Page 42 of Gin and Bear It

Which is exploding with messages.

I look up at the ceiling and sigh. Maybe another hole will open up above me and knock me out so I don’t have to deal with this.

I take a few deep breaths with my eyes closed and open them again. Pip had silently hopped onto the table and is sitting next to my computer, staring at me with wide green eyes.

“At least this is a distraction,” I say, half to myself and half to him.

He tries to step onto my keyboard, so I take him off and put him on the ground. After a few rounds of doing that—he can’t take no for an answer, apparently—I put him in my lap instead. He settles down, finally.

I check my first email from the band’s manager, which clarifies why my inbox is stuffed. They released a statement saying that the band is on an indefinite hiatus due to conflict and creative differences. Of course, they had to throw in the conflict part to drive drama.

The rest of the emails are from media outlets that our manager forwarded to me. I’m not answering any of them until I talk to Dylan, so I call him right away.

“Your email’s exploding, too?” he asks, instead of saying hello. Some kind of farm animal makes a noise in the background, so he must be at his parents’ again.

“Yeah. You see this statement?” I ask, skimming over it. My blood pressure rises as I read it again. They didn’t even consult us about the wording or the timing of it.

“It could be worse,” he says. Of course he thinks that. He rolls with anything and can find the bright side to a lot. That’s how I knew the band was completely wrecked—he lost his patience with it all, finally.

“Sure, but it could be better. Fucking assholes.” I skim my emails. “They could have let us know they were doing this today.”

“At least it’s done. We don’t have to worry about fans being in limbo and we can keep chugging along with the legal battle,” he says. “I’m not replying to any requests for comment. I’m just not going to touch it at all.”

“Same.” I pet Pip, whose purr is so loud that Dylan can probably hear it. “And I’m not touching social media, either.”

“Definitely not.” He hardly liked to use it even when everyone encouraged us to. “I’ve gotta go. It’ll be okay.”

“See you.”

He ends the call and I put my phone down. After a moment, I shut my laptop, too. What else can I do? It really is done. The weight of being in between is off my shoulders. Now we just need the legal shit to go in our favor.

THIRTEEN

JADA

Transitions and I don’t mix, especially when I’m frazzled. And this morning has been the definition of hot mess, so I stumble into the hotel feeling like my brain is being pulled apart on all sides.

I manage to say hello to some guests and hustle into my office to gather myself before I make the rounds to the various teams to check in. After taking a few deep breaths and chugging some coffee I took to go, I do a loop around the property. First, the kitchen. We only serve breakfast and lunch, so we’re in between services. Everything is going smoothly.

So is housekeeping and Grace at the front desk. That leaves the construction shit show in the back. I let out a heavy breath and open the door that used to lead directly into the woods. Now it’s a shell of what I hope to be our bar and event space.

We’ve held events for as long as the hotel has been open—mostly parties without alcohol—but this bar will open up even more business. Our guests can have a place to mingle in the evening, and we can serve small bites late at night. And we’ll have our liquor license, so we can make a lot more money, too.

Assuming it ever gets finished.

The contractor and his team are there, fiddling with some wires. The room is roughed out, so while we aren’t out there in the open, it’s still very bare. But even that feels like somewhat of an achievement. Breaking ground on this space was hellish and required a lot of planning so we didn’t destroy the trees around the property. Then, there were permits on permits.

The contractor, Lane, spots me and grimaces.

“Hi, Ms. Jada,” he says. I’ve told him a million times to just call me Jada, but he doesn’t get the message. “We’re having some electrical issues today. Some moisture got in and…”

He starts rambling—he tends to ramble a little bit too much, and I understand about 15 percent of the construction lingo. If I ask him more clarifying questions, it only gets worse.

“So what’s the delay going to be?” I ask once he stops talking.

“Another week or so?” He shrugs. “Can’t say for sure. Depends on the weather and when I can get my electrical guy out.”

“Fine.” I hold in my sigh. We wanted this to be done last year, and now the projected finish date is in September.