Page 231 of Spicy Ever After
I do. Because I’m never waking up early again.
When I come downstairs with my laptop hours later, Pop’s at the kitchen table, a torn-up sales contract in front of him.
“What?! You’re up? And it’s not even noon?” Beck’s dad teases in his gruff voice. “I’ll alert the media.”
I snort. “You just want a reason to DM Savannah Guthrie.”
He tries to hide a chuckle behind his coffee mug.
While I pour my coffee, I scan the kitchen. Two slices of sourdough await me in the toaster, as do two boiled eggs on a nearby plate next to a jar of orange marmalade and the butter dish. I may never get used to the rush of warmth I get whenever I come downstairs to find that my guy has left me with breakfast—either made or at the ready.
God, I love him.
I set myself up across from Pop and crack open my laptop while I peel an egg.
“Congratulations,” Pop mutters, eyeing the destroyed sales contract.
I shrug. “I don’t think I managed it on my own. Thanks for the help.”
Pop tilts his head. “Can’t imagine your parents were too thrilled about your plans.”
“Nope. But it’s not the first time I’ve upended their expectations. They’ll live.”
“They may never forgive us Oliviers.”
“They will when we make a killing.” I chomp into a piece of toast slathered in butter and practically dripping with orange marmalade. I hum around the bite, lick my fingers, and finish my thought. “Which brings us to our next project,” I mumble with my mouth full.
Pop’s eyebrows are like bristly caterpillars, one of them menacing the other. “Our next project?”
“Yep,” I say with a nod. “Nothing in our buyout plan funds distilling expansion. We need to figure that out sooner rather than later. That’s the best way for us to get ahead.”
“Got any bright ideas?”
I chomp another bite while nodding. “A subscription service.” Except it comes out like, “Ah shuh-swip-shun sherface,” and Pop just scowls at me.
“And here I thought having a young lady in the house would class up the place,” he grumbles.
I have to cover my mouth before I spray him with crumbs and laughter. “Sorry.” I swallow a gulp of coffee to wash down my mouthful, knowing full well my absent table manners would mortify my mother and likely kill my grandmother.
It’s kind of nice that Pop ribs me instead of pinching me on the elbow or browbeating me. The Olivier household is a lot more relaxed than my family’s. And I like it.
Still, I vow to do better, if only to show Pop the respect he and this comfortable home deserve.
“A vodka subscription service. I’ve done a little research. Offering three-month, six-month, and twelve-month pre-paid options would give us a cash infusion with a little bit of time to scale up production, and we could cap our numbers if we started to get too many orders—which is a good problem to have, but I doubt we’ll have that the first year,” I explain, slicing one of the peeled eggs in half before sprinkling each side with salt and pepper. “And since Beck likes experimenting with different varieties and flavors, he could pre-determine what would be available. It wouldn’t have to be a monthly subscription. It could be quarterly.”
I shrug and pop egg into my mouth. Pop stares. I chew and swallow before continuing.
“Spirit subscriptions are definitely for more affluent customers, but we’re not limited to this area. It’s a good way to spread brand awareness all over the country without having to be a massive producer. We would just need to put out some targeted media—like on Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube. Posts with video shorts of the farm, this house, and supercuts of the planting, harvesting, and production process would get attention—especially if Beck stars in them. Who doesn’t like watching a hot farmer?”
Pop chokes and has to raise a shaking hand to cover his mouth, but his eyes gleam.
“I’ve already turned in my final project for Principles of Marketing, but this’ll be great for the Operations Management term assignment I’ve been putting off,” I explain, logging into the course portal. “My project needs to be on enhancing operations for an existing business, real or imagined. Would you help me document some baseline details?”
Across from me Pop jerks, sitting up straighter than I think I’ve ever seen him. “H-help you? How would I?—”
“Answer questions. Like how long Olivier Family Farms has been in operation as an LLC. On average, how many employees are there? General ROI and P&L figures for the last, say, five years,” I say with a shrug. “That sort of thing.”
He blinks owlishly behind his glasses. “Well… yes. Of course, I can do that.”
