Chapter Twenty-Three
Ripley
Austin Carr plays over the speakers throughout the tasting room as I finish wiping down the bar top. The final customers from the last tour of the night just cleared out. We had a good crowd, everyone laughed on cue and tipped well.
Archer bringing his sister was a surprise.
For some reason, her presence had Brooks on edge.
Dare I say he was scared—which was unexpected since she’s pretty tiny and was nothing but pleasant to me.
The family resemblance between the siblings is strong: same brown eyes, same delicate features, and I’d bet Calla has the same blonde hair as Archer under the fire engine red dye job.
I had been worried things with Archer would be weird since I told him our physical relationship was over, but it’s as though nothing has changed. He’s still sweet and flirty and undressing me with his eyes every chance he gets. The difference now is I’m not returning the look.
My eyes kept straying to the doors leading to the restaurant, where Seth is working, and I was counting down the minutes until closing time.
I’d been checking on him throughout the day—just making sure he was okay after being sick, nothing else.
I’d wanted him to take another day off, but he insisted he was feeling up to it.
The few short glimpses I got, he looked good, happy even, especially after a closed door meeting with Cary this afternoon. They must have finalized the list of interviewees for the assistant manager position.
Like the twelve-year-old girl I am, I have butterflies erupting in my stomach at the thought of the smile he gave me earlier.
Our eyes connected, and the biggest grin stretched across his face.
It was a real one, lighting up his features and fucking stunning.
I could see practically all of his teeth, and they were gorgeous—can teeth be gorgeous?
I’m so smitten, it’s embarrassing.
The way I grinned back was involuntary. The usual weight he carries on his shoulders was nowhere to be found, and I couldn’t help but hope I had a hand in unburdening him. I won’t go as far as saying I have a magical ass that can cure chronic grumpiness, but I also won’t not say it.
Maybe it was the soup.
Either way, it’s a good look on him. I hope it sticks around.
I’m singing along to the music, lost in it, when a throat clears behind me. I whirl around to find piercing blue eyes pinning me to the spot. Seth chuckles as he steps farther into the room, letting the doors swing closed behind him.
“Hi,” I say, the word little more than a breath.
“Hi.” His voice is smooth and confident and perfect, and I just about melt at the sound of it. Seth stabs a thumb behind him. “We’re all closed up. Thea and Cary just left. I told them I’d check on you.”
He’s still smiling, and I think I’m smiling back, but I can’t be sure because my brain is stuck on the way his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, showing off a sliver of his chest. Those two square inches of skin are pornographic: a sprinkle of his dark blonde chest hair, smooth, warm skin, and the strength in the pecs he works hard for.
I struggle to swallow the saliva suddenly pooling in my mouth and meet his gaze.
“So are you good to go?” he asks. “Do you need help finishing up?”
I clear my throat and look around the bar as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it. I toss the rag I was using, watching as it lands on the edge of the sink. “No, I’m all done. But… I was going to taste a new barrel, see if it’s ready. Want to help me?”
“Sure, lead the way.”
I grab a couple of tasting glasses and motion for him to follow me through the distillery and over to the rackhouse.
The rackhouse is a large, temperature controlled storage room at the very back of the distillery.
We stack the aging barrels five high and rotate them around the space about three times a year to make sure the barrels are exposed to the same temperature and humidity.
It’s always a big production with a forklift and lots of yelling.
Brooks usually takes off his shirt for seemingly no other reason than to show off since there’s no real heavy lifting involved aside from what the forklift does. It’s a good time.
Besides the barrels, the only other things in the room are a small table with an electric drill sitting on top and a chair.
I hand the glasses to Seth and pick up the drill before leading him to the back corner of the room where we have the four-year-old barrels I will proof down for our next reserve series.
The plan was to let them sit for another few months, but my gut is telling me the whiskey’s ready, hence the impromptu tasting tonight.
I drill a small hole at the top of the round head of one of the barrels and then another at the bottom.
“Ready?” I ask.
“For what?” Seth looks from me to the barrel and back.
I reverse the drill and pull it away. A small spray of bourbon arcs out of the bottom hole, and Seth scrambles to shove one of the glasses underneath to catch as much of the liquid as he can.
He switches to the other glass, and when they’re filled, I pull out a couple of small wooden plugs from my pocket and use the bottom of the drill to hammer them into the holes.
As we make our way back to the small table and before I can take a sip, Seth blurts out, “I told Cary.”
I stop mid-step and turn to him. “Told him what?”
“That I’m gay.”
Wow, that’s huge. I know he wanted to take steps to come out to the people closest to him, I just didn’t think he was ready to start yet.
My chest wells with fondness and pride for him.
It’s a nerve-wracking experience, especially given the family he grew up with; there’s always a worry the people you love will think differently of you, not accept you.
Slowly coming out to my small group of close friends over the last year has been liberating.
I feel closer to them and safer in my own skin.
As much as I want to come out publicly, I’m not sure what that would look like, and there’s still a voice in the back of my mind telling me I won’t be accepted by this small town I call home.
Is that fair to the people I call my neighbors and friends? Should I be giving them more grace? My parents are a product of this town, and their reaction to my coming out was harsh and cruel, the effects of which I live with everyday.
Not that I think Cary would react poorly, but I have to ask, “Oh. Well then. How did that go?”
“Good… I think.”
“Good, good. Does he know about—” As I’m speaking, I realize he may have told Cary about his feelings for him, and the rest of the sentence sticks in my throat, choking me. Does he still love him?
Did he ever stop? Have I been slowly falling deeper and deeper with him while he’s still pining after his best friend? We’ve never discussed his feelings for his best friend, and I don’t plan to. He doesn’t even know I figured it out. I prefer the ignore-it-and-pretend-it-doesn’t-exist method.
I know the chances of Cary reciprocating the feelings are low, but Seth is gorgeous and amazing and—sometimes—pretty funny. So what if? Not only am I going to have to manage my own broken heart, but I don’t think Thea will survive it this time.
“I told him I was with someone, but it’s complicated.” My spiral of delusion jolts to a stop and immediately picks back up, but now I’m overwhelmed with a whole new slew of emotions.
Okay, don’t panic, I internally tell myself. He’s with me?! We’re together? Is this official, like change-your-status-on-social-media official? I said, don’t panic!
I’m shocked my voice doesn’t give away how I’m absolutely losing it inside when I say, “Maybe we should uncomplicate it then.”
“How?”
Honestly, I don’t know. So, to buy myself some time to come up with something, I stick to what I do know. “Are you familiar with the five rules of bourbon making?”
Seth’s confused look is adorable and completely warranted based on my quick topic change. “No.” He draws out the word, and it almost sounds like a question when he’s done.
“Do you want me to teach you?”
Seth sucks in his lower lip as if in slow motion. He releases it, and it’s slick and pinker than before. He still looks unsure but nods in agreement.
I start walking again, and his sure footsteps behind me tell me he’s following.
“Number one: for the whiskey to be considered bourbon, it must be made in the United States.” We reach the table, and I place the drill down with a small thud.
“Two: bourbon must be aged in new charred oak barrels and for at least two years.”
I take a small sniff of my glass, and he copies me.
“Three: the mash must be at least fifty-one percent corn. Once you hit that mark, you can add more or play around with the ratios of other grains to get whatever flavor profile you’re looking for.
This one,” I take a small sip and swirl it around my mouth before swallowing, “has about sixty-five percent. That’s what gives it the very caramel-forward flavor. ”
I watch his face closely as he tastes the alcohol. Butterflies surge when he nods in approval.
“Rule four,” I continue. “The bourbon can’t be distilled at higher than 160 proof, must enter the barrel at no higher than 125 proof, and cannot be bottled at less than eighty proof.”
“That’s…specific,” he muses.
“It started during Prohibition to keep the alcohol content lower to preserve flavor.” I could go on and on about the history of bourbon making and distilling as a whole, but I think he’s getting enough of me nerding out tonight.
Not to mention, all this talk about the process is getting me all horned up.
The gorgeous man in front of me might have something to do with it too.
I step into him, just enough to have him taking a step back and plopping down into the chair behind him.