Page 14 of Small Town Firsts
I lifted my glass toward her and she clinked it with hers. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.”
My gaze slid to Beckett, and the warmth of the bourbon suddenly felt more like a cold vodka. I didn’t want to make enemies of the man who hired me on, but I wasn’t exactly ready to douse the interest firing in my blood.
For the woman, or the job.
FIVE
KIRA
VIKING ENTERS THE CHAT
The weather person—ourlocal meteorologist was a woman—had lied. Like all the weather people in my experience. Scorcher wasn’t even close to the reality of the whole week.
97º but really felt like 104º.
At freaking six in the morning.
Obscene.
I tucked up my T-shirt hem into my collar and made a knot. I didn’t even care that it meant I would be showing off my less than perfect middle. At least no one else was around to witness me melting.
I swiped my forearm over my dripping brow and stood back to look at the dining area of the taproom. I’d moved the furniture around three times, trying to figure out which of the four styles of tables I’d ordered off the restaurant website would actually suit the space.
They’d overnighted the samples to me—I was still recovering from the cost of that, thank you very much—so I could make the bigger order by the end of the week.
Did I want more high tops or lower tables and booths? As a taller woman, I appreciated the tables I could stand at. It was easier to have conversations at them even if the chairs were apain in the ass for the curvier body type, which I also had. Lucky me.
They also tended to get out of balance quickly. Rickety tables weren’t exactly my favorite. I moved over to shake the table. The pedestal base was damn sturdy. That shouldn’t have surprised me since I’d been moving them all over the damn place this morning.
I took a step back to look at the entire space again. Did I want a second bar to break up the flow of traffic? If it was a light crowd, we didn’t have to have both bars manned. We could use it as a buffet table for a finger food night. Maybe a pairing night.
Hmm. Maybe I’d talk to Ronan about that one.
I wasn’t sure how many ciders he was creating for the re-opening. I really needed to get together with him about it, but I’d definitely been avoiding him.
Coward?
Maybe.
No. More like really busy.
Liar.
I shut the door on that internal conversation. Thoughts of the brewmaster invited far more trouble than I had time for this morning.
Tables, Kira. Back to tables.
Did I want a grid pattern or should I go with a more organic layout? Make more intimate spaces near the fireplace maybe? One of those massive curving booths for a bigger party?
Maybe I should use the oak barrels that didn’t pass muster for brewing to plant topiaries that would entice people to enjoy the massive room by drawing their attention up and around to all the details from the recent renovation.
The dark stain and black iron braces should have made it look more like a cave. Instead it was open and airy thanks to the wall of windows along the back—from the peak of the barndown to the sliding glass doors that all but disappeared when they were folded open. Industrial garage doors along the side of the taproom could also be opened so there was a 180º view of the orchard.
The rolling hills of the property went on forever, from the trees heavy with apples that were nearly ready for harvest, to the pumpkin patch in the distance full of fat leaves shading the quietly growing fruit, to the expansive Christmas tree farm. Not to mention the massive old oak trees and pines that gave some privacy to the cabin rentals on the far side of the property.
And the taproom showed it all off. Or it would when I figured out a good seating pattern.
