Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Haven
The tasting room at the distillery is quiet, but it’s ten minutes before closing. One couple is finishing their cocktails, and once they go, I can close the place up and head to town.
Lane’s in his office upstairs, but other than popping his head in to let me know he’s there, I haven’t seen him.
I check the time again. Almost ready to flip the sign.
The couple is laughing together, and usually, I don’t care how long past closing they stay, but today, I do.
Damn the consumption hour. I could’ve been outta here an hour ago and at a different bar.
Prescott is serving drinks at Bootleg Tavern tonight.
I missed her earlier when she stopped by to see the rescues. I was doing chores, then came home to clean up before going to the distillery, and I found a flat of canned kitten food by the tack room and fresh water in their bowls. They had all survived the night .
I barely had. Meadow whined and had to pee three times before I woke up for good. Then she was passed out when I left for chores. By the time I came back, I’d missed the photographer turned pet influencer turned bartender.
What color underwear is she wearing tonight?
I’m not going to find out if this couple doesn’t leave.
Lane pushes through the door from the distillery. He nods toward the couple and weaves through the tables and behind the bar. Coming to a stop next to me, he leans against the counter.
“How was tonight?” He crosses his arms. He was in Denver at Foster House’s main headquarters last week, and as usual, his hair is freshly trimmed.
His oldest brother, Myles, started the distillery and grew it into one of the dominant whiskey producers in the nation.
He’s been married with kids for years and lives a couple of hours west of us now, but Lane tries to emulate him while slowly taking over at the Denver site.
“There was a busy run a couple of hours ago.” I face away from the couple who will not leave. “Just waiting for them to go.”
He glances at me. “You’re not usually in a hurry to leave.”
I haven’t told anyone about Prescott Keys and the strays.
I’d sound like I’m talking about a girlie pop band.
Yet a part of me is bursting to tell someone.
Only because she’s new in town, sort of, and I’m a small-town guy.
The urge to gossip is strong. That’s all.
“I ran across this girl in the ditch by the curve to town.”
Surprise passes through his features. He grabs a rocks glass and the nearest bottle of apple whiskey. It was produced two years ago and aged until we dumped and bottled it two months ago. After pouring a finger, he lifts the glass. “Tell me about this ditch girl.”
The description doesn’t fit her. She was the most vibrant wildflower out there. And apparently I’m a fucking poet now. “She’s actually Silas’s daughter.”
His eyes fly wide. “Silas has kids?”
“He even yelled at me on the phone not to mess with her. I’m helping her with some strays she found, and he told me he’d hack my balls off if I touch her.”
“He says that all the time. We need to invite him out for castration. I think he misses it.” Lane takes another sip, his jaw moving as he rolls the whiskey around on his tongue.
“She’s working for him tonight, and I wanted to check in with her. Let her know the animals are doing okay.” As if she wasn’t at my place this morning.
“What’s her name?”
“Prescott Keys.”
His brows lift again. “I honestly thought he’d name a kid Mustang Sally or something like that.”
“I thought he’d name his kid after the bull who shattered his leg.”
“Maybe it’s her middle name. You wanna go see her?”
Yes. “I have to talk to her. That’s all.”
“Sure.”
I don’t react to his dubious response.
He gestures to the front door with his glass. “Go check it out. I can close.”
A thrill courses through me. “Yeah?”
“Dude, you’ve never wanted to leave early for a girl.”
I’ve never needed to. “It’s not like that. I’ve got three kittens and a puppy that she’s trying to find a home for. ”
He groans. “’Tis the season.” Shaking his head, he sets the glass down and smirks. “Go on. Git.”
I do just that. Within fifteen minutes, I’m parking in the dirt lot outside Bootleg. The run-down wooden building has stood the test of time. It looks like it should be condemned, but underneath the worn grime, it’s got good bones.
I step inside and give my eyes time to adjust to the darker interior. Outside, the sun is setting, but the sky is still blue. In here, the only light is from fluorescent brand signs and low-hanging lamps over the pool tables. By one of those tables is Prescott.
Her pale-green blouse stands out against the wood veneer of the walls.
It’s not paired with a skirt today, but brown slacks that hug her heart-shaped ass.
Her bright hair is pulled back in a thick French braid, the kind that sits above her hair instead of being woven in.
The style has a name, and I never cared to know it before now.
She’s still a wildflower, but no longer in a ditch.
Two guys flank her on either side, and one keeps sidestepping her as she tries to get around him.
That motherfucker.
I storm toward them, and when I’m a few steps away, one asshole tries to grab a stray curl. She clamps her hand on his and twists so quick and hard his arm bends at an unnatural angle. He nearly drops to his knees, catching himself on the edge of the pool table with his free arm.
“Shit, lady,” he cries. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Nice. I slow, but linger in case she needs a hand that she doesn’t have to twist.
“That’s right,” she coos. “I am a lady, and I’m working.” She releases him .
He shakes his arm, but I don’t sense rage coming from him. “Damn. What about when you’re not working?”
She sighs. “If you’ve got cowboy boots on, you’re off-limits.”
I look down at my clean pair of Tecovas. They’re the pair I wear when I’m in the tasting room. Damn.
“Because of boots?” The guy’s voice cracks.
“Because of all the lies that come with them.” She sidles around the man and stops when she sees me. “Haven.”
“Oh, hey. That’s my niece’s name,” the second man says.
“It’s a good one,” I reply without taking my attention from a flushed Prescott. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says lightly and continues to the bar.
“I thought I was going to have to step in there.”
She rounds the counter and spares a glance at the two guys who probably stared at her butt just like me.
“When I was younger, my mom trailed after Papa to all his rodeos. Being surrounded by so many men, she insisted I learn how to take care of myself. Ironically, there were plenty of guys around to teach me. Came in handy when I bartended through my college years.” She props her hands on her generous hips. “What can I get you?”
I slide onto a stool when what I really want to do is take a moment and thank Silas for teaching his girl some skills. Not only is she new in town, but her brand of loveliness will make her a bigger target as the night goes on and the alcohol flows. “Surprise me.”
Without missing a beat, she grabs the closest bottle. It happens to be a Foster House whiskey. The one I named.
“Nice choice.”
She holds it up and studies the label. “Foster House Gold,” she says flatly and slants her gaze toward me. “Haven’s Rye.”
“Foster House Gold is what we call the Huckleberry Springs facility. We make all the fun stuff. Foster House is in Denver, and they make the tried-and-true whiskey that lines the shelves.” My chest puffs out a little. “Haven’s Rye is one of mine.”
“I don’t like rye.” She gives me an almost apologetic smile. “I don’t like whiskey.”
“I can change that. If you want.”
She thinks for a moment, then presses her hands onto the counter and leans in. “Why would I want that?”
A smile twitches at my lips. “Because it can be quite enjoyable—as long as it’s not overdone.”
“Have you ever overdone your whiskey, Hennessy?” Her voice is almost a purr.
“Before I really knew about it, yeah. Now I respect it. It’s an art.”
“It’s whiskey,” she says flatly, but she can’t hide the interested light in her blue eyes.
“It’s an experience.” I bite back my grin. Prescott hasn’t responded to boasting, but I’m just giving her facts.
Unimpressed, she retrieves two glasses, giving them both a dubious once-over. “I told Papa he needs a dishwasher.”
“The dirty glassware only adds to the flavor.”
She throws her head back and laughs. My mouth goes dry. Her unrestrained reaction just makes me a hungry man. I want more—of her, of this chatting, and of that broad smile that lights up a dim bar.
She ends with a sigh. “It’s crazy how everyone lets Papa get away with doing whatever he wants.”
Is she happy the town has embraced the cantankerous former rodeo star since he moved back years ago? Or is she bitter? “He’s just Silas to us. A fixture in town.”
“Yeah. Exactly. Not all of us can make a living just being ourselves,” she mutters and splashes some rye whiskey into one glass and fills the other one nearly halfway. Then she purses her lips and eyes me before grabbing two small cubes of ice to plop in. She slides the fuller glass to me.
“How do you know I don’t like it neat?” I swirl my drink to get the ice melted a little.
“Oh, I think you do, Mr. Hennessy.” Fuck, that throaty voice goes straight to my dick. I take a drink just to pry my mind off the sultry sound. “But I also think you like it on the rocks.”
“I do. I’m not picky.” When she gets that detached expression again, the need to explain rises up. “Doesn’t mean I’m a big drinker.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Your expressions say a lot, Red, and that one said that you don’t like people who drink too much.”
“Most people have drunk too much a time or two. I don’t like people who choose a good time over their loved ones.”
That statement digs into me and takes root. “I don’t like people who choose themselves over people they should be caring for. So I guess we’re agreed.” I lift my drink in a mock toast.