Chapter 2 #3
“But not every whiskey is bourbon,” he finishes, and it has me noticing the way his scruff is meticulously groomed right at the jawline, and the black ink of a tattoo peeking out just below the neckline of his shirt.
I survey the things that make this man seem different from everyone else.
Rugged but polished around the edges. His hands are clean but callused, the kind of strong hands that have seen a hard day’s work, just not the kind this farm town is known for.
Large hands and corded forearms always seemed like a cliché attraction, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see what they would look like on me—touching, playing . . .
I clear my throat. What the hell was that?
“I know some bourbon boys. I’ve heard them recite those rules plenty of times,” he continues with a smirk. He isn’t posturing or trying to mansplain anything to me. And fuck, is that a turn-on.
A smile tugs at my lips as I pull out another few shot glasses—one to add to each of the flights I’m pouring, and then a clean shaker. “Whiskey, as you know, is a little different. Those differences are based on where it’s made and how it ends. Where I’m from, women know whiskey.”
He cuts in, “And where exactly is that?”
My eyes dart up, finding him looking at me in a way that’s sincere and not predatory, and it makes me want to answer truthfully. “Small town you’ve probably never heard of before.” I turn to Viv and ask, “What was that saying about the devil you're always spouting?”
Without missing a beat, she says, “The devil’s greatest power was making everyone believe she didn’t exist.” Of course, she gave me the wrong quote.
“Not that one,” I say, chuckling as she sticks a clove cigarette in her mouth and holds open her palm for me to pass her a book of matches.
Boss points at her without looking up. “Outside.”
She huffs, stands, and mumbles, “Asswipe.”
He flips her off.
I shake my head and focus back on Julian, who’s equally amused by the two of them. When he shifts his attention back to me, I correct the quote I was referring to. “What I was expecting her to say is that ‘the devil is in the details.’”
“Ah,” he says. “I’m very fond of details.” His eyes never leave mine.
A rush of confidence buzzes through me as he listens so intently, his weight shifting forward just slightly enough that it feels like he wants to be just a little closer. I clear my throat, trying to recall where the hell I was going with this. Whiskey, right.
“There are some whiskeys that are just as nuanced and need to follow strict rules, like bourbon. But even more so . . .” I pause, knowing I’m entering dangerous territory with this next fact. “Tennessee whiskey. All Tennessee whiskey is bourbon. But not all bourbon can be Tennessee whiskey.”
I pull my bottle from the middle shelf. Its logo, a fox head wrapped around the letter F, is prominent.
If anyone knows anything about expensive bottles, they’d assume I’m about to do a tasting with a two-hundred-dollar bottle of small-batch bourbon.
I recycled this one because Foxx Bourbon also made beautiful bottles for their delicious bourbon.
It didn’t get made in Tennessee and it didn’t get filtered through sugar maple charcoal.
But it’s my whiskey. I tied a piece of thyme and a dried vanilla bean around the neck of the bottle—the notes its drinkers will hopefully find as they taste.
Whiskey has stamina; it evolved and could change.
That’s the beauty of it. There are still rules if you’re going to make, bottle, and sell it.
But those rules gray out at the end for whiskey.
It has the luxury of being finished in all sorts of ways.
Time matters, but it doesn’t define it. And time is something that I have a lot of now.
I would’ve preferred it to happen in a barrel, but I’m not in any position to be particular.
“Typically, when people think of whiskey, they assume a bar like this would only offer Jack, Jim, or Johnny.” I smile as I grab the small kitchen torch and light it, pulling a few dried pieces of rosemary from the bouquet perched next to the rest of the garnishes.
I light each one, blow them out, and then place them beneath each of the turned-over rocks glasses we use as makeshift tasting glasses.
“But tasting flights are a great way to show off how much more is out there,” I say, sliding the first tasting toward Julian.
As the podcast plays in the background, my sister talks about the way flavors can be just as powerful when they’re smelled as when they’re tasted. It’s something we’ve talked about countless times.
“It’s all about manipulating the senses and tying those to things you’re familiar with,” she says.
“Which leads me into this next case, one that feels more about trust than deception. Countless women are subjected to this kind of behavior every day. While plenty of my listeners are men, this is a reminder for the ladies; the easiest way for someone to take your control is to manipulate your power to say no.”
I watch him tip the glass to his lips and take a small sniff first before sipping. Why do I find that so intensely sexy? I shift my weight and try to ignore the way my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I need to get a fucking grip.
Julian doesn’t bother covering his smile, whether it’s from watching me or the drink he just tasted. Regardless, a little spark of pride lights in my chest and turns into something much more arousing as it makes its way between my thighs.
A few customers hold up their glasses, and I hear, “Naomi, that’s some damn fine whiskey,” and “I’m going to need another pour of that one.” But it’s Julian’s hum after taking a second taste that has me preening. “Might have just tasted my new favorite thing.”
His words work their way into somewhere I didn’t know I needed. It feels better than the way everyone else compliments me. And I can’t seem to look away from him as he runs two fingers back and forth along his bottom lip. And quietly, almost to himself, he says, “So, she likes praise.”
All over again, my pulse quickens, my cheeks instantly warming, and I can’t help but search for a visual of what that would look like from him.
At the thought of all the ways he might praise me, what I’d do to earn more words that would make me feel something I haven’t given myself permission to feel before, I squeeze my thighs together.
“She likes tips too,” Viv interjects from her stool.
Boss chimes in, “Highest tip of the night earns a reading, too.”
Julian’s eyebrows raise. “Are we talking poems, tea leaves, tarot?”
“Palm,” I correct. I’m barely good at it, despite the efforts of the woman who taught me. If she saw me now, she’d swat at me and tell me to “take my time and do it right.”
He throws down a hundred-dollar bill. “Pour one this time for both of us, and I’ll let you tell me all about my future,” he says, keeping his eyes on me as he tips the glass back slowly.
I can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Let me? I think you mean, beg me,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “A hundred dollars seems pretty desperate, Julian.”
“I never mind a little bit of begging,” he says, tipping his empty glass toward him. “And yeah, I’m feeling pretty desperate.”
My stomach swoops and lips part as I try to decipher how I’m supposed to respond to that.
What would that look like? A man like him begging someone like me for what he wants?
Goosebumps run up my arms at the flash of such a dirty fantasy.
I glance at the abandoned ingredients and decide to shift back to the actual request.
“It doesn’t really work that way,” I say as I use a sharp knife to cut open a vanilla bean stalk.
Slicing the tip of the knife through the dark, paste-like insides, I swipe it along the edge of the glass.
I lift it to smell, close my eyes, and allow the savoriness of the thyme and sweetness of the vanilla bean to remind me of home.
When I open my eyes and find him watching me, it doesn’t make me uneasy—it does the opposite. It has me audibly exhaling.
“Don’t leave me on the edge of my seat like that, Naomi,” he teases. Leaning on his elbows, he says, “Tell me how it works, then.” The lilt of his voice is coaxing and calm, almost as smooth as the liquor I just poured.
The podcast episode fills in the blips of quiet, so I doubt anyone’s listening too closely.
I’ve been offered plenty of drinks from customers before, and while Boss says he doesn’t care, I’ve still never had one while working.
Until tonight. I pour two shots of the whiskey I infused into two rocks glasses, both with a swipe of the vanilla and thyme paste along its edge.
As I slide Julian his glass across the bar, he opens his hand, palm facing up.
Be brave.
Glancing down, I lean my weight onto the bar’s edge. “It depends on how much you’re willing to believe. Palmistry has deep conflicting origins, but it all derives from the assumption that fate exists, and that those fates, if interpreted correctly, can be adjusted.”
I run the tips of my fingers along the worn leather of the cuff on his wrist. It’s wide enough that it extends almost to the base of his palm.
“May I?” I ask, with my fingers lingering along its edges. I’d like to see the lines beneath it too.
His closed-mouth smile comes with a nod as I begin unsnapping its two gold buttons. “I like this,” I tell him, grazing my fingertips along its stitched edges.
“Made it a long time ago, but it’s still one of my favorites.”
“You made this?” It doesn’t look like a weekend craft project.
“This one too,” he says, pointing to the other wrist, and then running his fingers along the rings on his opposite hand. “And these.”
“Do you do this for a living?” I ask with a smile, and he nods. “You’re a?—”
“Jeweler, goldsmith, designer, among other things. But yes, I do this for a living,” he says with almost a shy smile, like there’s more he’s not saying.
“I would not have guessed that about you,” I say as I run my fingers across his open palm again. I don’t particularly need to touch him, but it would be a shame not to.
“What would you have guessed?” he asks. He glances down at where I’m touching.
Brushing two fingers along the width of his hand, I quietly say, “Something far more dangerous, morally gray. Until you started talking, you were very intimidating.”
He sniffs out a laugh. “You’re right; maybe you’re not very good at this telling-my-future thing.
” He starts to sit back, pulling his hand away to play with me, but I catch his wrist and pull him back toward the bar.
My smile falters as my eyes lock with his.
I guide his hand back to where it was and I brush my fingers from his wrist to his now extended palm.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he looks at where I’m touching. The playfulness of his attention seems suddenly more serious, more curious. This should feel like an innocent exchange, but there’s something about our closeness that seems quite the opposite.
“Your dominant hand is the path you’re on.
” I send a pointed look to the hand that’s holding his drink.
“While your nondominant is the path you were born to take. The way it was explained to me is that every line can have a meaning, but they can be interpreted differently. It’s not so much about telling you your future, but it’s about putting the possibilities into words and then interpreting them however you’d like. ”
He looks up at me, his gaze lingering on my lips again, and it feels like it’s struck a live wire. Any part of me that hadn’t already been aware of his proximity is well informed now. What is it about this man that makes me want to keep talking?
I look at the glass he’s palming, and with as much confidence as I can gather, I abandon the topic of palms and futures, and ask, “Do you like it?”
I watch him try to bite back a smile that feels loaded with more than just a simple yes or no.
And instead of words, he shifts even closer, moving the glass up to his mouth, presses it against his lips, and tilts it for another sip.
The small hum that rumbles from his throat makes my stomach swoop and instantly wets my panties.
I lick my lips. What would it feel like to kiss a stranger? I’ve never done that before, gotten lost in lust with someone I only just met.
He shifts his weight forward and leans into the bar, closer to me, his cheek nearly brushing mine as he quietly says, “You were right.”
I tilt my head to look at him, questioning what he might be referring to.
“It’s in the details,” he says, his words like a caress before he stands and steps back. With one last searing look at me, he pulls his phone from his back pocket as the vibration buzzes in his hand and quickly raises it to his ear.
Then, he’s grabbing his coat from the chair and moving toward the door.
I’m stuck in a daze, wondering if he’ll stop and turn, maybe even tell me he’ll be back.
He’s leaving so soon, seemingly out of nowhere.
I know that makes me seem eager, borderline pathetic for a woman in her mid-thirties, but truthfully, who the fuck cares?
It's been far too long since I’ve felt anything other than anxious or angry.
When he’s through the doors and headlights flit across the frosted front windows, I finally snap back to reality and step down the bar to fill another pint for Viv.
I glance at the spot where Julian had just been, and that’s when I see it.
Dark brown leather. The bracelet cuff that I’d taken off of him. He never put it back on.
I grab it off the bar as I move past and out the front double doors. Plumes of white opaque air puff out in front of me, with no sign of anyone except the few trucks parked and Viv’s horse standing, tethered to a post at the far end of the lot.
Looking down, I run my fingers along the soft, worn leather.
It’s one of those moments that feels like something is different now.
It’s a shaken-up and invigorating feeling of seeing myself as something other than the outlier, the victim, or the survivor.
I drape the leather along my left wrist and take in a deep breath, exhaling as I snap it closed.
Whatever that just was, attraction, connection, or just some conversation and flirtation with a perfect stranger, there’s been a shift within me, and damn, it feels good.