Page 98 of Tennessee Trouble

“Margeaux,” Milo greets, nodding at his sister-in-law.

She nods back, keeping her eyes trained on me.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, trying to figure out if we both missed the sound of the door opening or if she teleported into the bar. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, right now, I’m waiting on an answer to my question,” she sasses, not giving me an inch of wiggle room. “What are you going to do about it?”

“About what?”

I glance over at Milo, my brain whirring, trying to figure out if I missed something. If I owed her anything and totally spaced it. He shrugs, clearly on the same train of thought.

“Boys…” she huffs, exasperated and shaking her head. “About going and winning her back.”

The duh at the end of her sentence is silent, but I hear it loud and clear. It’s also written all over her face.

Right.

“I…errr…it’s not really like that,” I say, trying to brush it off. It’s one thing to sit here and get all sappy pouring my heart out to the guy who has been my best friend since we were kids, but it’s another to admit it to a colleague. One who is married to the executive vice president of our parent company. Nope, the heart-to-heart portion of today is done. “Really, it’s⁠—”

“You are so full of shit, Brandt.”

Margeaux tosses a manilla folder on the bar, letting the thwap of it hitting the wood ring out into the empty warehouse-like space of the taproom. I stare at it for a second, wondering what that has to do with anything, much less her calling me out like this.

“What’s that?” Milo asks.

“That,” Margeaux answers pointedly, “is the fully executed legal paperwork that waives Southern Brothers’ rights of sole sponsorship of Fire Lights. As of circa ten thirty this morning, y’all are now simply the official beer of Dustin’s bar, since the Rocky Top Double is the official cocktail.”

Oh, yeah…that…

“And that”—she points to the folder—“is how I know that you are full of shit by telling me that it was nothing.”

Busted.

“And you…” She turns to Milo, not letting him of the hook. “You need to step up the…” she trails off, snapping her fingers as she looks for the word. “I don’t know what to call it, but…you know.”

Milo shrugs half-heartedly. “I was getting to it.”

“Not fast enough.” Gesturing wildly, she turns back to me. “There is no way you would give up those rights for nothing. I know how many other offers Dustin has received over the years and how y’all have never blinked in entertaining them. How you cherish that relationship and that incredibly valuable sponsorship, all thanks to a handshake with a childhood buddy. You even told me before you went to Tennessee that Fire Lights was off the table. So, this means something. She means something.”

I did say that. Margeaux’s right. Milo and I talked about it before I made the trip—what we would and wouldn’t be willing to compromise on. He brought up Fire Lights first, and I turned it down the second he mentioned it.

Then a few days later, I was standing in a distillery, mesmerized by a brilliant blonde, making the suggestion myself. Not because it was an easy give, but because she was worth it.

Is worth it.

“She means everything,” I mutter, hoping it’s not loud enough for anyone to hear.

“Exactly my point. So, back to the original question—what are you going to do about it?”

Good fucking question…

“What was the plan?” Milo asks.

“Huh?”

“You said you and Lindee were making plans for the future. What were they?”

“Oh, it was just…” I stop, the Rube Goldberg idea machine starting to crank up. “We wanted to…”