she flings them open and proceeds through, as if she were a movie star making an entrance. Then again, she was Miss Georgia at one point, so making an entrance and strutting her stuff is her thing.

Making quick work of filling our plates with the grilled chicken, salad, roasted mixed veggies, and the best looking rolls I’ve ever seen, we sit down at the long mahogany table, everyone else filing into the room. With every new guest the sound level rises, each one somehow louder than the last. By the time they’re all in here, the sound level feels like it must rival a rock concert, and I start to feel for whoever’s office shares a wall with this room.

“That’s a six,” a tall, dark-haired brother says, pointing to something on Gus’s phone.

“Are you blind? That’s a five. Without question,” comments another one, who was slightly shorter, but just as dark.

“It’s a six,” Milo chirped. “But I’d be more concerned if that first number is a three or an eight.”

“Eight!”

At this point, I can’t keep track of who is arguing what or why these numbers matter so much. Whatever it is, by the looks on all six of their faces, it must be a matter of national security.

“Can’t you just call both and see if she answers? You did get her name, right?”

Ahhhh…a phone number. A woman’s at that. Makes more sense now.

“Settle down,” a good-looking man in his sixties says, sitting down with his plate of food.

August Hayes—who insisted I call him “Auggie” during my interview—has a strong, quiet demeanor to him, easily commanding the room. The group stops talking—some midsentence—everyone turning their attention to the head of the table. Looking around, I’m amazed how different each member of the Hayes family is. Their different heights, facial features, hair and eye color pairings—each one unique. Yet, it’s perfectly clear that they are all related.

“That’s better.” His southern drawl is as thick as molasses and just as sweet. The calm, charming smile on his face adds to his overall charisma. As does the graying around his temples that hasn’t quite spread through the rest of his light brown hair. Once it does though, Auggie Hayes will without a doubt be a silver fox. “That’s a three and a five, by the way. Did your mama and I not teach y’all how to read?”

I bite back a laugh, not wanting any of them to think I found their father mocking them humorous. Even if they were chuckling, shaking their heads, and still muttering their numerical choices under their breaths.

“Now, down to business. Y’all, today we welcome Bronwyn Ainsworth, who is joining us as director of marketing. We’re excited to have her here to replace Martin Brown. Bronwyn, I’d say you have some big shoes to fill, but Martin was old school in his tactics, and well, as we’ve already talked about, that’s no longer the route we wish to take.”

I nod, my brain already churning with ideas. Hayes has so many different industries under its umbrella that the possibilities are endless.

Auggie continues with his welcome speech, going around and introducing everyone, so I can put faces with names and departments. Gus, who is the executive vice president, is also currently over guns and ammo, although both he and Auggie made a note that those responsibilities would probably be changing soon. Milo, who I met at Pour Decisions the other night, runs Southern Brothers Brewing. Huxley oversees the paper mill, and Jace handles anything related to personal safety protection—which, thanks to some research, I learned actually is a very different industry from weaponry. Finally, there is Anton, who is in charge of agriculture, and Ewan, who owns and operates The Booby Trap, which is what he renamed Knox County Bait and Tackle when he bought it a bunch of years back.

“Speaking of The Booby Trap,” I say, once Auggie is done. I’m pretty sure I have everyone straight, so I turn to Ewan, with something that has been on my mind since I started to research and develop some thoughts about marketing and branding. “I get the whole pun thing, but for branding and potential advertising purposes, that might not sit well with some, so…how attached are you to that name?”

My question is immediately followed by some low “ohhhhs,” seat shifting, and even a muffled giggle or two as each one of the Hayes brothers looks to Ewan.

“Very. I get what you’re saying, but it stays. It’s more than just a pun.”