I let Charlie’s words settle in completely before I respond. “Bookings are up,” I repeat. I’ve had my head in the sand, I can admit it. But it seems so unlikely as to be impossible.

“They started rising the day the photo went live,” Charlie says, and I can tell he’s forcing a smile off his face, that bastard. “They haven’t stopped. It’s not an exaggeration to say we’re booked.”

“How booked?”

“Booked. Through the middle of August.” That’s two weeks after the Summerfest celebration. We consider the middle of August the beginning of the off-peak season. “We have no open reservations at the main building, and the rental homes are booked through Summerfest.”

Charlie slides a sheet of paper across the desk toward me. It’s our open capacity, broken down by week. I’m seeing a stunning amount of zeroes.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Beau lets out a burst of a laugh. “Seriously, Roman, if you think anyone would dare screw around with you the way you’ve been—” Charlie saves his ass by elbowing him in the ribs. Beau coughs. “We are not kidding. I made Charlie crunch the numbers three extra times before we came in here. And I got up early. I went to the gym. I had a green smoothie at breakfast.”

Nothing lately makes me laugh, but that, at least, puts a smile on my face. Beau is serious if he’s drinking green smoothies. Those are vile.

“It’s not just us,” Charlie puts in. “Driver’s in agreement.”

“Driver? What does he have to do with this?” I shake my head. “He hasn’t been back since the last meeting I called.”

They exchange another look. I wish they wouldn’t do that. “Yeah...about that,” Beau drawls. This habit everyone has of burying the lede will be the actual death of me. “He’s been avoiding you after what happened.”

I rub both my hands over my face. “For the last time, it was not my fault that...” I can’t bring myself to say her name out loud. “I had nothing to do with that photo being posted. I can’t imagine why he’s hung up on that, but—”

“Oh, it’s not that. Your new approvals policy delayed a meeting with Greyhound.” Charlie’s watching me for my reaction.

“He had a meeting with Greyhound?”

“Didn’t you read his proposal?” My stickler-for-details brother wrinkles his brow. “It wasn’t his usual Formula One sponsorships fare, but the higher-up he was meeting with didn’t look kindly on rescheduling. They dropped the whole thing.”

For the life of me, I can’t remember what Driver’s proposal said. I remember him dropping it on my desk. I remember picking up the sheet of paper. After that...nothing.

Not nothing. After that, Jenny.