Noah just raises his eyebrows in response.
I throw my hands into the air. “I don’t know. I thought it was funny, and I’m bored.”
“Again, you’re free to go home.”
“Really? You don’t need any more help today?”
“Actually, he does.”
We both turn to find Ezra strolling into the barn. His gait is stuttered as he strides toward us.
He didn’t grow up here like Noah did, but everyone’s embraced him as one of our own, which means we all know about the injury that knocked him out of hockey and left him with a slight limp. But I haven’t seen him walking this stiffly in some time.
“Sophie’s grandma fell and is in the hospital. I let her go to deal with that,” he says, wincing in pain as he comes to a stop before us. “But our bartender needing to leave isn’t the problem. We have a storm rolling in.”
“We do?” I look to Noah. “We do?”
“I heard rumblings, but I hoped they would die out by now.”
“Sorry to deliver the bad news, but it’s getting worse, not clearing up. They’re calling for high winds with gusts over sixty miles an hour. Heavy rain too. Not this pissing rain shit we’re used to.”
“Fuck,” Noah says. “Shit. All right. Fine. Well, you can handle the taproom while I—”
“Can’t,” Ezra interjects. He points to his hip. “Got that doctor’s appointment over in Seattle, remember? I can’t miss it. I’d call up one of the production guys to take over while I’m out, but they’re—”
“Not here. It’s the last Friday of the month. Shit.”
“What’s the last Friday of the month?” I ask.
“We give the production team the day off because they have to pull Saturday shifts sometimes to meet demands,” Ezra explains. “It’s our way of rewarding them for all their hard work.”
That’s nice of them. Unfortunate for situations like this, but still nice.
The guys exchange a look of understanding.
Noah nods. “All right. Then I guess it is what it is, and I’ll assess the damage after the storm. This might all be for nothing”—he taps the new piece of wood he just installed—“but oh well.”
“What? No.” I shake my head. “We aren’t losing all our hard work.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Me.”
“You?” He laughs. “Uh, no.”
I tip my chin up. “Why not?”
“For starters, you’ve never worked in a taproom before.”
“No, but is it really that hard? People order; I pour. I take their money. How difficult can that be?”
He rolls his lips into a flat line, looking every bit like he wants to argue.
I’m surprised when he says, “Yeah, I guess it’s not that hard.”
“Good. It’s settled, then. Odette, you’re officially in charge,” Ezra says.
“You hear that, Noah?I’min charge.”
