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“I’d appreciate you keeping this under wraps for now. I told my dad, but Nate hasn’t told his family yet, so discretion is key.”
“Of course. I won’t say a word until you give me the green light.”
More questions begin to buzz inside my head. I’ll probably never know the reasons Nate hasn’t told his family. I wonder when he will, though.
I also wonder if he’ll ever tell me what happened.
Leaning my elbow on the counter, I drop my head into my hand. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I hope you’ll accept my apology.” What the hell does that mean?
“These things happen,” I say carefully.
“I know. Just sucks when they happen to you. I have to run, but please do stay in touch.” Another mirthless scoff. “My AmEx is ready and waiting to be lit on fire.”
“We’ll do what we can to keep the damage to a minimum.”
“Thanks, Milly.”
When I hang up, I feel like I’m going to vomit.
I have to get the ball rolling on the cancellations I need to make, pronto.
I also need to find out if what happened between Nate and Reese has anything to do with me. Maybe that makes me a meddlesome pain in the ass, but I don’t think I could forgive myself if I were a reason, big or small, the two of them called it quits.
Seems like the only person who can fill me in is Nate.
Straightening, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I call Thea, conference in Hadley, and give them their own to-do lists to tackle. I grab my laptop and fire off a dozen emails. I open the Google doc I had Thea put together—a task list for cancelling the Noble/Kingsley wedding—and add a few items. Then I open the spreadsheet that tracks the event’s expenditures to see where we’re at financially. The bottom line won’t be pretty, but it’s not the worst I’ve seen.
I leave voicemails for Holly, the guy we rent our furniture from, and Samuel, who I’ll convince to release us from our catering contract. I call Beau and Hank to let them know the date has opened up again. Saturdays in the spring are prime event real estate, and I have no doubt we’ll book something else in no time.
Then again, do I want to book that slot? I’m already drowning in work as it is.
My head is spinning, and I am tired. But I know sleep will be hard to come by with all these questions swirling inside my head. So I wash my face, grab a slice of banana bread for the road, and walk over to Rhett’s house to borrow one of his cars (he’s currently out of town for football).
I know exactly where Nate will be—the usual place he goes to lick his wounds and think.
The malt house.
I can only pray he’s wearing a shirt, and that I’m making the right call by going to see him.
Chapter Eighteen
Nate
The scraping and the whooshing don’t comfort me today the way they usually do.
I’ve been turning malt in the frigid, empty warehouse for hours now, ever since I walked out of Reese’s condo dumbstruck and decidedly single. I’ve watched the dying sun pour through the windows over the malt, going from yellow to amber to copper before thinning out to purple-blue as darkness approaches.
Sweat drips into my eyes and makes them sting. I ignore it. I can barely see what I’m doing anyway. I haven’t turned on the lights inside the warehouse yet.
I go over and over the conversations I’ve had today with the women I’ve loved. One told me she loved me but wouldn’t put my engagement in jeopardy. The other—
Well, the other should have said she loved me, but instead, I got a speech about how she wasn’t feeling great about this. Us.
Did that mean she didn’t love me? Hadn’t ever been in love with me? And shouldn’t I be heartbroken right now, licking my wounds in abject misery?
But I’m not licking my wounds. I’m not heartbroken. I’m disappointed, sure. Shocked? Absolutely. But I don’t feel like I’m being ripped apart like I did when I left Milly.
I shovel and I think, my arms burning and my hamstrings singing. A sense of clarity comes over me that brings little comfort other than making me feel slightly less confused. I loved Reese. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry her if I didn’t. But I’ve realized over time the connection I had with Reese didn’t hold a candle to the instant, insane connection I had with Milly. For a while, I thought that was okay. Like that was how adult love was supposed to feel—convenient and clean, if a little lonely. Now I see that the only thing Reese and I had in common was a passion for our work, a vision to usher Kingsley Distilling into the twenty-first century. I liked how Reese knew what she wanted and went after it.
