Chapter 7 #2
I swallowed hard. The clock was ticking.
Fifteen minutes early. On time in Myles’s world.
I couldn’t waste much more. I got out and rushed to the door.
Instead of a loose top that could get twisted around my torso and flash my belly button at Myles, I had on a tighter-fitting pink shirt and a pair of white linen pants.
I’d almost put on a yellow shirt, but then I’d find myself leading tours with the other Foster House staff.
Inside, Myles was chatting with Braxton, leaning against the front desk, one hand in his pocket. Long and lean, he wore another shade of gray slacks and white shirt. His cuffs were already rolled up.
“Morning,” I said to him like it was a normal day, and I hadn’t slept on his office couch. “Hey, Braxton.”
“Ms. Kerrigan,” Braxton greeted, more official around his boss.
Myles’s sharp gaze stroked down my body and back up, centering on my eyes. Could he tell I’d been crying?
“Did I miss pajama day again?” I asked to distract him.
“We’re doing a tasting.” He pushed off the counter.
“We’re doing the tasting?” I tugged my tote bag over my shoulder.
He didn’t rush off this time, but waited for me to stop in front of him. “We’re participating. Did you eat?”
I nodded. “Ham sandwich with grapes and a bag of chips.” I eyed him. “You know ham? It’s a fatty portion of pork people cure and enjoy as a deli cut or in roast form?” I didn’t look at Braxton. The poor guy would die if I made him laugh at Myles’s expense.
Myles frowned. “I eat ham.”
“Do you?”
Humor lit his eyes, and I was tempted to pump my fist in the air. He’d gotten my joke and thought it was funny. He turned to Braxton. “In case I don’t see you before you leave, have a good night.”
“Night, boss. Enjoy the tasting, Ms. Kerrigan. It’s a real treat.”
Braxton’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Show me your stuff,” I said to my boss.
His gaze stayed on me a beat too long before he tore it away and strode toward the tasting room on the second floor behind the merchandise selection.
Five people were lined up at the bar. Two couples and an older man. At least two different tours were going on. Friday and Saturday afternoons were the highest-traffic times at Foster House.
The older man behind the bar was Shelly. He grinned when he saw us approach.
“Now the whole crew’s here.” He didn’t introduce Myles but launched into an introduction to whiskey, flavor profiles, and what smelling the product could do for you. “All right now. Hold your hands out.”
We did as he asked, and he poured a couple drops of a clear fluid into our hands. I loved this part.
“Now clap your hands and breathe in. Don’t smell your hands, or you’ll be going home with burned nostrils.
” He clapped. “White dog is the whiskey right out of the still. It’s got no color since it hasn’t been in the barrel.
We won’t know what the finished product will taste like, but we can still tell a lot about what’s going on. Now clap again and breathe.”
Myles gave his hands a brisk rub and clapped.
“This is a strong one,” I murmured, closing my eyes. “Mm, barley. Is that…” I took another breath. “Fruit?” I opened my eyes and met Myles’s gaze. Copper Summit didn’t work with fruit in the mash after one disastrous fermentation.
“Peach,” he said, his voice thick. “I thought it’d go well with the caramelization from the barrel.”
“Yes,” I whispered to keep from disrupting the group peppering Shelly with questions about the various smells. “With the charring? Like boozy grilled peaches.”
Satisfaction entered his gaze. “That was exactly how I sold it to Ellie.”
“You had to convince her?” He was the boss, but he didn’t throw his weight around.
“I defer to her expertise, or I wouldn’t have hired her. If she thought it wouldn’t work…” He lifted a shoulder, and his lips twitched. “I would’ve had her do a small batch anyway.”
I laughed. “This is going to make a good honey barrel.”
“A unique single batch, yes. Seasonal.”
I inhaled again and let the memories of Daddy quizzing me about what I could tell from white dog roll over me. Tears burned behind my eyes again.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
So he’d noticed I’d been crying when I had arrived. “I talked to my daddy before I got here.”
“I’m sorry.” He touched my elbow. Shocked, I looked down. Skin-on-skin contact. The rough tips of his fingers were warm. I licked my bottom lip, my mouth dry. He was riveted on my tongue, like a bird of prey.
Shot glasses with amber fluid were slid in front of us, followed by clear glasses of water. He released me and faced forward, head down.
The spot he’d been touching was cold without him, like he’d taken all my body heat with him.
He was probably a furnace in bed.
I turned my attention forward and went through the motions of sampling the whiskey with different amounts of water.
“How do you prefer it?” Myles asked, stilted, like he was afraid to talk.
“For tastings, I like neat. Otherwise how do you know what’ll work well with it in a cocktail?”
He slid his bright gaze toward me. “You’re into mixology?”
How else was a girl raised in a rural bourbon empire supposed to pass the time when she wasn’t stalking a man from her past?
“It’s a hobby. My sister is a whiz with pairing flavors, and we liked to play around.
” An understatement. Our recipes were made and sold at the distillery’s bar in Bourbon Canyon.
“At the bar in town, she used to send the bartender recipes to try, and he’d keep some on the menu.
We are determined to bring bourbon back.
” I hadn’t had enough to drink to loosen my lips.
For a man with a million walls, he was easy to talk to. He listened. I liked that.
“Bourbon?” Shelly made his way down to us. He rested his hands on the counter. “We appreciate a good bourbon around here, don’t we, boss?” He lowered his voice to keep Myles from being outed.
“I respect a good bourbon,” Myles agreed.
Shelly smiled at me. “Apologies for the stereotype, Ms. Kerrigan. I’m not used to the young ones choosing bourbon over whiskey.”
“Bourbon’s making a comeback. One Kerrigan at a time.” Another of Daddy’s sayings.
“That’s what I like to hear. If only I could tell you where the really good stuff is hidden around here.” Shelly’s brown eyes twinkled.
I pretended to think. “Hmm… Could it be the lineup of bottles in a certain office on the fourth floor?”
Shelly put a finger to the side of his nose, winked at Myles, and went to chat with the other guests.
“The really good stuff?” I asked Myles.
“I’m not a big drinker, so when I imbibe, I want to drink the best.” He leaned to the side, our shoulders bumping. He was such a solid wall, I could wrap myself around his arm, tuck into his side, and stay warm in the strongest AC the building could pump out. “And keep track of the competition.”
My insides were quivering, but I acted unaffected by his proximity. “I knew I spotted other labels in that lineup.” There were five Copper Summit bottles, all over half empty.
“For work purposes only.”
“Mm.”
He threw back his shot and pushed the glass to the edge of the counter. I did the same with mine. The smooth flavor burned down my throat, a familiar sensation. His pupils dilated.
He slid his eyes closed and swallowed. When he opened them, his irises were a cooler blue. “Would it surprise you that there’s straight moonshine with food coloring posing as whiskey on that shelf?”
At first I was startled, but I didn’t need long for it to make sense. I put my elbow on the bar top and propped my head in my hand. “I bet you take a shot every now and then to keep in mind what cheap alcohol tastes like.”
I knew where he’d gotten that habit from.
“I haven’t had a skunk drink for a long time.”
“Skunk? Isn’t that beer?”
“Works for shit whiskey, though, doesn’t it? Makes your eyes water, and after a night of drinking it, you need a powerful bath.”
His mouth spread into a grin, and he laughed.
I drew in a slow breath, afraid to burn my retinas as badly as sniffing straight white dog would burn my nose.
A smiling Myles was devastating. His eyes crinkled, and his teeth were white, with sharp canines and a hint of unevenness that made him approachable.
Attainable even. His laugh was deep and should be bottled up and sold for millions.
I giggled with him, giddy on rampant hormones. That smile of his made Braxton’s enthusiasm seem dim, yet it could also melt my underwear right off.
If I didn’t slip them off and throw them at him like he was a famous rock star first.
“You’re staring, Ms. Kerrigan.”
“You’re smiling. Pajama day and comedy night?” I shook my head. “I wasn’t prepared.”
Another chuckle escaped him, like the plug had been pulled, and he couldn’t help it. Shelly glanced over, looking almost as stunned as I felt.
“Would you like to do more sampling in my office, Ms. Kerrigan?” Myles asked.
“Give me your best and your worst, Mr. Foster.”
Myles
Sampling the variety of whiskeys and bourbons in my office had been a bad fucking idea.
I was laughing and pouring Ms. Kerrigan shots. She was funny, dogging on the cheaper whiskeys, but unafraid to try whatever I poured.
“My sister would say the best thing to go with that is the trash can.” She shuddered and opened her mouth as if to blow off the fumes like a dragon. “Seriously, that stuff could make you go blind.”
“Nah, they make it that bad on purpose. I met the owner. He makes his profits with the fast turnaround and cheap sales. Quantity over quality.”
“I’m sure his doors stay open.”
“It’s cheaper than buying lighter fluid and just as effective.”
She laughed a tinkling sound that made me smile. She wiggled her fingers toward a half-empty bottle of some of the best bourbon I’d ever had the pleasure to taste. I savored a drink every now and then. “I haven’t had Wynter Summit in forever.”