Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Durban
I walk into the distillery. It’s closed to the public on Mondays, but the guys and I still work. So do Clem and Edna. It’s only been a couple of days since Campbell asked for a time to host a tasting for the bride and groom, but I’d rather get it over with.
Doing the tasting sooner also means that I’ll see Campbell sooner.
Clem’s at the front desk. Her lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.
She must be practicing her tour speeches.
The guys and I used to take turns with them, but Lane and Cruz are continuing to shuttle between here and the main site in Denver, Iverson has a growing family, and I’m not sure what Haven’s issue is.
My tour assignments must’ve been cut due to my not-so-resting dick face.
How did she read me that easily?
My morning jack-off sessions should’ve stopped while working with Campbell.
Instead, need rides me hard. My sessions have been lightning quick, and I quit fighting the images rising in my mind of gray eyes and full hips.
Fantasies don’t mean a thing, and they do the job.
Smart women have always been a thing for me.
I need to get a hold of myself. I’m the logical one. Campbell and I have to work together for the next month, and I have to have some blood in my brain when I’m on duty.
Clem glances up as I pass. She has her dark hair in what Jamison calls space buns. “Hey, Durban. Iverson’s looking for you.”
“Did he say what he wants?”
She shrinks back. “No. Sorry?”
What the hell? I take out my phone and turn the camera on, flipping it around so I can see myself. My mustache makes my mouth look like it’s a flat line, and my dark eyes glitter in the lights pouring through the windows over the entrance. I look pissed. “I’m not upset.”
“Okay?”
Goddammit. “I’ve heard I can look . . . insulting.”
She ticks a brow up, and for the first time, I get a glimpse of the real Clem, the one I see joking around with Edna, our bookkeeper. “Do you need a shirt that says, ‘I’m sorry for what my expression says’?”
I bark out a laugh. Apparently, there’s something to what Campbell said. I say a lot that I’m not aware of. “Get me one in a few different colors.”
Her grin is the widest I’ve ever seen. “Will do, boss.”
Shaking my head, I enter the distilling area.
The smell of warm grains surrounds me. Open tanks of mash bubble away.
Overall, it’s smaller than the main headquarters outside of Denver, but we make smaller batches too, and multiple spirits.
We don’t have the distribution needs either, so fewer trucks have to navigate the winding highway here.
Iverson is at the tanks, Kasey sitting on a stool next to him, swinging her legs and holding a clipboard. She’s scribbling on it like she’s logging important data.
“Hiya, Uncle Durban.”
I muss her hair. “Keeping him in line, little one?”
She nods. “I’m doing what Mama told me.”
Iverson turns from where he’s monitoring the water fill for a new mash.
“Durban, I know you have the wedding bull—uh, business, but can you cover chores for me if Jamison delivers early? Haven said he can help too. We’re trying to get everything figured out, since this wedding is going to take up any grandparent help we usually get. ”
“Of course. Everything okay?”
He brushes a hand across the back of his forehead. His scruff is shaggier than usual, like he’s rushed out of the house after getting Kacey ready, but not himself. “It’s fine as long as her blood pressure is. She’s working from home a lot so she can have her legs up.”
I can see the circles under his eyes. Excitement simmers in his dark irises, but he’s also worried.
And stressed. “Christine doesn’t care if she’ll miss the wedding,” he continues.
“She wants to support Campbell, but you know how it is. Campbell might get blamed if her parents aren’t at the wedding party’s beck and call. ”
“Auntie Campbell’s fun.” Kasey kicks her feet against the stool.
Auntie Campbell won’t be having a lot of fun these next four weeks. “I have the tasting in an hour, then I can do whatever needs to be done here so you can cut out early.”
Iverson scratches the side of his cheek and looks around. “Do you mind getting Kacey a snack?”
“Sure. Oh—I have a couple mash bills I can send you too.” Formulas for new recipes we can try. “And I found some other companies that do small-barrel aging successfully.”
“Yeah, sure. We’re planned out for the year, but go ahead. Send me what you’ve got.”
I clamp down on my tongue. This place has a lot of cooks in the kitchen.
Lane and Cruz could each run the distilling side, not just the business end, but Iverson has taken to distilling like it’d been his calling his entire life and not wrangling cattle.
I don’t want to ruin that for him, and I definitely don’t want him to feel like his role at Foster House is slipping because he’s growing a family.
Iverson and Lane function more like supervisors—Lane on the company end, and Iverson on the distilling side.
But that all leaves me feeling like I’m asking for permission, not collaborating.
“Come on, kiddo.” I hold out my hand to Kacey. I’m not putting pressure on Iverson when he’s already under stress. “I’ll make you a Shirley Temple while I’m getting the tasting room ready.”
She climbs down from the stool, and I bring that with me too, setting it by the standing desk and computers we use to log our times and temperatures.
I unlock the tasting room and usher her inside. We’re greeted by clean finishes that match the timber-and-steel look on the outside. Large windows face the parking lot and the rickhouse adjacent to the main building.
She scurries toward the bar and yanks a barstool out. Clambering onto it, she slaps her clipboard onto the top of the counter. There are drawings of . . . cats? A dog? A tick? It’s round and has four legs sticking out from various points around its body.
“Want a cherry?” I ask, getting a special plastic cup we store for her.
“Three,” she says with a toothy smile.
I fill her cup with Sprite and grenadine and plop in five cherries. She giggles.
“That’s why I’m your favorite uncle,” I tease.
It’s not true. Haven’s the fun uncle. He swings her around while I avoid nursemaid elbow.
He gives her endless refills of Shirley Temples while I cut her off at two.
She could murder someone, and he’d make it a game to hide the body.
I’m more likely to teach her about different soil types and how long body decomposition takes.
She draws more . . . creatures . . . while I dig out bottles of our gin, vodka, and whiskey. While she’s occupied, I’ll work on the menu for each bar we’re providing at the wedding.
I take out the notepad where I like to scribble mixology notes.
So far, I’ve stuck to common cocktails for each spirit.
For whiskey, we’ll offer a Manhattan and an old-fashioned, then our spin on some classics, like a mint julep with cherry liqueur and our own whiskey-infused cherries. Definitely not the ones I gave Kacey.
I drop three more regular maraschino cherries into her glass.
She digs them out. “Can I have more?” she asks around a mouthful.
“Let me get you some crackers instead.” I dig into the cupboard where we keep a stash for her. “Want a beef stick with cheese?”
She nods, and I prepare a preschooler charcuterie board for her, complete with two more cherries.
The door opens, and Campbell breezes in on a gust of huckleberry and sunshine air. Her hair is pulled off her face in a loose braid, and when she grins at Kacey, my heart rams into my ribs.
“Kacey!” Campbell barks out like she’s at a football game.
Kacey launches herself off the stool and sprints for her aunt. “Auntie Campbell!”
Campbell swings her around.
“Careful, or you’ll be wearing her Shirley Temple,” I caution.
Campbell’s smile dips. “I’m not going to get her dizzy.”
She thinks I’m chastising her again. “I’ve been doling out cherries like parade candy. Just giving you a warning.”
“Lots,” Kacey happily replies.
“Just know how you don’t like vomit on your clothing and hair.” I can’t help myself.
Campbell’s sharp inhale resonates between us. Her eyes flash daggers, and I don’t bother to hold back my grin. She narrows her gaze. “I’m going to swing her around a few times and hand her off to her uncle.”
“Haven’s not here yet.”
Finally, she cracks a smile. “He’d probably finish off the jar with her.”
“Can we?” Kacey asks.
“Definitely not,” I say. “Want a Shirley Temple, Campbell? Or the real thing?”
“Just what would that be?” She’s led to the bar by Kacey.
“Dirty Shirley.” I grab another glass. She won’t go for any alcohol. I might’ve assumed that before, but I’m getting to know her better. I want to know more.
“A regular Shirley is fine.” She slides onto a stool and helps Kacey onto hers.
“Can I have a Dirty Shirley?” Kacey asks.
“Not for many more years.” I add a splash of Sprite to her cup and fill up Campbell’s.
“I’ll have what she’s having.” Campbell inspects her niece’s little plate of cut-up beef and cheese sticks. “Is that Hennessy beef? Or Foster? Do you all ranch together too?”
“My brothers and I are separate from the Fosters.” I slide her drink in front of her.
She got three cherries too. “The three of us built on Hennessy land, so we just fenced it off and split the duties between the three of us.” We surround the mine on three sides.
Lane and Cruz bought land on the other side of the highway that passes our land.
“I bet that helps at times like this when babies are due.” She plucks a cherry and puts the whole thing in her mouth, stem and all. Is she going to eat it?
“Yep.” I continue collecting bottles from the shelves behind the bar for the cocktail sampling.
I squat to grab the cranberry juice out of the fridge. When I rise, Campbell’s setting a perfectly tied cherry stem on the napkin by her glass.