Epilogue
WINNIE
Ian sets three small glasses on the wooden tasting table like he’s arranging something delicate instead of pouring bourbon.
I watch his hands.
I’ll never get tired of looking at his hands.
The man has ridiculously competent hands. Calm. Precise. The kind of hands that know exactly where they’re going and don’t apologize for taking their time getting there.
Much to my benefit.
“Okay,” he says, sliding a glass toward me. “First rule. “You’re not allowed to shoot it.”
“I don’t even have a gun,” I joke.
The corner of Ian’s mouth turns up. I know he finds me funny. He just doesn’t like to admit it. He nods toward the first glass. “Start with the nose.”
Barrel is sprawled under the table at Ian’s feet like he owns the distillery. Traitor.
“The what?”
“The aroma of the bourbon. Smell it.”
“Oh good. You’re translating.”
I pick up the glass and swirl it just for funsies. Then I sniff.
And immediately cough.
Ian reaches over and gently lowers the glass. “Small sniffs,” he says. “Or you’ll punch your sinuses.”
My eyes are watering. “I feel like I got maced by Kentucky.”
That actually earns a quiet laugh from him.
It’s warm. Low. The kind of laugh that makes me want to hear it again just to see if it sounds the same twice.
“Don’t inhale it.”
“I never inhale.” I can’t help it. The joke was right there. But before he can respond, I add, “Okay, proceed with caution. Got it.” I lean in cautiously.
Okay. That’s…nice.
When I made my now infamous bourbon balls, I just poured. I didn’t taste any of the bourbon because I was still recovering from the mint juleps I drank the night before.
But it’s been two weeks since the Spring Fling and when I’m not working or meeting up with various clubs I’ve joined, I’ve spent every spare minute with Ian.
Usually naked.
Or cooking in his kitchen together.
Riding bikes together.
Working out.
Discovering all of the things we share in common in spite of our intrinsic differences.
“Vanilla?” I guess.
His eyes flicker with approval. “Good. What else?”
I sniff again. Now I want to pass the pop quiz with flying colors.
“Caramel. And… wood? Is wood a flavor?”
“It’s oak,” he says.
“That sounds better. This would go well with my award-winning second place bourbon balls.” Miss Bettie had taken back her crown and order had been restored. Though next year I might give her a run for her money.
“Those would go perfectly, you’re right.” He slides the second glass toward me. “This one’s a little older.”
“How old are we talking?”
“Seven years.”
“Still just a kid then. Not even old enough to drive.”
Ian laughs.
“I knew you thought I was funny,” I tell him.
“I think you’re hilarious actually,” he says mildly.
That’s a hell of a compliment from him. I preen, putting my hands under my chin and fluttering my eyelashes enthusiastically to annoy him.
He shakes his head at me, not taking the bait. “It’s our oldest batch. Got to start somewhere.”
I take a careful sip.
Warmth spreads slowly across my tongue, richer this time.
“Oh,” I say.
Ian leans his elbows on the table slightly. “Oh good or oh bad?”
“Oh like… oh.” I gesture vaguely. “That’s cozy.”
“Cozy?”
“Like sitting by a fire while someone attractive chops wood nearby.”
He nods in approval.
“Or like sex. Oh as in orgasm.”
Ian goes still and his eyes darken.
“Like the way warmth pools between my thighs when you look at me like you’re looking at me right now.”
“Damn, girl.” Ian clears his throat. “That’s a new tasting note.”
“Write it down,” I say. “Very scientific.”
“I don’t think I can use that in our advertising but I’ll keep it in mind in private.”
He slides the final glass forward, making a point of touching my arm, stroking his fingers down my flesh.
“This one’s special.”
“Special how?”
“It’s the batch we’re making for the festival next year.”
“Next year? I’m impressed. I don’t even know what I’m doing next week.”
He gives me a wicked smile. “I know exactly what you’re doing next week. Me.”
Ian’s flirting never fails to amuse me. I give him a wink. “Sounds like a busy week.”
“It’s Sunday. The week starts today.”
“Settle down,” I tell him. “I’m trying your very special bourbon right now.”
The amber liquid catches the afternoon light from the rick house window.
Dust floats lazily through the air. This is my first time in the rick house and it might be my favorite place.
The main distillery is too humid and Ian’s lab is very scientific and official.
I like it out here, in the fields, the char barrels stacked all around us.
I take a sip.
It’s smooth. Warm. A little sweet at the end. “Oh wow.”
Ian watches my reaction like it actually matters.
“What do you think?” he asks quietly.
“Spring,” I say.
His brow furrows. “Spring? So you can taste that?”
“Yeah. Like warm air after winter when you open a window for the first time.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods slowly. “Exactly.”
I set the glass down. “You’re just saying that because I compared your bourbon to burping your house after a long winter.”
“No,” he says. His voice is softer now. “I’m saying that because that’s exactly what I was going for. You get me, Winnie. Like no one before.”
“You get me too, Ian,” I say, heart swelling with feelings so big I don’t even know how to identify them yet. “Like no one else.”
Barrel suddenly lifts his head and thumps his tail against Ian’s boot.
Overwhelmed by what is sparking between Ian and I more and more each day, I reach down, flustered, and scratch behind Barrel’s ears automatically. “Do you want some head rubs?”
“Yes, definitely.” Ian smirks at me.
“I’m talking to the dog!”
“This time.”
“This time,” I agree. “Later on I’ll see what I can do for Hot Bourbon Guy.”
“You have no idea what you do to Hot Bourbon Guy.” His nostrils flare.
“I have a pretty good idea.”
Ian raises his glass of the special batch bourbon. “To spring. New beginnings.”
“To starting over.” We tap glasses together. “My new life in Wanted.”
“To us.”
Then Ian kisses me over the table.
And I’ve found home.