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With a snicker, Annie replied, “No wonder you like him. You’re pretentious, naming your brand after German mythology.”
“It’s not pretentious–it’s paying homage to our roots.”
“Whatever.” After placing the last flower, Annie gave me a serious look. “I just want you to remember that you are Wilhemina Hansen–”
“Ugh, not my full government name!” I protested.
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“Fine, Ms. Bossy.”
Ignoring my insult, Annie tossed some of her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, when it comes down to it, no man holds your success in his hands. You do.”
More than anything in the world, I wanted to believe Annie. That with or without Rodney Hanes, I was going to become a successful brewer. That people might not know my name, but they’d know and enjoy what I brewed.
However, the stumbling block for believing in myself and my abilities was rooted in my battle-scarred history with men.
But I wasn’t going to dwell on that today. Nope, I was going to listen to Annie with a side of Helen Reddy. I am woman, hear me roar!
Winking at Annie, I replied, “Damn straight.”
Annie bobbed her head. Then she pointed to the crown of braids on my head adorned with white flowers and Baby’s Breath. “Perfection.”
Realizing time was ticking, I blurted out a quick thanks before jerking the plastic salon cape off my neck. Popping out of the chair, I smoothed down my dress as I rushed over to the floor-length mirror. I then turned a critical eye to my reflection.
As the owner of Haus Alpenhers, you usually didn’t find me sporting a dirndl aka the dress you most likely associate German women wearing when you think of Oktoberfest. Well, I guess I should say the traditional dress. During appropriation by different cultures, the dirndl has been modernized.
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s been slutified.
Costume makers started hiking the skirt of the dress from the knees almost to the nether regions while the bodice was lowered and tightened, thus thrusting the tat-ta’s up and out.
Since I wasn’t a coed trying to snag a hookup, my green and red dirndl was demure. Sure, my double d’s were jacked up more than I was usually comfortable with, but the hem of my dress fell modestly just below my knee.
Satisfied with my expression, I grabbed my purse and then bestowed a grateful kiss on Annie’s cheek. “I owe you, little sis.”
“You sure as hell do.”
With a snort, I replied, “I’m sure you’ll collect on the favor.”
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll be ready.”
She waved me off. “Go on and knock him dead!”
After exiting the bookstore that Annie managed, a wave of heat slapped me in the face. Even though it was the middle of September, Fall hadn’t quite made it to the mountains yet. Power-walking down the sidewalk, I bobbed in and out of the crowds lining up for the opening day parade.
Just as I reached the entryway for Haus Alpinhers, a hand smacked my ass.
Hard.
As a mixture of revulsion and rage crept up my spine, I whirled around. A gaggle of frat boys gave me leering and lecherous grins. “Hey lass, you got one helluva fine ass!” a redhead with a face full of freckles and glassy blue eyes slurred.
You would’ve thought he was a primetime comedian the way his friends howled hysterically. Part of me wanted to argue how it was possible to proclaim the status of my ass through the yards of fabric.
Instead, I swept my hands to my hips and countered witheringly, “If you’re going to try a lame pickup, at least get your fucking ethnicities right. Oktoberfest is German, not Scottish. So, this fraulein, not lass, would like you to know if you ever touch one hair on her body again, she’s having you arrested. Got it?”
They all stared at me as I’d actually spoken in German, rather than English. Sure, it wasn’t my finest moment of maturity, but I’d found that with drunken idiots there was no higher ground. You had to go low.
