Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wyn
The in-flight time was quick, and the minute we step foot outside, my mouth tics up at the side as I close my eyes and inhale.
“Where did you say we are again?” I ask, looking around at the flat landscape.
“I didn’t,” he says, grabbing my hand and kissing the back of it. “I wanted to surprise you. Friends of mine and of my family’s for generations.”
“You brought me to a distillery.” I smile as I look out the window toward the Foxx Bourbon Distillery.
“I brought you to a distillery,” he echoes back, watching me as I take it all in.
I’ve never been, but I’ve read plenty of articles that spoke of Fiasco always smelling sweet—the sugars that are cooked and settle into the air when the corn, rye, and barley mix together for their bourbon’s mash.
Today, it smells a little too sweet. I prefer the savory twinge that lingers in the air around Rumor.
The property is expansive, with the main distillery at the center and multiple rickhouses peppered throughout the property in the distance. The very recognizable brand logo sits prominently above the door to the distillery—a black, wrought-iron letter F with a fox head wrapped around it.
“This is what you wanted to show me?” I ask as we walk inside. “I thought you were going to romance me or something, but this?” My eyes water slightly; this was more than just impressing a girl or a weekend to meet friends.
“Just trying to get you to fall in love with me,” he says, pulling my hand to his mouth, turning it over, and kissing my palm.
“It’s working,” I say quietly, as I look at him. He keeps surprising me in ways I don’t anticipate.
He smiles at me as he looks up and towards the crowd gathered around a tour guide.
“Thought you might want a tour.” He waves at a tall, broad man wearing glasses, who’s already walking toward us. “And to talk a little bit about distilling with their master distiller, trade some secrets, or equations, whatever it is you do.”
He squeezes my hand as the man stops in front of us in his Foxx Bourbon polo and a pair of dark slacks. With his hand out for Julian to shake, he says, “Julian, my brother said I should make myself available to show you and your friend around.” He gives me a warm smile.
“Lincoln Foxx, I’d like you to meet Dr. Wynona Crowne,” Julian says.
“Her family has a small whiskey distillery down in Rumor, Tennessee. She talks about making whiskey the same way you do about bourbon. Thought it would be convenient to put you two in the same room for a little while to talk shop while I tie some things up with Ace.”
“I looked you up, Dr. Crowne,” he says to me.
Most of the articles that come up with my name are around my work, but a few are peppered in about when I was missing.
“Organic chemistry and a pretty damn impressive résumé,” he says, relieving my worry instantly.
“Please tell me you have something wickedly brilliant to tell me that you’ve discovered about a new distilling process. "
I shift my hands into the pockets of my long skirt.
The cropped T-shirt I’m wearing hits just at the waist, only showing a slip of skin when I move to shake his hand.
It’s an almost perfect blend of what feels comfortable and makes me feel confident.
My shirt reads The Whispering Fool across the front, and my chartreuse Louboutin pumps are the perfect pop of color to offset the basic black skirt and white shirt.
I had no idea where we were going, so I curled my hair at the ends, twisted and pinned it in the front to keep it out of my face.
Standing in this place, dressed like this, with Julian at my side, I feel damn good.
“I’m not operating at any real scale compared to here.
It’s mostly been a hobby for me. I’m in Tennessee, which means to make true Tennessee whiskey, my waiting time is just as strict as yours.
I’ve been having fun merging different types of finishing barrels for the whiskey I’m too impatient to wait for. ”
“I can understand that,” he says, slinging his hands in his pockets. “Anything worth sharing notes about?”
I nod. “There’s a small spot in town that brings in classic cola for a lot of our particular old-timers,” I say, smiling, thinking about the way people love the cola at Moonie’s. “Anyway, not important, but the cola syrup arrives in small barrels before it’s cut with soda water.”
“My mouth is watering thinking about it. How’d it come out?” Lincoln asks, looking like he’s about to box Julian out and steal me away.
“It just went in a few weeks ago, so I haven’t tried it yet,” I say, glancing at Julian.
Lincoln nods toward the way he originally came. “You’re going to need to send me a bottle. I feel like it’ll be a great sipper,” he adds as I follow him.
“I’ve started infusing dried herbs into one of our oldest aged barrels. It’s got great color, but I’ve had it in my mind that something a little more savory might be enjoyable.”
“Like a gin,” Lincoln adds.
“Exactly. Like a gin,” I say, pointing at him. “Flavor profiles hold better when they’re dried or cooked down into a syrup, I’ve found.” I laugh nervously, shaking my head. “Sorry, all I wanted to say was that, it’s just a hobby, barely a side hustle, at that, so?—”
“Do you want it to be more?” Lincoln asks point-blank as he fixes his glasses.
I look around, taking in the small groups mingling near the tasting bar, and the larger crowd that’s starting off the formal tour. “I have no idea what that could look like,” I say. But I’m starting to really imagine the possibilities. “I want it to be more.”
Lincoln claps his hands in front of him.
“I’ll happily talk about our processes and the mashbill combination we’ve been using lately.
My oldest brother, Ace, who I’m sure Julian has mentioned, can discuss most of the business elements, and if you wanted to talk about cooperage and barrels, my younger brother Grant is somewhere around here,” he says, looking around.
We shift toward the tasting bar and dive into talking.
Julian leans up against the bar and pays attention to something on his phone as we start talking.
The oak finishes and masculine metals that accent the distillery are so ornately designed that I know I won’t forget the vibes that it puts off.
I like it, and it has my mind swirling, thinking about how Jo would be able to put her own spin on a place that felt like a merging of masculine and feminine.
Lincoln discusses all of the details that have made his recent releases exceptional blends.
I share some of my thoughts regarding finishing barrels and the endless possibilities for infusing flavors.
Every so often, I check in on Julian, who hasn’t left my side.
He enjoys a few drinks from the tasting bar and listens to Lincoln, and I shift from one conversation to the next.
“Julian,” a man with salt-and-pepper hair says in a deep voice as he walks up. I know who he is right away.
“Atticus Foxx,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake.
“Wyn Crowne,” I say, meeting his extended hand.
He glances at Julian and asks, “So this is her?”
“Yeah. This is her.” He stands a bit closer to the stool I’ve been perched on for going on two hours now.
I don’t know how to label what we are together. Girlfriend feels too young, partner seems too soon.
“She and Lincoln have been talking about things way above my head, while I waited for you to take your sweet-ass time.”
“Ah, yes, my younger brother. Here he comes now,” Lincoln says. “I’ll introduce you to Grant, too.” But as I look to where he’s gesturing, a woman laughs next to him, loud enough that it has me trying to figure out why it has my eyes filling with tears.
I recognize it. There isn’t an accent to it, and I couldn’t describe it if someone asked me, but I know it. I know her.
My stomach lurches.
“Wyn? Everything okay?” Julian asks, his hand coming to my back.
But I ignore his question and instead ask Lincoln, “Who is that? The woman with the red hair, talking to your brother.”
“That’s my sister-in-law, Laney,” he says. “She runs most of the organized events around here, tackles anything around public relations, really.”
“Wyn?” Julian asks again as I take another step away and in the direction of her.
“How?” I whisper to myself as I think about the last time I saw her.
I run. He told me to run. I don’t know where I’m going, but I need to get away.
It’s the only chance I’ll have. I know at least that much.
I haven’t spoken, I haven’t had any liquids in nearly three days, my throat is so dry that the first time I open it to scream, nothing comes out.
I trip over my feet, not having moved them much in so long, but I keep going.
I turn down the brightly lit hallway—it’s a storage facility.
This time, I scream. I scream as I run down the hallway, barefoot.
I can feel the latest stitches along my side tear. Fuck, that stings.
“Help me!” I scream. And that’s when I see her, a blond woman around my size pulling down the door of her unit and rushing toward me.
“You’re okay,” she says, trying to hold me up as I finally reach her. “What happened?”
But that’s when I hear him. “We need to run, please. We need to run!”
Her hair is different—red now as opposed to the blond that I remembered.
When she turns to the side, her belly is swollen and pregnant, and she looks happy.
That makes my chest feel tight. She didn’t get hurt.
She didn’t stop living. I knew that; the U.S.
Marshal who worked my case told me as much, but she’s right there now.
The person who got me out of that storage unit, killed the monster months later, and now she’s right there.