Chapter 7 #3
Wynter Summit was a Copper Summit bourbon.
I didn’t often buy a bottle, but I always had one on hand.
I grabbed a small glass and poured her enough to cover the bottom.
Since we were sampling, we’d been doing the same with whiskey in the shot glasses.
I didn’t want a drunk Ms. Kerrigan on my hands, but I also wanted to keep the tasting going. This was…enjoyable.
She took a small sip and rolled the bourbon around on her tongue. Her eyes drifted shut.
I relaxed, not realizing I’d tensed, waiting for her reaction. She always had one. A scrunch of her nose for the not-so-good ones. A suppressed gag for the paint-thinner varieties. But a good brand—watching her reaction would give me another shitty night of sleep.
“Mmm.” She kept her eyes closed. “So good.”
Christ. I was going to hear that in my dreams and wake up harder than ever. I poured more into her glass, set it on the coffee table by the couch, and took a seat in the chair next to it.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Had enough with the skunk drinks, too?”
“Yes.” More of her moans would be nice.
She lifted her glass and inspected the amber liquid. “A bourbon is never shot. It’s savored.”
“And never saved,” I finished. “Meant to be enjoyed with friends and family.”
She rotated her glass. “And what am I, Mr. Foster?”
So much more. “I count a fellow bourbon enthusiast in that statement.”
“Fellow? You specialize in whiskey.”
“Bourbon’s restrictive. So many qualifications to meet the definition of bourbon. I can play with whiskey. Besides, I’ve already had the best bourbon made. I don’t feel like I have to improve on it.”
She took another sip. “And what’s the best bourbon?”
“You’re drinking it.” Copper Summit’s products were quality. Were they the best in the world? Probably not. But they were the best in my mind, and I didn’t care to compete with them.
She made a noncommittal sound and inspected her glass. “My first drink was when I was fifteen.” She gauged my lack of reaction. “That doesn’t surprise you?”
Most people would be shocked. Aghast even. But where I came from, young drinkers were a reality. “No.”
“What if I told you my parents gave it to me?”
I lifted a shoulder. “The context makes all the difference.”
The corner of her mouth kicked up. Her pink lips made the sauciest curve when she smiled. “You’re right. They wanted us to appreciate the art of alcohol and take away the forbidden temptation.”
“Smart.” She was my goddamn forbidden temptation. I’d shared a handful of drinks with Mrs. Crane in all the years she’d worked for me. She’d never accompanied me to lunches with Cadillac Sam, and I’d never wanted to learn everything about how she’d grown up.
“Daddy liked to test me on what I could tell from a small sip.” She laughed, but I sensed the sadness underneath. “He’d never admit it, but I think he was disappointed I preferred bourbon cocktails over drinking it neat.”
“You can’t fix erroneous taste buds.”
This time, her laughter was melancholy-free. “He’d probably agree with you.” Her expression wavered, and the heaviness was back in her eyes. Then it was gone. “A good cocktail is hard to beat, but you know what’s better?”
“I know what I think is better,” I practically growled.
Pink dusted her cheeks, and her eyes flared. “Candy, Mr. Foster. Bourbon chocolate fudge, to be specific.”
I poured myself a glass of Wynter Summit. “Sounds rich.”
“It is. There’s also gummy bears, truffles, cordials, and caramels. I once took a trip to Kentucky just for bourbon candy.”
“Maybe I should stock some with the merch.”
She finished her drink and set the glass down. “I bet they’d sell. I know candy isn’t your moneymaker, but it holds a special place in my heart. I have a sweet tooth.”
As much as I wanted to dwell on how sweet she’d taste, all those little samples added up. I didn’t get the impression she was a big drinker, and she was a small woman. “I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.”
“Mr. Foster. Second night in a row.”
“Guilty. But you need a full dinner first. Let me order food in.” The excuse sounded false in my ears. Was I only keeping her in my office as the evening wrapped up and people went home? Maybe, but I wasn’t risking her getting behind the wheel. “What do you like to eat?”
She’d brought sandwiches and leftover pasta dishes, plus she always ate whatever I ordered in. No pickiness, and I’d tracked way too many of her habits.
“Unhealthy stuff that you don’t touch.”
I gave her a mock scowl. “I ordered in pizza not long ago. You even had some.”
“I did. Did you?”
“I don’t like pizza.” I got out my phone and started a message to my delivery guy.
“Who doesn’t like pizza?”
“A kid who had nothing else to eat but old, hard pizza when his mom spent all her money on drugs.” Fuck. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
Her ripe lips parted. “Shit. Sorry—no pizza, then.”
“I’m ordering pizza. It’s fine.”
She scooted forward, keeping her legs under her until I worried she’d tip off the couch. She put her warm hand on my forearm. “No. I want something you’ll like, too.”
I liked seeing her enjoy the food I bought her. “I said it’s fine.”
“It’s not. Get what you want, too.”
“I’m surrounded by what I want.” I couldn’t have her reading into that.
I wanted her. I couldn’t have her, and that was a situation I tried to avoid—being around something I couldn’t have.
Like getting shuttled off to another family while my foster family took a vacation.
As an adult, I understood why they’d needed the reprieve, and honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted to take me on vacation either.
As a kid, it had fucking sucked. More proof I wasn’t wanted and couldn’t have the nice things.
My stomach growled. Lunch had been a while ago for me, too. “If I get wings, will that satisfy you?”
“I’ll be so satisfied, Mr. Foster.”
Her damn purr.
I shot off a message. When I was done, I found her gaze on me. “Something wrong? More bourbon?”
“Yes—to the bourbon. You know I saw that bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle.”
I huffed. “You mean the six-thousand-dollar bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle.”
She gave me a theatrical gasp. “Only six grand? You must’ve bought it years ago.”
“The first year I turned a profit.” I got up to retrieve the label.
“So the delivery guy, Cooper. He’s, like, on call?”
I wasn’t surprised she knew his name. She only needed to be told once to recall who each employee was and what department they worked in. Cooper Luis delivered to Foster House nearly every day. “He’s my personal assistant.”
Another dramatic gasp. “You’re hiding assistants from me now?”
“No. He’s been quite visible.”
She rolled her eyes, and I grinned as I poured her a finger of the good stuff. She deserved more than a few dribbles.
I added the same to my glass. “I originally hired him to deliver food, and when he went to college, he was worried he couldn’t find a job that’d work with him.” I set the bottle on the coffee table.
She glanced from the bottle I didn’t immediately put away like I had the others. I didn’t react. If she wanted to swig the whole bottle, I wouldn’t stop her.
“A lot of places work around students’ schedules,” she said.
Not for what I paid. “They do, but he also needs…” Cooper wasn’t shy about his learning disabilities, but his personal story wasn’t mine to discuss. “School takes him more time.”
“Oh, right. He made a comment about summer tutoring.” She held the glass loosely in her hand and leaned on the arm of the couch. “You’re a softie.”
“I’m understanding.”
“Softie,” she said around the rim of her glass.
I waited, my breath stalled.
There it was. The slow fall of the eyelids. The slight chin lift. The upward tilt of her lips. I couldn’t see her roll the fluid on her tongue, but I knew she was doing it. The same flavor she was tasting played over my tongue.
She opened her eyes and sighed. “That’s good stuff.”
“Some of the best. I have a fifteen-year-old whiskey we’re bottling next year.”
“Fifteen? You would’ve only been—”
“Fifteen years younger.”
She laughed, the sound so light and free. I was smiling again, dammit. “If you’re sensitive about your age, you should know it’s one of the first things that’s printed in the interest pieces written about you.”
“I know.” Heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol wicked up my face. I hated the attention on myself as much as I detested the way people tried to romanticize my past.
“You’re a private person, Mr. Foster.”
“And you’re surprisingly understanding. You don’t pry.”
Indecision worked through her eyes. “Sometimes people have similar experiences, and they don’t talk about it.”
“You were in the system?” Pressure expanded in my chest, pushing at my ribs. Wynn was sharp and fun and light. Picturing her in some of the settings I’d been put in tore at my soul.
She chewed on her lower lip, then released it suddenly. She ran a finger around the rim of her glass and didn’t meet my gaze. “My family took in kids. I always wondered if they felt like they got lost in the chaos.”
“No wonder you interrupt all the time.”
She laughed, but there was something hidden deep in her expression. A heavy emotion she wasn’t sharing. And I wasn’t going to be the one to pry. She’d respected my privacy. I’d do the same for her.