Chapter 27 Finn
FINN
The stillroom smells different already. Where it used to be barley and the warm, damp smell of yeast, now there’s a sharp green edge from the herbs spread out on the benches.
Tilda’s untidy writing is scrawled on scraps of paper and Post-it notes, slapped onto jars and bottles.
It makes my head ache to look at it but she assures me we have to trust the process, so I’m letting chaos reign and, for once, loosening my grip.
I won’t lie, it’s an alarming experience. But Malcolm seems impressed, and I trust his nose over anyone else on the planet.
“So, you studied botany because your father was a scientist?” Malcolm says, running a gnarled finger down a list before stopping on a word.
Tilda nods. “Of course. I got to university and realised there was nothing in me that wanted to be a scientist. I’m the opposite of ordered.”
I give a snort of laughter and she turns, dark eyes meeting mine with a mischievous smile playing on her mouth. Her eyes catch the light, the brown shot through with gold streaks.
“What?” she asks innocently.
“Nothing at all.”
She cocks a cheeky brow at me, then turns back to look at Malcolm’s list.
“Lemon thyme.” She spins, brushing past me on her way to the door, so I catch a whiff of cut grass and the floral scent of her shampoo. I press my palm to my side to stop myself from reaching out to pull her into my arms and steal a kiss as she passes.
The days blur into a rhythm of work and laughter.
Georgia’s taken over the kitchen table, sketching labels and snapping photos.
Malcolm rigs up an old copper pot for test runs.
Tilda plants until her hands are ingrained with dirt that won’t come out, not even after a mis-spent hour in the shower with me.
She’s smudged with dirt from morning until night, carrying bunches of herbs from the gin garden between planting sessions, eager to help find the perfect blend.
The gardens have transformed – beds newly edged, the gravel paths bright underfoot.
The kitchen garden is bursting with fresh new growth and everywhere smells of fresh paint.
Georgia’s hung neat hand-made signs so nobody mistakes my office for the visitor toilets, and Malcolm’s even bought a new flat cap for inspection day.
As for the gin – despite Tilda’s enthusiasm – there’s no way we can offer tastes at this point.
Malcolm’s working on a botanical blend, but the first batch tastes like burnt marmalade and the second – where we experimented with a hint of seaweed – has a lingering mouthfeel that leaves us running for toothbrushes.
He sits hunched over Gordon’s notebook, tracing over the neat blue ink with a thumb as if he’s communing with a ghost.
Every time he adjusts – a little less heather, a sprig of lemon thyme – it edges a little closer to something that I’d be happy to give a Benruar label.
By mid-week the first run of spirit is cooling, and we’ve all become immune to the smell of juniper.
“We need a name,” Georgia says, joining us in the stillroom with her iPad under her arm, the white pencil tucked behind her ear.
“What’s wrong with Benruar Distillery?” I throw her a look as I take a note of the figures on the spirit hydrometer.
“For the gin.”
Malcolm looks up from the notebook, his expression distracted.
“Well, I can think of one.”
I lean back against the wall, folding my arms over my chest. “Go on?”
“Gordon’s Gin.” He gives an assertive nod, as if he’ll broach no argument. “I think we can all agree it would be a nice tribute to him.”
Tilda looks from me to Georgia. Georgia cocks her head as her mouth starts to twitch. Nobody says anything.
“I think—” Tilda begins, trying not to laugh.
“Gordon’s Gin?” My eyes meet Malcolm’s, and we wait a long moment for the penny to drop.
And then Malcolm’s shoulders start to shake, and a laugh seems to roll up from the depths of his chest, making Georgia giggle, and Tilda snort with amusement. We’re all doubled over, breathless with laughter and the hysteria that comes with weeks of stress and working too hard.
“I think we need a holiday,” Malcolm says finally, wiping his eyes.
Tilda wipes her eyes, cheeks flushed, and even I’m still grinning like an idiot.
“I think we might have bigger problems than battling Glen Mhor if we steal the name of the biggest gin brand in the world,” Georgia says, flicking open the iPad and scribbling something onto the notes app.
“Yeah, it’s a nice tribute, but I think we can take Gordon’s off the table.”
“He’d have chuckled at that,” Malcolm says, shaking his head as he looks at Tilda. She bites her lip, gaze distant. “You okay, lass?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice bright but a little unsteady. “We’ll find the right name. Something that’s ours.”
I catch her eye for a second as she pauses with her hand on the door. There’s something in the look on her face that makes me want to pull her into my arms and make her feel safe, but I let her go. Malcolm clears his throat meaningfully and Georgia starts scrutinising her iPad.
“I’ll just—” Tilda gestures vaguely towards the door.
“Wait.” I follow her out, catching up with her on the metal stairs overlooking the stillroom.
She turns, surprised, one hand on the rail. Below us the copper stills gleam in the afternoon light. The smell of juniper is hanging in the air, sharp and clean.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” She tucks a curl behind her ear, a nervous gesture I’ve come to recognise. “Just… thinking about my dad.”
I step closer but she doesn’t move away. Her back is against the railing, and I brace one hand against the metal beside her hip, caging her in place.
“He’d be proud of you,” I say quietly.
“How do you know?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“I just do.” I feel myself frowning, surprising myself with the words. “Trust me.” And then I bend to tip her chin up, kissing her rose pink mouth.
She pulls away, eyes on the door, flushed.
“Now get back to work.” I step away, thrown by what I’m feeling. “Those herbs won’t plant themselves.”
I watch her go, something in my chest contracting.
It doesn’t matter what I might be feeling – everything is heightened right now, and the truth is she’s going to be gone in a month.
I turn to look at the solid copper of the stills, unmoving and permanent.
The distillery will go on, and I have a promise to keep.
I need to remember that. If I start thinking about what happens when she leaves, I’ll lose focus entirely.
When the others drift off, long after their working hours have officially ended, I stay behind and take a second look at the stillroom.
I run a hand over the scarred wood of the bench, and I can almost see Fairfax and Gordon, heads close as they bend over the open pages, two ghosts who left us a legacy to carry forward.
Later that night, Malcolm pours a sample into a couple of glasses in the kitchen, passing one to me with a grave nod. The clear liquid catches the light.
“I think this might have legs.”
I raise my glass and take a sip, letting it roll on my tongue. It burns, rough at the edges but alive, and I feel a flicker of hope inside my chest.
Malcolm leaves around ten, satisfied with the blend. Georgia headed home hours ago. The house is quiet, save for the quiet snores of the dogs by the Aga.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, notebook open, working on some figures when I hear the soft click of the door opening.
Tilda’s head appears around the edge of the door, barefoot in an oversized T-shirt that skims her thighs. Her hair hangs in damp curls as she peers around the room.
“Have they gone?”
“Yep.” I close the notebook. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”
She shakes her head. “Wanted to have a shower and clear my head a bit.”
“You okay?”
“Much better, thanks. A shower always helps clear my head.”
She moves around the kitchen like she belongs here. She lifts the kettle from the Aga, finds a mug, then lifts another with a questioning quirk of her brow.
“Do you want some?”
I look at her steadily, feeling a smirk tugging the sides of my mouth. She leans against the worktop and meets my gaze, a teasing smile playing at her lips. Her T-shirt rides up her thighs as she leans back slightly.
“Tea,” she adds, all innocence.
The air between us goes thick. I push back from the table slowly, never breaking eye contact as I walk towards her, the smirk spreading across my face.
“I don’t,” I say as my hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back. I move her against the kitchen counter, and she makes a small sound that goes straight to my cock. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.
I shove the kettle aside and lift her onto the counter. She wraps her legs around me, pushing herself against me. I’m already hard and aching for her.
“Finn—” she gasps as my hips press forward, pinning her in place.
“You came down here for tea?” My hand slides up her leg, and my mouth finds the sensitive spot at the base of her neck. “Or did you maybe come down for this?”
“I might have.” Her breath hitches as I let my hand drift further upwards, my thumb tracing a line on the soft skin of her thigh. “Maybe both,” she says, her fingers catching in my hair.
She shifts on the worktop and my hand slides between her thighs to find she’s naked underneath the T-shirt. My brows raise as I look up at her.
“I don’t think you came down here looking for tea at all.”
She bites her lower lip as my hand finds her breast, the nipple hard, and begging for my mouth.
“Finn—” She’s tugging at my belt impatiently.
I lift my head and look at her. “Shh.” I kiss her hard, swallowing whatever she was going to say. My hand slides up between her thighs and she’s slick and ready. I groan against her mouth. “Christ, Tilda.”
“Please,” she whimpers, grinding against my hand.
“Please what?” I circle with my thumb, watching her eyes flutter closed. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Inside me. Now.”
I’m already unbuckling my belt, reaching with one hand for the silver packet I shoved in the back pocket earlier.
“You carry these on the off chance?”
I grin. “We knocked it off the table yesterday, so I shoved it in my pocket.”
“Right.” She tips her hips up, pushing against my hand.
“Demanding.” I laugh and curl two fingers inside her, making her gasp. “Hold on.”
I shove my jeans down enough to free my cock, and she catches her hands around my neck as I push inside her a second or two later, one slow deep thrust that makes us both groan.
“Fuck,” I breathe, forehead pressed against hers.
She’s hot and tight against me, her body clenching against me as she adjusts to the stretch. I give her a moment, kissing her slowly until she rocks her hips against me in silent demand.
“More,” she gasps.
I pull back and drive forward, harder this time. The counter creaks and the crockery behind her crashes but I don’t care. My hands grasp her hips, holding her steady as I move. She shifts her hips slightly and gives a moan of pleasure.
“Yes—” She throws her head back as I increase the rhythm, “God, yes, like that—”
“Look at me.” I catch her jaw, forcing her eyes to mine. “I want to see you when you come.”
Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted and swollen from my kisses. I force myself to focus and steady my pace, sliding one hand between us. Her body tenses as my fingers move in time with my thrusts.
I watch as her lips part and her breath goes jagged, her sounds muffled against my shoulder as she buries her face in my neck. I feel her pulse around me, drawing me deeper, and it’s too much. I follow her over the edge with a groan, spilling inside her as my hips jerk forward one last time.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard. Her legs are still wrapped around my waist, her fingers clinging onto my back.
“Well,” she says eventually, “that was better than tea.”
“Marginally.”
She swats me on the shoulder as I grin.
“You go upstairs,” I tell her, kissing her bare shoulder where the T-shirt has slipped down. “I’ll close up down here and then show you what else is better than tea.”
“Is that a promise?” She shuffles her bottom forwards, and I put my hands on the curve of her hips, helping her down.
“Something like that.” I watch as she heads for the door, turning to give me a coquettish look over her shoulder. “Or a threat,” I growl, making her laugh again.