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“Oh my gosh. Lucky! When do you know if they’ll hire you?”
“Well, I have a meeting with them on Wednesday. They’re kind of doing the quick elopement thing, and were going to use the resort’s photographer but stumbled across my Instagram. Do you think you’d like to come with?”
“I mean...sure. I can come to the meeting.”
“No, Soph.” Her grin is wide, her brows raised, and I realize I misunderstood her comment. “I think you should be their videographer.”
My laugh is uncomfortable, even if I’m flattered she thinks I’m good enough. “Emina... I just edit videos.” Most of my clients are social media influencers and video vloggers. I have two large families that I edit twenty-minute videos for, and a handful that ask me to put together thirty and sixty-second short spots.
“But you’re so good behind the camera, too! Yes, your magic is in the editing process, there’s no denying that, but I think you’d be perfect as my right-hand man. Woman.”
“I don’t...” I shrug a shoulder, although now that the idea has been planted, visions of a beach wedding and all the angles I could catch, run through my mind. “I don’t know. Would it be fun? Absolutely. But I don’t know that I can ask someone to pay me for filming a wedding. Friend’s barbeque? Yeah. Sure. Kid’s birthday party? Let’s do it. But a wedding? That’s a big commitment.”
“Think about it, please?”
“Oh. I already am,” I chuckle, just as Shayne comes back with our drinks. We thank her and both take sips, and when I offer to let Emina taste the OG, she does—and immediately makes a face.
"That's stout."
“It’s not as stout as it could be though! I like it.”
“You said it was the owner’s beer? Like, the O’Gallaghers made it?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“You know... I wonder what the process looks like, making a beer...”
“It’s probably not terribly different from making your plum moonshine.” I’m sure they’re different but likely both take time and patience.
Emina chuckles. “Rakija.” It’s pronounced rah-key-ya, but I’ve long let go of trying to get all the Bosnian words correct. I can count to ten and say good night, and that’s about it. I’m not having a conversation with Emina in her family’s language anytime soon.
“Right. Rakija. Oh, speaking of. Krempita. You were going to write out the recipe for my mom.”
“Shoot. Yes.” She pulls out her phone. “I’m going to put a reminder in my calendar, because I’ll keep forgetting.” My dad’s birthday is coming up, and both of my parents fell in love with the Bosnian custard cake Emina made over the holidays. The dessert is a homemade custard in flaky puff pastry that’s light enough you can easily eat an entire cake on your own without realizing you just devoured it.
It literally melts in your mouth.
“I have a plate of shalaylees,” a voice to my left says, and when I look over to the person, the first thing I notice is he’s like a skinnier Thor. Not that he’s skinny-skinny, but he’s also not as broad as Chris Hemsworth.
“Thank you,” I say as he puts the platter down between us, and when I look over to Emina, I see she’s facing the table...but her eyes keep peeking to the side at the man. Literally two seconds ago, she was smiling and laughing, and now she’s still as a statue.
“Not a problem,” the guy says. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” He looks from me to Emina, but she’s still having a hard time looking up at him.
“No, I think we’re okay. Thank you, though.”
“Enjoy.”
After he’s well out of earshot, I reach out to gently slap the back of Em’s hand. “You think he’s cute.”
“Shh!” She shifts in her seat but there’s definitely a blush on her golden cheeks. “Let’s not announce things like that.”
“I’ll go get his name,” I tease as I put my hands on the table, as if ready to push out of my seat.
“Sophia! No!”
Laughing, I reach for a shalaylee instead, dipping it in the liquor-infused ketchup. “You thought he was cute though, right?”
Emina grabs an appetizer for herself, sitting straight up and shrugging a shoulder before bringing it toward her mouth. “Maybe I did.”
