Chapter 9
Bella
Anybody who insisted on trying everything once had clearly never tasted whiskey.
I’d tried to keep an open mind. Really, I had.
I was the kind of person who liked discovering new things, who ordered the oddest flavor combination on the menu just to see what would happen.
I ate pickled vegetables straight out of the jar, often with peanut butter, because everything tasted better with peanut butter.
But this stuff tasted like burnt caramel regret, like someone had taken a perfectly good tree, set it on fire, and then dared me to sip the ashes.
And Ethan, my date, was even worse.
It was clear that he’d planned the entire evening around this whiskey tasting, hoping for any opportunity to share his vast knowledge on the subject.
We had been sitting at one of the tasting room’s high-top tables for nearly an hour—me, swirling the amber liquid in my glass and sipping when necessary, and him, droning on about “subtle notes of charred oak and vanilla bean.”
At least the distillery was cool, in that upcycled barn kind of way. Edison bulbs, wooden beams, and an entire wall made from stacked barrels—a perfect representation of old and new Rose City. Come to think of it, it would make the perfect setting for a market or farm-to-table event.
I made a mental note to reach out to the owner next week.
As Ethan’s voice faded into background noise, I let my mind continue to wander.
To a honey and whiskey pairing event. To the list of books I still needed to pick up for class on Thursday. To the cheeseburger I could’ve been enjoying by now—one with bacon and peanut butter and absolutely no hint of smoky wood—had I taken Bennett up on his offer.
My gaze drifted across the room, toward the wide doorway that led back out to the main floor. I pictured Bennett leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips like he was in on every joke.
I sighed, blinking away the daydream. And then my stomach dropped.
He was here. In the doorway, framed by warm light and weathered wood, like he’d stepped straight out of my head and into the distillery.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Nope, still there.
My heart stuttered.
He’d changed into a knitted pullover that hugged his shoulders exactly right, fabric stretched tight across his chest, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the strong lines of his forearms. The striking blue color made his eyes look nearly wolflike, and his hair was still a little windswept from the cold outside, curls falling loose over his forehead.
Like walking, talking, L.L. Bean sweater porn.
Mm, my favorite.
He scanned the room, casual at first, until finally, his gaze landed on me. And never left.
Heat rushed up my neck, my pulse thudding in my ears. Ethan was still talking about peat levels, but it all blurred into white noise as Bennett King eye-fucked the hell out of me.
Diaz appeared beside him a second later, grinning like he’d won the lottery, and nodded in my direction. Bennett never looked away from me as he crossed the room toward our table, that quiet intensity rolling off him in waves.
“Holy shit,” Ethan said, following my gaze. His smile faltered. “That’s Bennett King. And Peter Diaz.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, voice steadier than I felt. “They play baseball with my brother. He pitches for the Roasters.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Wait, you’re telling me I’m on a date with Jared Pink’s sister? Do you think you could hook me up with a signed jersey or something?”
Whoop, there it is.
Diaz reached us first, all easy charm. “Fancy seeing you here, Belles. Mind if we join you?”
Before Ethan could answer, Bennett slid into the seat beside me—close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table, sending a jolt straight up my thigh.
“Small world,” he said, his cobalt eyes holding mine hostage.
“Uh-huh, really small.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “We’re kind of in the middle of—”
“The eight o’clock tasting group?” Diaz cut in smoothly, setting down two glasses. “Yup, we signed up for the same one. We snuck in for the last few minutes of the tour.”
Ethan’s smile tightened. “Great.”
Our “taste guide” returned, launching into the next pour, an Islay Scotch that supposedly evoked memories of a “bog at sunset.” Bennett leaned in as the guide talked, his arm resting on the back of my chair.
Not touching but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint cedar of his cologne.
“Not bad,” he murmured, lips barely moving.
I glanced across the table at Ethan, making sure he was too engrossed in the guide’s presentation to hear me. “You’ve got to be joking. It’s like drinking a barbequed Christmas tree.”
His lips twitched. “I knew you weren’t a whiskey girl.”
“Guess not.”
“It’s not too late to grab a burger at the tavern.”
“I can’t do that to him,” I whispered, nodding toward Ethan. “Even if he hasn’t asked me a single question all night. Actually, that’s not true. He did ask for Jared’s autograph.”
Bennett shrugged. “Sucks for him.”
“What does?”
“That he’s thinking about somebody else while sitting across from you.”
I felt heat creep up my neck, grateful for the low lighting. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
“Maybe, but it’s true.”
My chest did a stupid flip when his knee pressed against mine again, deliberately this time.
The four of us continued the tasting like some bizarre double date none of us had signed up for. I swirled, sipped, and smiled when appropriate, my tongue quietly begging for mercy and a glass of water that didn’t smell like a campfire.
And then, miracle of miracles, there was one I didn’t hate. A small-batch bourbon with just enough sweetness to soften the edge, warm instead of punishing.
Hell, it was probably honey.
I took another sip, surprised, then a second that bordered on intentional. It wasn’t something that I would ever order on my own, but if somebody were to pour it for me at a party, I might not fake a cough and dump it into a plant.
And then there was dram number seven.
“Classic medicinal note,” Ethan said, inhaling dramatically, eyes closed in rapture. “Laphroaig vibes, but with more brine.”
Diaz took a cautious sniff and winced. “It’s giving . . . eau de burning rubber. But in a good way.”
Bennett chuckled low beside me, the sound rumbling through his chest. His knee stayed pressed to mine under the table, a steady, warm point of contact that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
“I’m getting a burnt Band-Aid odor,” he murmured, winking in my direction. “What about you?”
“Generational trauma,” I whispered back. “With a side of iodine.”
Ethan, meanwhile, was still holding court. “It’s all about the peat reek.”
“Reek?” Diaz repeated, amused. “Sounds like my gym bag after road trips.”
Ethan gave a tight smile. “It’s an acquired taste.”
Bennett lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Some things are worth acquiring. Others, not so much.”
The subtle dig sailed right over Ethan’s head, but I felt it land between my thighs. I hid a smile behind my glass.
Diaz, ever the peacemaker, turned to him with an easy smile. “What about you, man? What do you do?”
Ethan straightened, clearly glad for the spotlight. “Tech sales. Enterprise software. Six figures last year, looking at seven this year if the pipeline closes right.”
Diaz nodded politely. “Nice. High stress?”
“Rewarding stress,” Ethan corrected, launching into yet another monologue, this time about some deal he’d closed with a Fortune 500 company.
“You guys get it,” he said, glancing between Diaz and Bennett with a smirk.
“Big money, big pressure. Though, I guess the perks are different in your world. All the gorgeous cleat chasers? Must be nice having your pick.”
“Dude, unless one of those cleat chasers look like Chris Evans, I’m not interested.”
The air shifted.
“Oh,” Ethan said, a crease forming between his brows. “I didn’t realize— Wait, are you two on a date?”
Diaz barked a laugh, completely unfazed. “Nah, Benito’s not my type.”
“And why the hell not?” Bennett’s lips twitched, but he played along dryly.
“You’re too broody, mi pana.”
I snorted despite the tension. “He’s not wrong. Chris Evans has the whole golden-retriever energy thing on lock. You’re more reserved and . . . observant, like a . . .”
Bennett blinked. “A what?”
The answer came to me in an instant. “A Rottweiler.”
His brows lifted slowly, like he was considering whether to be offended or flattered. Then one corner of his mouth tipped up. “A Rottweiler,” he repeated, thoughtful. “Yeah, I can live with that.”
Diaz grinned. “She’s not wrong. You do look like you’d take a bite out of someone for touching what’s yours.”
Ethan let out a short, humorless laugh, drumming his fingers against the table. “Wow,” he said, eyes darting between us. “Is there something going on between the two of you.”
“No,” I said quickly—too quickly—even though my body very much disagreed.
Ethan’s jaw tightened, his smile stretching thin as the guide launched into the next pour. I stayed quiet at first, sipping water between samples, but when the guide mentioned a rare Japanese whiskey finished in Mizunara oak, I couldn’t help myself.
“Did you know that Mizunara imparts sandalwood and spice notes because of its high vanillin content? More than any American or European oak. It’s why the whiskies have that almost incense-like quality.”
The guide nodded enthusiastically. “Great observation.”
Ethan looked up at me, a frown on his face. “Why do you know that?”
I shrugged. “I saw it in a documentary and it just kind of stuck with me.”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about whiskey.”
“I don’t really.”
Ethan recovered, launching into a story about his last distillery tour, but I caught the edge in his voice. And from the sound of it, he was more annoyed by the idea of sharing the spotlight than he was with sharing me.
By the last pour, a cask-strength bourbon that could strip paint, Ethan was visibly irritated.
He had spent the whole tasting positioning himself as the expert, dropping terms like “angel’s share” and “cask strength” with smug confidence, clearly enjoying the guide’s nods and the little murmurs of approval from the group.
But any time I chimed in with some random fact I’d absorbed from a Netflix special or late-night Wikipedia spiral, his smile got a fraction tighter.
It wasn’t that I was trying to one-up him. I just . . . remembered random crap. Weird crap. The kind of obscure crap that popped into my head at the best or, in this case, worst moments.
Like how Mizunara oak takes over two hundred years to mature, or how some distilleries use dunnage warehouses because the damp earth floors help regulate humidity. Ethan hadn’t asked for my input, but the rest of our tour group seemed to appreciate my comments, and that clearly grated on him.
When I correctly identified the burn as ethanol heat from the high proof, rather than “spice” like Ethan kept insisting, he finally snapped.
“You know,” he grumbled, voice pitched loud enough for the entire room to hear. “It’s cute that you’ve got all these random facts memorized, but maybe you should let the people who actually drink this stuff talk?”
The table went quiet.
Diaz let out a low whistle. “Damn, man. That’s how you talk to your date?”
Ethan shrugged, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just saying, it’s a little . . . too much.”
His words hit me like a slap to the face. The lights suddenly felt too bright, the voices too loud, the air too thick.
There they were again—those infamous words.
Too much.
My hands went still in my lap; the words stuck in my throat as the familiar feeling crashed in. Bennett settled one of his hands on top of mine, almost as if he could sense I needed it. Even then, it wasn’t enough to stop my spiral.
“She’s adding to the conversation, asshole.” His voice came out garbled, like somebody underwater. Little did he know I was the one drowning. “You’re the one turning it into a pissing contest.”
Ethan flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but one look at Bennett’s expression shut him up fast. I exhaled, the tension in my chest easing a little, but still not enough.
I needed to get out of here. Quickly.
“I think I’m done for the night,” I said quietly.
Ethan grabbed my wrist to tug me back toward my seat as I half-stood to leave. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t be dramatic.”
Bennett was up in a flash.
“Take your fucking hands off her. Now.” His voice was downright lethal.
Ethan yanked his hand back and sputtered. “We’re on a date—”
“Not anymore,” Bennett said. He turned to me then, squatting down until his face was inches from mine. “You okay?”
I managed to nod, but my throat was tight. I could already feel the meltdown creeping in.
He read it on my face. “Want me to take you home?”
“My car—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I didn’t argue.
I was done trying to explain myself and pretending I was okay when the lights and noise and Ethan’s words were pressing in from every side. All I wanted was quiet. Bennett’s hand on mine had been an anchor, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the wave from pulling me under.
Ethan started to protest again, but Bennett didn’t even spare him a glance. His focus was entirely on me, eyes searching my face like he could see the storm building.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of here.”