Chapter 6 #2
Jamison breezes in, and Iverson’s hot on her heels. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright. Neither of them appears guilty, despite what they were likely up to. That’s why I never look too hard for where my brothers are when their women are around.
Fingers of envy wrap around my throat.
Campbell lifts her drink in a salute. “To Iverson and Jamison, the one-night stand that started it all.”
“I don’t need to hear about my brother’s sex life,” Durban grumbles.
“It’s a good thing we were in here,” Campbell says, “or we would’ve heard it.”
“Campbell!” Jamison plants her hands on her hips, but she can’t hold her admonishing look. “You totally would’ve.”
Iverson’s satisfied grin helps me get over myself.
My brothers have found their partners, and they’re happy.
Guys like us weren’t raised to know what a solid marriage, or even a relationship, is supposed to look like.
Iverson might’ve figured it out eventually, Durban too, but Jamison and Campbell come from a good family.
Their parents are ambitious and supportive.
Christine and William Hawthorne might also be critical and smothering, but they provided a stable home.
How long will it last? Jamison hasn’t up and left Iverson after two kids, but my mom didn’t leave until after I was born. Isn’t he concerned? He’s the one who remembers it all. I was too young to recall more than the emotions of the time, but I’ve heard the stories.
A small group wanders in, dressed in loose hiking pants and trail shoes. I ditch the counter to take their order, and while I do, more people arrive. My time with Prescott is up. I’m a Hennessy first, and this distillery is my priority.
The pull to the bar counter is strong .
Durban tells Prescott about the vodka I poured for her to taste.
When I’m done making the cocktails and tasting flights and delivering them, Durban comes around the bar. “Give Prescott a tour. I got this.”
Any one of us could give her a tour, and I’m officially on duty, but I’ll take him up on his offer.
Prescott stacks her little empty vodka cups.
I clear them from in front of her. “Want a look around?”
Jamison spins toward Prescott, delighted. “You have to see the rest of the place. They kept so much of the mine’s character. It’s just gorgeous.”
“I might as well,” Prescott says almost shyly. “Since I’m here.”
Yes . “Follow me.”
The chatter from the tasting room dies down once we’re in the merch store.
“This is cute.” She dances her fingers along the brim of a charcoal-gray hat with a faded yellow Foster House logo. She snatches her hand back. “Sorry.”
“Why?”
“Touching the merchandise.”
“I’ll tell you what you can’t touch, and it’s not that long of a list,” I say with a grin.
No reaction. “So. The tour?”
Shit. Right. She’s not here to date anyone. But now she’s in front of me, and my gaze drops right to her ass. Firm and round. Fuck. The way her hips flare? Nothing but a tease.
“Where are we going?” She twists to look at me over her shoulder .
I jerk my stare up. “Straight ahead. If you find yourself next to a boiling tank, you’re exactly where I want you.”
“That sounds sinister. I like your whiskey charm better.”
I bite back a smile and trot to fall in step beside her. “This is where the magic happens. From the bags of grain stacked along the far wall to the big round tanks—our mash tuns—to the tall stills.”
“And that’s the magic bubbling inside?” She doesn’t get close to the edge, but rises on her tiptoes.
“You know the old saying—when the yeast is farting, the money’s pouring in.”
She smiles. “That doesn’t have a smooth ring.”
“Probably why Myles didn’t have it put on a hat. Go ahead. Have a sniff.”
She creeps closer and inhales. “It’s a little bready. Definitely yeasty.” She tips her head like she’s concentrating. “A little fruity.”
“Yep. It’s almost ready for the next phase, which is what we’re all about. Distillation.”
“And the stills?” She cranes her head up, following the tall still closest to the pipes lining the space over our heads. “They’re really pretty. It’s like someone picked them to match the rock on the exterior so well.”
Pride fills me. Of course I want people who tour Foster House Gold to be in awe, but it means more that she is.
“This is my favorite spot. It seems like it should be loud, but when no one’s in here, it’s quiet.
Everything’s working hard, product is being made, but it’s not a loud process. Just the noise of a big room.”
“I don’t like the quiet,” she says softly, her gaze stroking across the piping above us.
“Why not?” I ask just as gently .
“Home was quiet, and I could hear Mom crying.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
She gives her head a shake, forcing a smile. “No, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Mine’s the opposite,” I say gruffly, giving her something in return.
A part of me I’ve never told anyone. “I was young when my dad died, but a house with three boys isn’t quiet.
Still, it was normal.” Her focus is on me, but I can’t meet her eyes and talk about this.
“Then he died, and we were sent to a foster home. It’s how we met Myles. ”
“Myles Foster? The guy behind Foster House?” she asks, surprised.
I nod. “We were only there a little over two months before the social workers tracked our mom down, but we lucked out. The Bailey home was a damn good place to be a foster kid.” I pause as the memory passes through me, carrying all the emotions with it—fear.
Awareness from all those faces looking at me.
Uncertainty. Overwhelming sadness. “Then we went to live with our mom, and when it wasn’t quiet, it was…
” How do I explain it? Uncertain? Scary? Unstable?
Her warm fingers twine with mine. “Haven.”
I give myself a shake, but I clutch her hand tighter. “I like the quiet, and you like the noise.”
“Utterly incompatible.”
“Totally. Too bad we share three cats and a dog.”
She laughs and extracts her hand from mine. “What’s behind these monsters?”
My fingers tingle where she touched them. “The production line. We bring in a barrel from the rickhouse, dump it, and it gets filtered before getting bottled.”
“It’s…small.”
I clutch my chest. “Ouch. Red. ”
I’m rewarded with more laughter. “It doesn’t need much to get the job done.”
I wink at her. “It goes as fast or slow as needed.”
She rolls her eyes. “I hate to cut the tour short, but I promised Papa that I’d work a shift tonight. This is the busiest summer he’s ever had.” She snaps her fingers. “I forgot to tell you—I saved enough tip money to get a vet checkup for them all.”
“Bootleg is really coming through for you.”
“Papa gives me his tips.” She shrugs. “I shouldn’t take it, but he insists, and I like thinking he cares about me.”
“He does. He almost ran me out the other night.”
The corner of her mouth tips up. “He has his moments, and I guess I’m not used to that.”
“Can I ask you something?” My curiosity about her chews away at me. Why is it never enough when I’m around her?
“Can’t promise I’ll answer.”
This girl is guarded. “Did something happen between you and him?”
She drags in a deep breath. “I’m inclined to say nothing happened. When he was around, I felt like I had to compete for his attention, but it was nothing like what my mom went through with him. And I guess it’s been hard to forgive him for that.”
“They’re divorced?”
“That’s two questions, Hennessy.” She falls quiet for a moment. “No. They never married. After years of Mom trying to get him to choose her over riding bulls, she gave up. She kept hoping that he’d come back for her. He never did. I didn’t see him much after that.”
“The quiet?” The crying.
“Yeah.” She forces a bright smile. “He didn’t have to let me come live with him or work at the bar. Amazingly, I make more than a lot of other part-time jobs I’ve had. Besides, it’s amusing to watch him meticulously count out the ones for me at the end of the night.”
Again, since she’s sharing, I’ll give her something. A good memory. “My dad used to love breaking a five-dollar bill into five ones and splitting it with all of us. We felt like kings.” I suck in a breath and hold it. I haven’t thought about that since I was a kid.
“That’s really sweet.” She wets her lower lip, and the simmering desire surges inside of me. “I think you’re really sweet too.”
She said it almost sadly, like it’s an unfortunate finding.
I don’t want to end on a down note. “And smooth like Butter Barrel?”
“You’re definitely smooth, Hennessy, but I think you might burn my palate.”