Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (pdf e book reader TXT) 📕

might have been useless to build down here. That sense of unease from earlier starts to eat away at me again and that tells me one thing: I need to get moving and focus on something else.

“You’re going to stay down here, right?” Griffin asks as he stands up, the legs of his stool scratching against the concrete floor.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say half-heartedly. My lease ran out when Gramps died and I have no desire to go back home. There’s no reason to at all, besides my mom’s cooking on Sunday family dinners. She gets why I had to leave, though. She understands how close I was to the old man.

I answer him absently about whether or not I’m staying. “I’ll be here at least until we get the liquor license and make sure things are back on track.”

Griffin scoffs as he takes the two glasses to a larger basin sink. “That could be a few weeks, or it could be a few months. They approve very few applications for those who aren’t from around here and given the lack of response I’m getting ...” he trails off and shakes his head, looking past me at all the brand-new equipment.

“We have the state license. We can sell. Just not in a bar. We’ll make it work for now.”

Standing straight up, Griffin’s my height. It was a running joke among our friend group back in high school that that’s why we saw eye to eye. We grew up the same in more ways than that. He’s leaner, though, and smarter than me in a lot of ways. I’m good with my hands and I’m willing to take risks that most people don’t. Together, we’re going to figure this shit out.

“Stop worrying. Some things take time and we’ve got that. I’ll stay as long as it takes.”

“If we don’t get that license,” he starts to say, continuing to dwell on it as I walk past him toward the large steel double doors, not bothering to stress about something I don’t have control over yet.

“Let’s head over to the property anyway and see how the construction team is doing.” Turning to look back at him I add, “I need a break from beer tasting.”

Griffin grins slyly. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

We shut the doors of my pickup truck without locking them and walk toward our soon-to-be bar.  Just seeing it standing there, all wood and stone, but knowing what it will be … shit, it makes all this stress worth it.

In downtown Beaufort, mom-and-pop stores dot the streets along with white-posted porches of antebellum mansions. A fresh spring breeze tinged with sea salt gently passes us as we pause to take in the location.

The site is an old hardware store we bought with the intent to tear down and rebuild. Our property features a rare corner parking lot in the middle of the downtown area, where space is at a premium, so it was worth every penny.  We were able to buy the brewery space and equipment, plus the building lot and construction costs. Up next is the décor and menu, and I sure as hell have a vision for that, plus an idea of the cash needed. But now the license is stalled for the lot to be a legal bar for alcohol, in other words, using the brewery we bought to make an actual income rather than small-scale distribution.  With nearly all my savings in these two investments, I need that license yesterday.

Griffin told me going into this that it was a high-risk venture and my answer back was that those are the investments that are high reward. I’m starting to second-guess my mindset going into this. I may have been blinded but I know one simple thing for certain: it’s always been my dream to open up a bar near the ocean.

“Good location,” I say, keeping it positive as another gust of sea breeze goes by us. Griffin nods, turning to look around as if he’s seeing it for the first time when I know he’s been down here nearly every day for months.

Shoving my hands into my jean pockets, and listening to the slow traffic running down the street, I pay close attention to this old street that used to be Main Street according to the details on the listing.

Our bar, assuming all goes well, is right next door to an art gallery. Next to that is an event space used mostly for weddings, along with school and corporate events. At the other end of the block is a funeral home.

Whether due to tragedy or celebration, people always need a spot to drink and this is the perfect location for a bar.

The sound of a circular saw reverberates through the place as Griffin and I enter the wide wooden door with iron details. That door was the first thing I bought for this place. Before we even had an address or knew we’d be in this town. That door is what I want everyone to see. It’s smoked and worn down. A showpiece of what I want to feel like a modern Irish pub. We’ve got a simple design for the bar laid out, but we’ve still got to put those finishing touches on everything that will make it the vision I’ve had in my head for years.

Griffin and I talk with the contractor and a couple of carpenters about next week’s work.

Since he’s local, sun-kissed and has that southern twang with a constant charming smile, Griffin blends right in. I, on the other hand, look and sound like a Yankee, or so I’ve been told. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been asked, “What brought you down here?” in the week I’ve