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“Man,” Indigo served a mock-mead—just apple juice, honey, and water, no yeast or fermentation—to a fourteen-year-old teen. It was our version of butterbeer. “I keep forgetting how busy this time of year gets.”
He was right; Harvest was a week-and-a-half-long version of the Macy’s Parade. It was a business boom that started us off on the right foot when we started our new batch of production. As eager as I was to start a new round of production, I was never going to let this new steak contract pass me by. This contract could be my only chance to turn Vega Meadery into a worldwide phenomenon.
If there was a chance to rake in more money and get our names out worldwide, I was going to take it.
And trump the stuck-up Sullivans.
Oh, yeah—that too.
Well, trump the Sullivansfirstand then get worldwide recognition.
We served another set of seven tourists while Jenna gathered those who wanted the tour and gestured for them to follow her down the corridor so they could see the history of where our mead came from.
Dan and Greg came in for their shift, and I handed the mantle to them while I headed upstairs to my office to play detective. I slid behind my table and flipped the file open—we’d narrowed the prospective contract givers to the Tender T Steaks guy, the owner of Twisted Twines Ranch, and the man from Rocking H- Ranch, both ex-military men.
But until this rumor was proven true, we wouldn’t know for sure.
I turned my attention to the other files, the mockups, and ad campaigns to get my mead at the next Superbowl or the beer fests in Denver, Boulder, Fort Collins, Colorado Springs, and throughout the Rocky Mountains. TheMile High Cityhosted a slew of craft breweries and one of the most prominent beer festivals in the world, and we were slated to have booths there.
With or without—but hopefullywiththe Texas contract— I was bound to have Vega’s name everywhere.
“Nana used to tell me there are a hundred ways to sweeten the pot,” I mumbled.
“…I thought she said to skin a cat,” Cole said as he strode into the room.
“This is the age of political correctness. I’ve got enough enemies, and I do not need PETA as another one,” I looked up. “Do you have anything useful for me, or are you here to waste my time?”
“I want to know if you’re going to the festival tonight?” Cole asked. “It’s the full moon, and you know what that means…”
“Yes,” I spun a page and dotted a note there. “That it is utter bullcrap and malarky. I don’t know who was the idiot that made the rumor that—”
“Not a rumor,” Cole jumped in.
“—that whoever kisses under the full moon will fall in love with the person they locked lips with.” I rolled my eyes. “It is the same unsupported tripe as sleeping with a mirror under your pillow, counting nine stars each night for nine nights, or standing in front of a mirror and brushing your hair three times. You have to beasinineto believethat.”
“Soooo,” Cole drew out the word. “Does that mean you want to test that theory out tonight?”
I looked up. “No.”
“You should,” he added.
“You need to get out,” I jabbed a pen to the door.
“You are a grump,” Cole laughed. “No, seriously, you can afford to rest for one night.”
I ground my teeth. “No, I cannot.”
Cole didn’t buy it. “What do you have to do tonight?”
“Pay roll,” I lied.
“Indie took care of that,” Cole said.
“I meant inventory,” I added, stone-faced.
He leaned in. “You shared the updated,sharableExcel file two days ago.”
“I’m looking into other partnerships, shareholders, investors, Ad campaigns, debt to equity ratio, ROI’s—”
