Chapter 44
OLIVIA
Ethan’s father’s pick-up truck sped across the narrow road that cut through fields that looked like they’d been corn last season.
It was unseasonably warm. There’d be no chance of a white Christmas this year, although I’d been told those were rare here.
Plus, no one knew how to handle snow. A light dusting, Ethan said, and the town hunkered down like it was the apocalypse.
During the twenty-minute drive, I tried to remain on the defensive from him. He was being much too cocky about all this.
The road was tiny and his dad’s truck was huge, so each time a car passed going the opposite direction, I instinctively leaned away, sure we were going to sideswipe them. But it thankfully didn’t happen.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
We’d turned off the highway a while ago and seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.
“There,” he said, pointing to a group of buildings off in the distance. It looked like in might be some sort of farm, but there weren’t any fields or silos or barns. Just rows of tall, black warehouses.
I didn’t understand until we drove past a gate and under an elegant arched sign that read Daviess County Reserve. “Is this a bourbon distillery?”
“Yeah. Have you been to one before?”
I shook my head and peered out the window, looking at the identical buildings that were five stories tall with perfect columns of windows running along their length. Only one building looked different. I assumed that was where they housed the stills and offices.
Ethan parked in the empty lot in front of it, and when we got out of the truck, I raised my eyebrows at the distinct but not unpleasant smell.
“That’s the angel’s share,” he said. “Some bourbon evaporates from the barrel while it’s being aged.” He gestured to the front doors. “Come on. Brent’s waiting for us.”
“Brent?”
“He’s a friend from high school.” He said the word high funny, the hi long and drawn-out.
“High school?” I repeated. “What’s with your voice?”
He straightened, a scowl threatening his expression. “Sometimes that happens when I come back here.”
“Holy shit, a southern accent,” I said, thrilled. Sexy.
Brent met us in the lobby, which was upscale and masculine. Bourbon barrels had been reworked into tables with dark leather chairs seated around them. A large bar for tastings was on one side of the space and the gift shop on the other, featuring glass cases containing their most exclusive bottles.
Brent was stocky, with a bushy beard and thick eyebrows. He looked pleased to see his friend, and once introductions were done, he gestured for us to follow him. He wasn’t just the distillery manager, but the head tour guide.
He took us into the back, showing us the distillation process as we gazed at vats of mash and large copper stills.
He explained how the interior of the oak barrels were charred, and this was what gave bourbon its smoky flavor and caramel color.
Then we were led outside, across the lawn, and into one of the rickhouses where the barrels were stored.
Even though there was no heating system, the temperature was pleasant inside, and the ‘angel’s share’ smell was stronger too.
Rows upon rows of barrels were stacked in wooden racks, stretching up to the dark ceiling.
The wood plank floor was simple and unvarnished, the lighting sparse.
It was nothing more than caged lightbulbs hanging overhead at the end of each rack.
The rickhouse felt old. Like a labyrinth that had been built in a cave.
Beside the door, there was a barrel standing on its end and a small high top table. On the tabletop, three tiny, bell-shaped glasses had been set out, plus plastic cups that contained what seemed to be a chocolate bon-bon.
Brent used a rod-looking tool to extract some bourbon from the barrel and filled the glasses with the amber colored liquor. Just a finger’s worth for tasting.
I didn’t care that it was only ten in morning, I was too excited to try it.
The bourbon had a warm, oaky flavor, and I sipped it and nibbled on the chocolate while the men talked about what they’d been up to for the last eighteen years.
Of course, Ethan’s version was mostly vague half-truths.
Brent had no idea the guy he’d played high school ball with was a deadly CIA operative.
I smiled, glancing up at Ethan and tried to picture him as a gangly teenager in a basketball uniform. “Were you any good?”
“What he lacked in skill, he made up for in height,” Brent teased.
Ethan didn’t argue his friend’s assessment. He looked a little embarrassed, like he didn’t like my knowing he wasn’t great at everything he did. But that was real and just made me like him more.
When we finished our samples, Brent put away the whiskey thief, tossed the empty plastic dishes in the garbage, and gathered up the glasses.
“Okay, I’m going to let you two explore for a while.
” There was a strange smile tilting his lips.
“Just make sure you’re out of here before noon because I’ve got another tour.
The door will lock behind you when you leave.
” His smile widened into a shit-eating grin as he glanced at Ethan. “Y’all have fun.”
“Thanks, man.”
As they shook hands, I blinked back my surprise, my face turning warm.
Brent gave me a final look, all but winking at me, and then he was gone, the door thudding shut behind him.
I stared at Ethan with pure disbelief. “Did you, like, get his approval for us to fuck in here?”
“Does that bother you?” His smile was wicked. “He owed me a favor.”
Before I could say anything, he took my hand and pulled me deeper into the rickhouse, away from the windows.
Our footsteps creaked quietly across the wooden floor until we were surrounded by the tall, long walls of racks.
It was darker here, but there was still enough yellowy light to make out the different years marked on the barrel heads.
Ethan pulled to an abrupt stop, dropping my hand, and turned to face me. He braced his hands on his hips, showing off the lean sculpture of his frame, and gave me that intense look I craved. “I have to tell you something.”
My pulse picked up as I gave him a skeptical look. “You brought me in here to talk?”
“Among other things.” He wrapped an arm around me, one of his large hands settling on the small of my back and urging me forward until I was pressed against him.
His other hand found its way to that same spot, locking me in his embrace.
“I have plans, Olivia. Plans of getting you to tell me what I want to hear.”
“Spoken like a true CIA agent.”
He gave a smile that would please the devil.
My breath caught, and the irises of his eyes heated to inky pools, darker than black lava.
Oh, I didn’t have a chance in hell of resisting him, and I was sure he knew.
One of his hands slipped beneath the bottom of my sweater and the camisole I wore beneath it, touching the scarred skin there, before sliding toward my stomach.
His warm palm glided up, up, up . . . until it gripped my bra-covered breast. I moaned just as his mouth covered mine, his kiss passionate and uncontrolled.
Like there was no more need for restraint and no need to rush.
It was just us now, all alone in these stacks of bourbon.
“Do you want me?” he asked.
God, with every cell in my body. “Yes.”
“Why?”
I stared at him, unsure how to answer, but he continued to move.
He lifted the sweater and camisole together, peeling them up and working the fabric over the unsexy cast on my arm so he could drop them to the floor.
He used the pad of one fingertip to trace the edge of my bra, dragging it slowly across the cup of one breast, down the hollow between, and over the top of the other. Goosebumps burst across my arms.
“Because,” my breathing went shallow, “I . . . need you.”
No hesitation. “Why?”
His fingertip following the band around my body, and a moment later my bra went slack. He set his mouth in the crook of my neck, his unshaven face brushing over my bare skin, his lips following my bra’s descent.
I’d had just an ounce of bourbon, but I felt drunk. Dizzy. It grew in intensity when he bent me back over his arm and used his mouth to capture my nipple. My body responded to him immediately, tightening to a hard bud, and a soft whine escaped my lips.
The desire for him threatened to crush me into a million pieces. Just the soft pass of his lips over my skin and I was coming undone.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
My eyes fell closed. I tried to focus on the sensation and the fire burning hot inside me.
When my hands found wool beneath them, I gathered it up, pulling the shirt up his back, yanking it over his head.
He straightened and finished taking it off, turning to toss it away, and I saw the black stitches holding his wound closed.
Thank God that knife hadn’t taken him from me.
“Ethan,” I said, a half plea.
The feel of his warm skin against mine was erotic and dangerous. It was hurling me to the point of no return, and I was going to have to make my final stand. I wrapped my arms around him, trying to get as much contact as possible, my cheek pressed against his chest.
“You make me feel alive,” I whispered.
His hand slipped between us and captured my chin, tilting my face up to his, but I kept my eyes closed tight.
“Look at me,” he said. “I have a theory about why that is.”
I opened my eyes, his intensity drilling down into me, stealing the last of my breath.
“Maybe you lost a part of yourself on that mountain,” he said.
“And maybe I lost a piece of myself every time I had to take a life. So, on our own, we both feel half alive. Incomplete.” Those dark eyes swirled with real, raw emotion.
“But together, two halves . . .” His lips brushed mine, sparking.
Just a taste of the nuclear kiss between us. “Whole again.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “I love you.”
I surrendered completely. He wanted inside my heart, whether or not it was cold and lonely in there.