Boyfriend by Sarina Bowen

Author:Sarina Bowen [Bowen, Sarina]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Two and a half hours was a long time to ponder one’s failings, even if the scenery was beautiful. I wound the rental car higher and higher along a country road on a pretty Vermont hillside. Out the driver’s side window I caught glimpses of the Green Mountains in the distance.

I was still a bit stunned that Bill Burton hadn’t fired me. But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that my mother’s stake in the company wasn’t the reason. Premier Group was famous for chewing up and spitting out culinary grads. Having their corporate name on your resume was like a badge of honor. It was the Purple Heart of the foodie world. There was even a Facebook group called I Survived BPG.

Their business model seemed to depend on slaves like me. As an intern, I was expected to work seventy hours a week for very low pay. They called the paycheck a “stipend” only because it sounded better than “slave wages.” If they fired one of us every time something went wrong, there would be nobody left to do the shitty jobs and fetch the coffee.

That’s what I was going to keep telling myself, anyway. Because I was sick of letting my mother influence my life. I’d thought that moving away from Beacon Hill would be enough to shake her off. Turns out I should have left the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Maybe Vermont was far enough to avoid Mom’s bad juju. I hoped so, anyway. Outside my car windows, everything was green. Meadows lined the hillside, and the tree branches that framed the country road created a leafy tunnel. I didn’t have the first clue where in the hell I was. But it was very beautiful.

Thank God for GPS, because navigation wasn’t my strong suit. Again—put me in the kitchen with a knife and I’m a happy girl. But if you want me to run your business or negotiate your multi-farmer purchase agreement in the wilds of Vermont in a rental car? Dicey, people.

According to the dashboard indicator, I was just a half mile from the first grower on my list—the Shipley Farm. I’d known a Griffin Shipley during my first unsuccessful year of college. He was a football stud and party boy, and we’d hooked up a couple of times. I remembered those nights with perfect clarity. Every thrilling moment.

But I hadn’t known Griff very well, except in the biblical sense. And I couldn’t remember whether he was from Vermont or not. Maybe Shipley was a common name. The man I’d been sent to find today was someone else, anyway. My instruction sheet listed August Shipley: Apples and Artisanal Ciders.

I’d picked the Shipley Farm as my starting place not because of the name, but because of the artisanal ciders. Perhaps Mr. August Shipley would let me taste them. If you were drinking for business purposes, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t quite noon yet, right?

The ciders were the most interesting product on my shopping list, with a few gourmet cheese products tying for second place.

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