Page 60 of Worst Nanny Ever (Babes of Brewing #2)

brIAR

I hate conflict so much I continued seeing a therapist I disliked for a year before I managed to ghost her after a scheduling mishap. Which is why I’m twitchy as I wait for Cleet and Ross to report to my father’s office at Silver Star Brewery.

It’s a Sunday, less than two weeks before Christmas, and I’m about to fire them.

Not because I want to, but because my father threatened to fire five employees if I don’t choose two to fire and do the deed myself.

I objected to doing it before the holidays, and in retaliation he announced to the already-dissatisfied staff that they wouldn’t be getting holiday bonuses this year, and it’s all my fault.

He sounds like masochist right?

He is , and proud of it.

According to him, his ability to “think beyond others’ feelings” is a key ingredient in his recipe for success.

I suppose he would know. My father is a wildly successful businessman who has developed and sold half a dozen businesses since I was born.

Print-on-demand photo albums. Fake chicken he would never eat himself.

Kombucha, right on the cusp of it becoming the next big thing.

My mother thinks so highly of his success recipe that she had it burned into a slab of maple. It hangs in their dining room.

Identify a rising trend +

Think beyond others’ feelings +

Give the people what they want

=Success by any measure

I sit in the literal shadow of my father’s success every week when I have dinner with them, knowing his recipe will never work for me because I don’t have all of the ingredients.

Which is bad news for me, because I’m the heir apparent for Silver Star Brewery, my dad’s latest success story.

Silver Star is one of the nation’s few fully organic breweries, and we age all of our sours and saisons in oak barrels. It must be said that my father likes to stand out.

I’ve loved this brewery from the moment my father sent me photos of the empty warehouse. I couldn’t say why other than that it has good vibes, brimming with possibility. And now it’s a place of literal transformation where grain, yeast, and hops go to become gold…well, golden beer.

So when my life imploded just under a year ago, my father knew exactly how to reel me back into his world.

Give the people what they want.

Instead of patting me on the back and telling me it was going to be okay, he announced he’d give me Silver Star Brewery if I moved back home, worked at the brewery for a year as an “ideal employee,” and attended weekly family dinners.

I’d wanted it badly enough to sign on the dotted line.

Yes, there is a contract—and the one-year-period is up in a couple of months.

But my father is King of Loopholes, and for the last few months, he’s been putting me through Briar Bootcamp—a series of increasingly obnoxious challenges designed to test my mettle and help me prepare to run a business.

I hate the tests, but my God, I want this brewery.

So I’ve decided to show him I do have what it takes by firing Cleet and Ross.

When I told my friend Hannah about the firing challenge, she said I should axe the two least popular staffers, not the worst, but my sense of fairness wouldn’t allow it.

So I picked Cleet, who wears the same hoodie every day and stinks of cheap pot, and Ross, who tried to look up my dress last week when I was lifting something off a high shelf.

(He also did not offer to help.)

Choosing them was the right thing. Still, firing two people back to back would destroy my soul, so I asked them both to meet me here, in my dad’s office, so I could do it at the same time.

I really don’t want to go through with this. I’m tempted to sneak out the back and join my friends at Big Catch Brewing, where Hannah’s throwing a holiday party tonight. Within fifteen minutes, I could be drinking mulled wine and avoiding the mistletoe like it’s poison ivy.

I can practically see my father shaking his head. “If you weren’t the product of IVF, I’d doubt you were my daughter…”

I’m still stewing about what to do when Cleet raps his knuckles lazily on the door. He and Ross come in without waiting for a response, trailed by a cloud of pot smell. If it had a color, it would be the purplish gray of ennui.

I wait until they’re sitting in the visitor chairs and then slip behind my father’s desk. I stay standing, because sitting in my father’s chair would feel like sitting in on a king’s throne. I’m also worried his asshole aura will rub off.

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I tell them. “You guys are great. So great.”

“We are?” Cleet asked with understandable doubt as he plucks something from his nose and lets it fall onto the floor.

I try not to cringe as I tug a tissue out of the box near my father’s notebook and handed it to him.

He looks at it in confusion. “What’s this for?”

“You’re great ,” I repeat, my tone frantic now. I definitely should have done more yoga this morning. I’m about as zen as a Wall Street trader during a market crash.

“You already said that,” Ross points out, a corner of his mouth hitching up. His gaze rakes over me. “And I’d love nothing better than to show you how great I am, in detail , but what’s this about? Are we getting some kind of raise?”

“Uh…no.”

“An award?” Cleet asks, perking up. “I never got an award before.”

Panicking, I blurt, “No. There’s no easy way to say this, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

Cleet’s mouth gapes open.

Ross hikes his eyebrows so high they’re lost in his mussed blond hair.

Before either of them can say anything, I add, “I’ve compiled a list of open jobs you can apply to. I’m sure you’ll find something in no time. There’s a lot of seasonal work, and?—”

“You fired us at the same time, Rapunzel ?” Ross says in a mocking voice. I’ve heard plenty of people call me that in whispers, as much because I’m “daddy’s little princess” as for my waist-length blond hair. “Is this the respect you show your staff?”

“I’ll give you both positive references,” I say tightly.

“Well la-ti-fucking-dah,” Ross says with a snort. “The princess will give us a positive reference. Did you need any references to get this here job, or did your daddy just give it to you?”

“He gave it to me,” I say through a tight throat, “and I’ve done everything I can to earn my place here.”

It’s true. Since moving back to Asheville, I’ve devoted myself to learning about beer and breweries.

It’s become my special interest, I guess you could say.

Even my best friends work in the brewery world—Hannah is the daytime floor manager at Big Catch Brewing, and Sophie came up with a new non-alcoholic drink line for Buchanan Brewery.

And, sure, the real reason I met Hannah and Sophie was that all three of us, plus another woman, were unknowingly dating the same man—Jonah Price—but I’m trying not to dwell on my failures.

Ross snorts, turning to Cleet, and says, “We’re lucky we’re getting out of this dump. Bubba has it right. If she’s taking over, it’s all going to hell in a handbasket.”

I bite my lip. Bubba is the head brewer. I had a feeling he wasn’t my biggest fan, but I was hoping that was paranoia speaking.

Truthfully: I’m worried he’s right about the handbasket. My father isn’t a caring boss, but there’s no denying he gets things done. The one time I ran a business—an online jewelry store I started with my then-friend Maria—it was initially successful and then crashed and burned.

Hannah would probably have toasted marshmallows in the ashes; I’d come home to daddy.

The therapist I’d disliked had suggested we should “unpack” my daddy issues, but she’d brought it up on my last session, so my daddy

Ross makes a disgusted sound, but Cleet sniffs and leans forward in his seat. “Now that we’re not working together anymore, maybe you’d get a beer with me sometime?”

“Oh… oh .” My chest feels tight. “I’m so sorry, Cleet, but I don’t date anymore.”

Ross snorts. “That’s her princess way of saying she’s not interested in your hairy ass, Cleet. Take the hint.”

“It’s nothing but the truth,” I insist hotly, even though I wouldn’t date either of them if we were the last three people alive. “I’m focusing on work. No more dating until next summer at the earliest.”

I’d promised myself to stay single for an entire year after the Jonah debacle. One year with dating off the table. It’s been refreshing, honestly, and I have Hannah and Sophie to keep me company.

“Can I borrow a pen?” Cleet asks.

I hand him one, hoping it’ll get him out of here sooner.

“And a sheet of paper?”

I slide one across the desk, and he slowly and painstakingly writes down a number.

“That there’s my number,” he says, tapping it with the pen. “I’ll wait for you, Briar. As long as it takes.”

Ross snorts again, shaking his head at his friend. “You’ll be waiting forever, you fool.”

Cleet pockets my father’s expensive pen, but I don’t have the heart to call him on it.

“Uh, thanks,” I say, folding the paper and sliding it into the pocket of my jeans.

My father forces everyone on staff to relinquish their phone at the beginning of their shift, like a Boomer math teacher on a power trip, so I return Cleet’s and Ross’s phones with a tight smile and then follow them out of the office.

I’d expected them to take off immediately to pursue job leads—I’d spent five hours compiling that list for them—so I’m surprised and discomfited when instead they exit through the door leading into the tasting room.

I trail after them, my mouth dropping open when they approach the bar.

“You’re staying?” I ask in disbelief.

Ross gives me an incredulous look. “We just got fired, Princess. Of course we want to grab a drink with our friends. Would you begrudge us that?”

“Of course not,” I stammer, trying to figure out if I’m being unreasonable. “The first one’s on the house.”

“Thanks, Briar,” Cleet says, beaming up at me. “Want to sit with us?”

I back up so quickly, I nearly bring down a wire display filled with stickers. “I have to get back to work.”