Noah
“No.”
“Please?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But—”
I hold up my hand, interrupting my younger sister’s begging before it actually works. I’ve told her yes countless times in her twenty-six years on this earth, but I’m putting my foot down this time. For the sake of my sanity, I have to. “No, Izzy. My decision is final.”
She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “But I don’t understand why it’s final.”
“Because last I checked, Stick Taps is a cidery, not a wedding venue.”
“It can be both!” She tosses her hands into the air. “Especially for my wedding. I’m your little sister, Noah. Don’t you want to see me married somewhere beautiful, like all this gorgeous land you have, and not at the community center like literally everyone else in this town?”
“Not literally. The Middletons were married down by the pier last month, and it was a fine ceremony. Why not get married there?”
She turns her nose up. “Because it’ll look like I copied them.”
She can’t be serious. There are only so many places to get married in a town of roughly twelve thousand people. It’s not like whatever place she chooses will be wholly unique.
“Big whoop. There aren’t that many venues in Port Harbor. Bound to be some repeats.”
“Exactly! That’s my point. But here you are, sitting on a gold mine . . .” I level her with a look, and she holds her hands up innocently. “I’m just saying. You could make a killing by renting this space. Why not use my wedding as an advertisement?”
“Which is it, Iz? Do you want to be unique by having your wedding here, or do you want everyone to copy you?”
“Whichever gets you to say yes.” She blinks up at me with those damn brown eyes—the same ones my father and I have—that I’ve never been able to say no to and a grin that nearly has me saying yes.
Somehow I resist, shaking my head. “No. It’s not happening.”
She groans, tossing her head back dramatically as I reach for a rag and start wiping down the bar that isn’t even remotely dirty.
While Stick Taps is usually packed, we’re having a lull today, and I suspect it has to do with the 5k happening near the harbor. Izzy has been my only customer in hours, so I’ve cleaned this bar top at least fifty times since then.
Still, it keeps me occupied while my sister continues her attempt to get me to rent out my cidery to her.
If I’m being honest, I can see her point. There’s a lot of space with the five acres of land, and being in Washington State, we have no shortage of beautiful scenery, especially not with the mountains in the backdrop.
The biggest issue would be where. Does she want a tent wedding? Or something in the open air? Would I have to construct something for her to get married under? Does she want the reception here too?
My mind drifts to the big barn we have sitting on the property. We haven’t done anything with it since we bought the land except use it for extra storage and to house all our cardboard boxes. There’s a giant tractor sitting in the middle that doesn’t run, and the roof has more holes than it does good wood. I keep saying I’ll refurbish it, but I haven’t had the time. I’ve been too busy building the cidery to worry about the aesthetics of the farm.
This could finally be my chance, though. I could— No.
I shake away that thought, not wanting to go down that road.
A good excuse to finally do something with the barn aside, I don’t want Stick Taps to be a wedding venue. I bought the farm to run a cidery, not host weddings. Besides, it would be a bit hypocritical of me to do so. After my marriage ended in a heated divorce, I don’t exactly advocate for tying yourself to one person for a lifetime anymore.
It’s not that I don’t believe in love—I’m not entirely coldhearted—but legally binding yourself to someone? Been there, done that, got the receipts from lawyer fees to prove what a massive mistake it is.
“You don’t understand, Noah,” Izzy says, reaching over the bar and grabbing a bowl of mixed nuts. She sets them in front of her, then picks through them for the cashews I know she loves.
I want to yell at her for it, but it’s clear she’s having a rough day. Instead, I move to our small pantry, grab a can of fresh ones, pour them into a bowl, and swap that for the nut mixture she plundered.
“Thank you.” She digs into them instantly.
“What don’t I understand?”
“Huh?” she asks, still focusing on her snack.
“You said, ‘You don’t understand, Noah,’ so I want to know what I don’t understand.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sag in defeat. “I just . . . I wanted to get married somewhere I love, and I love this place. It feels like home to me. I didn’t want my wedding to be impersonal, you know?”
Well fuck if that doesn’t hit me right in the chest.
When I married Chelsea, it was as impersonal as you could get. I was barely involved in the planning, though it wasn’t for my lack of trying. Every suggestion I gave her was squashed in an instant. So I stopped trying.
Izzy isn’t the same as me, though. She won’t give up so easily, which is why she’s still sitting here begging me to use the farm.
“Besides, the community center was already booked for a wedding that day.”
Ah, and there it is—the real reason.
“You’re telling me this town has two weddings on the same day? How will the citizens decide which one to invade?” I say sarcastically.
She tosses a cashew at me, immediately replacing it with another and popping it into her mouth. “We’re getting married in ten weeks and don’t have a venue. What the hell else are we going to do?”
“I have a very simple solution.” I pick up the discarded cashew and toss it into the trash, then grab a rag and an already-clean glass, settling back against the counter. I polish it because I need something to do with my hands. “Change your wedding date. You’re trying to cram planning a whole wedding into ten weeks for no reason.”
“It’s not for no reason. I want to get married on my anniversary and don’t want to wait a whole year. I’ve already waited long enough, and it’s more romantic to get married on your anniversary.”
“Romance, schmomance.”
She groans. “Ugh. Don’t start with your anti-love stuff.”
“I’m not anti-love. I’m anti-marriage. It always ends in disaster.”
“Just because your marriage to Chelsea didn’t work out doesn’t mean all marriages won’t. Our parents are still married.”
Shit. She has me there.
I run the towel around the inside of the glass again. “They’re the exception.”
“Craig and I could be the exception too.”
Maybe she’s right. Perhaps they could be the exception. But I wasn’t, and I don’t want that same heartache for her.
“I’m just saying you can continue to date. You’re already living together. It’s not like being married will change things all that much. It will—”
She holds her hand up, stopping me. “Save it. I’ve heard your ‘marriage is a terrible idea’ speech enough times since your divorce. Just let me sulk.”
That’s precisely what I do. I let her sit there and eat my cashews while she goes on and on about all the things she still has to do but can’t because they don’t have a venue, because—shocking to no one—everywhere is booked already. Of course it is. She’s rushing the wedding. She could have everything she wanted if she’d just give it time.
Her troubles make me feel slightly guilty for saying no, which I’m sure is her goal.
For as long as I can remember, Izzy has had me wrapped around her finger. We might have a twelve-year age difference, but it’s never felt that way.
I’m sure part of that might have been because I was busy as hell trying to carve my way into the NHL, and I didn’t have time to be annoyed by her, but still. I remember when she was just a little bundle of pink and how I’d hold her in my arms like she was the most fragile thing in the world. Now she’s getting married. It’s wild how fast time moves.
“You could rebuild the barn like you’ve been talking about and a new chicken coop to keep Tootsie from getting out. This could be your reason,” she says, voicing my thoughts from earlier.
I hadn’t even considered finally building a new coop for our chickens, but she’s right. Our resident escape artist, Tootsie, knows exactly how to break out of our current enclosure, no matter how many times I rig it so she doesn’t.
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 if I can’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’s my turn 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 now extra-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.
I raise my brows. “How can you, of all people, want to open this place up as the ultimate wedding destination?”
There’s no hiding the disgust in my voice, but if anyone shares my disdain for relationships, it’s him. Ezra is just as anti-marriage as I am. It’s why we work so well together and gravitated toward one another when we did.
I was fresh off a divorce and leaving the game I knew and loved my entire life, and he was fresh out of his long-term relationship with physical therapy. We were a match made in grumpy heaven.
“Money.”
He says it so simply, and, fuck, I guess it is that simple.
I think back to the plans I made four years ago when I decided to start my own business. I was still playing hockey, but I knew my time in the league was winding down. As much as I loved playing, I was aging out and slowing down in every aspect of my game. It was just a matter of time before the offers stopped coming in. I wanted to be ready once they did. I didn’t want to be that retired player who didn’t have a clue how to navigate the world beyond hockey or spends his time at the rink shooting the shit and reminiscing on the good old days. I wanted to do something.
So I dreamed up Stick Taps.
One of my favorite things about being on the road so often was trying new beer and cider from all over North America. While most guys were chilling in fancy restaurants or hitting clubs, I was off in my own little world, hanging at local breweries and cideries and trying everything I could get my hands on. I found comfort in them. Found a peace and sense of belonging that I wasn’t getting with hockey anymore, not with the younger crowd coming in and the game getting away from me.
Lucky for me, Ezra wanted the same thing and immediately jumped in on investing and taking over the numbers side of it all, having recently completed a degree in business management.
A dinner and a handshake later, Stick Taps was officially born.
That was three years ago, and while we’re doing well and turning a damn good profit, I still want more.
I guess Ezra does too.
“See?” Izzy says. “This was a good idea! And you can kick off your new venture by hosting my wedding and show this town what they’d be getting by booking their next event here. Just say yes, big brother.”
She bats her lashes at me again, and dammit, if that, paired with Ezra being on board, doesn’t crack my walls.
The odds are stacked against me now, and I fear I don’t have a choice.
I’m still not sure we’re the right match for it, and I have no fucking clue if we can pull this off, but what else do we have to lose?
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Fine. Fine. You can have the wedding here.”
“Oh my gosh! I can’t wait. We have so many ideas. We—”
“But,” I cut off my sister’s celebration, “the only thing I’m doing is helping restore the old barn. That’s it. I’m not moving anything inside the cidery, and we’re not doing anything else to the land. The barn, and that’s it.”
“And the coop for Tootsie,” Ezra says, his fingers flying over his keyboard, probably already calculating potential profits and whatever other shit he’s always doing behind the scenes. Those are our roles, though—he handles the numbers and business side of things, like making sure we’re on schedule with our products and that apple shipments are never behind. I handle the farm, taproom, and all the activities we host. “If we’re going to have big crowds here, we can’t have her running all over the place.”
“And Toots. I’ll figure out something for her.”
“Are you sure?” Izzy asks, chewing on her bottom lip, picking up on my apprehension. “I don’t want to force you to do something you don’t want to, Noah.”
Bullshit. We both know she would.
And fuck no, I’m not sure. I still don’t want to do this. But if it makes Izzy happy . . .
“I’m sure,” I tell her.
“Excellent.” She gives me a saccharine smile, reaching for her phone with a joyful shoulder shake.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Odette.”
I try not to react to the name that sends a shiver down my spine. I try not to let it show that Odette is the last person I want my sister to call.
“How lucky am I that my best friend is a wedding planner?” Izzy says, bringing the phone to her ear.
Yeah, she’s lucky, all right.
Me? Not so much.
Odette Chambers is the last person I want to see. Not because I don’t like her, but maybe because I notice her a bit too much, and I really fucking shouldn’t.
She and Izzy have been inseparable since high school, and I was already well into my hockey career then, so I’ve only truly gotten to know her since I moved back here. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t at all.
She’s twelve years younger than me and completely off-limits, but it’s hard as fuck to ignore how gorgeous she is with her soft-looking midnight waves and curves that go on for days, and the way she pushes all my buttons.
I bet she’s behind this. I’m willing to toss down a hundred bucks on them scheming this together, trying to get me to turn this place into a wedding venue. It has Odette written all over it, and not just because she’s a wedding planner. She came to me last year asking me to host a wedding here, and I told her no.
She didn’t ask again after telling me off—which is precisely what I expected from her since she’s been full of sass for as long as I’ve known her.
But now that Izzy’s getting married . . . I’m certain this is the opportunity she was waiting for, and now she’s ready to pounce. And I played right into her hands.
“She’s going to be so happy. There’s so much to work with here.”
I drop my head back and groan, wondering just what it is I’ve gotten myself into.
