Still, I don’t want this place overrun with overly opinionated in-laws, bridezillas, and whatever else comes with planning a wedding. It’s too much in an already jam-packed calendar. We already host events—like weekly trivia and bingo—plus musical guests on weekends, not to mention the production schedule we have to keep up with.
Juggling weddings on top of that is too tall an order.
Besides, what if we suck at it? Isn’t a wedding supposed to be the “happiest day of your life”? What if we don’t live up to that? What if we can’t deliver? What ifIcan’t deliver?
There’s too much damn pressure that comes with it, and I don’t know if I’m the right person to make that happen.
But I don’t voice that fear. Instead, I sweep my hand out toward the empty taproom. “Kind of running a business here, Iz.”
“Which is why you have Ezra to help you.”
“What am I helping with?”
The man in question appears at the end of the hallway leading to the back office. He’s got his laptop tucked under one arm and a stack of papers in his hand. He grimaces as he takes a seat at the bar, and I know the height of the stool makes him uncomfortable. But he ignores it, pretending it doesn’t hurt as he settles into a spot, situating his things.
I ignore it, too, knowing he hates it when anyone says something about his limp, a result of a hockey play gone wrong. It’s the same play that knocked him out of the NHL after just eight years.
He got half the hockey career I did, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel guilt over that sometimes. Not that his exit was my fault, but still. Hockey is like that. You might be opponents on the ice, but off it, you’re family. Your heart always hurts for your family.
“Running Stick Taps while Noah rebuilds the barn and a new chicken coop so that Toots can’t escape anymore.”
Ezra grunts. “Nothing’s going to hold that old bird down. New coop or not, she’ll find a way to escape. She always does.”
I point to my business partner. “For the record, I agree with him.”
“Why are you rebuilding the barn and building a new coop? I mean, not that I’m complaining. That barn has been on your to-do list forever, and we both know we need a new way to contain Toots.”
“For my wedding,” Izzy proudly announces.
Ezra’s brows lift, his dark-green eyes shooting my way. “She’s getting married here?”
“No.” I glare at Izzy, who looks unbothered as she pops another cashew into her mouth. “She’s not. She asked, but I told her no.”
“You did?”
Ezra sounds surprised by this, which is fair given my history of always telling Izzy yes, no matter how ludicrous her requests are. Like when I was roped into being her duet partner for the town’s talent show at the last minute because her fiancé had food poisoning. Singing Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” with your sister was just as awkward as one can imagine, but the town took such pity on us that we got first.
My trophy sits on top of the fireplace on the other side of the cidery.
“I did, and I am sticking to that. We aren’t a wedding venue.”
Ezra nods a few times, then says, “We could be.”
Now it’smyturn to look surprised. “What?”
He shrugs. “I mean, it would make sense, yeah? We certainly have the space. The east pasture isn’t being used, but it would make a great photo op with the mountains and shit. Plus, you’re handy.” He taps the bar I custom made when we couldn’t find what we were looking for as we built the taproom. “Fixing up the old barn should be a breeze. We could rent it out and make a killing. A new coop for Toots is an easy fix, too, and a win-win for us. We could turn this place into a one-stop destination—ceremony, reception, and booze. Rake in the cash so we can use it for future ventures. It’s a solid business decision.”
Future ventures.
I know exactly what he means by that. He’s talking about our late-night planning sessions on opening an ice rink. Hockey gave us both a life we could have never imagined. We want to give back to it, even if it’s just in our small Pacific Northwest town.
While that extra money would be nice, I still stare at him, mouth agape.
“You can’t be serious.” I toss the rag into the bin and set the nowextra-clean glass back where it goes. I fold my arms over my chest and watch my partner closely.
But Ezra doesn’t crack a smile—not that he does often anyway—or tell me he’s kidding.
He means it.
