7. Brandt
brANDT
Time to do this.
Time to face the music. For a dance I didn’t do.
Okay, maybe I did. Sorta. I started it. By accident.
My comment was a joke—nothing more, nothing less. Something that Presley Callahan, Hayes’s social media manager, had started herself.
Staring at the entrance of the Tennessee Trouble distillery and headquarters, I remind myself that the sooner I go in there, the sooner this will be over. All I need to do is walk in there, present myself for this meeting with their new CEO, and smooth it all over.
As if that’s going to be easy.
At least our name doesn’t sound like a stripper’s act.
To be fair, the name Wink & Shine does sound like the kind of name that one could make dirty. A name that seems innocent on the surface, but once you know better, you can’t un-know.
Kinda like their moonshine, actually.
And the beautiful blonde I spent the night with. The one whose hazel eyes will star in my dreams for a long time.
Now that I’ve actually tried Wink & Shine, I get it.
I get where the name came from and why it’s a great new product on the market.
Not sure how much of that I’m going to be willing to admit to, but it makes me regret my comment.
As in, actually regret it—not simply regret it because it landed Southern Brothers in some hot water and now I’m up here to do a tap dance to make our companies stop fighting.
Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself out of my truck and toward the front door, those hazel eyes still front and center in my mind.
It’s midmorning on a Monday, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped a crowd of people from lining up in front of the distillery.
I glance down at my phone, checking the time again, wondering if I might be late.
Nope, it’s nine fifty. My meeting with the CEO of Tennessee Trouble is at ten. If I remember correctly from their website, distillery tours and the tasting room don’t open until noon. Meaning these folks are lined up more than two hours in advance. Holy shit.
It’s good whiskey, but it’s not that good.
Also, I’m pretty sure the website said that you had to buy tickets in advance. Or maybe that was simply a suggestion. Looking at that line, though, it seems more like a requirement than a suggestion.
Reaching the front door of the lobby, I give the line once last glance, still amazed by the size of it.
Most days I’m still in awe of what Milo and I have done with Southern Brothers—four beers sold across the country, official beer of Fire Lights honky-tonk in Nashville, Pour Decisions, our tap room in our hometown of Hickory Hills, and more—but there is no questioning that we are a much smaller operation than Tennessee Trouble.
We’ve also been in business a fraction of the time.
I walk inside, the heat from a vent hitting me almost immediately, making the morning air slipping through the closing door feel even cooler.
The brightly lit lobby is warm and welcoming, giving off a rustic log-cabin feel with dark wood floors and a lighter pine color to the walls.
Everything is shiny, reflecting the overhead lights, helping to make the area look bigger than it is.
So this is Tennessee Trouble…
I glance around and can’t help up but notice the very prominently displayed placard on the wall.
I like my whiskey straight, but my friends can go either way.
Tennessee Trouble Whiskey is a welcoming environment and a safe space for everyone, at all times.
We pride ourselves on being a non-discriminatory workplace based on race, color, religion, sex, national origin, age, or well, anything actually. Unless you’re an asshole. We will discriminate against you for that.
Because y’all means all.
I laugh at the last bit—not the y’all meaning all, the part about the asshole—because I can’t help but agree.
And I wonder if I can find a way to steal that for Pour Decisions.
The colorful sign, both in language and design—the word friends in bold, block letters with a rainbow pattern designed throughout—stands out in the otherwise muted lobby, which is likely by design.
“Welcome to Tennessee Trouble,” a posh, older sounding voice greets.
I spin around, immediately finding the owner of said polished voice.
A tall, almost lanky, older gentlemen stands in front of me, gently bowing his head, as if deferring to someone distinguished or honored.
He’s dressed as if he’s about to attend a formal affair—tasseled dress shoes, navy slacks, a striped button-down that simultaneously matches the navy of his pants and the robin’s egg blue of his jacket.
Oh, and the impeccably perfect navy pocket square to complete the look.
I don’t know if I should be impressed or left feeling underdressed by his choice of attire—there’s no way my khakis, button-down, and quarter zip sweater compete.
Not that it’s a competition. If it was, I’d lose. No question.
“How may I assist you today?” he asks. My eyes roam over him again, still taking in the whole ensemble, when I notice his name tag. Leland. Because of course someone dressed like this would be named Leland.
“Hi, I’m here to see Ms. Murray.”
“Which one?” Leland asks, his smile turning almost playful. “There are three of them, you know.”
Three? Thinking back to the meeting invite for my calendar, there were three people with the last name Murray on it, but I seem to remember one of them being male. Unless that was a poor assumption on my part.
“Mikayla,” I answer, still trying to figure out if I’m in for some kind of surprise.
“And you are?”
“Brandt Rawlins, Southern Brothers Brewing.”
Leland lights up, like I told him I was the Easter Bunny rather than a semi-competitor of the offices we’re standing in.
“Mr. Rawlins! Well, hello, I’m Leland Leslie Pennington, CELLO here at Tennessee Trouble. I am just thrilled to meet you.”
He takes my hand, clasping it in both of his and holding for a second.
I smile, already taken by this guy and the warmth he exudes.
Like the grandpa everyone should have. Although, with a name like Leland Leslie, there’s a part of me that wonders why he’s in a little town like Trouble, and not on stage over in Nashville.
“Cello?” I ask.
“Customer Experience Lead Liaison Officer,” he explains, a little bit of sass shining through. “It is my job to make sure that everyone who visits our little slice of heaven has the experience of a lifetime. And I do it with a little flair.”
I get the impression there are moments he does it with a lot of flair, but I keep the comment to myself.
I don’t want him taking it the wrong way.
Especially since there is a part of me who wants to know if I can steal him.
We’ve said three sentences to each other, and I can already tell he’s just the right kind of over-the-top.
“Anyway, Ms. Mikayla asked me to make sure that you got a little tour before your meeting, so if you will follow me.”
I do just that as he leads me through the lobby toward a hallway behind the ticketing office. My eyes linger on the y’all means all sign again, trying to commit the wording to memory so I can recreate it once I’m home.
“You like that?” Leland asks.
“I do. It’s well worded.”
“I designed it myself. I’m not much in the way of design, at least not usually like that—I’m more of a fashion guy—but Ms. Kyra and I had a good time with that one.”
“Fashion guy, I couldn’t tell,” I joke.
He purses his lips, like he’s ready to scold me. “I will have you know, I have half a million followers on the gram, as the kids call it.”
I don’t know anyone who calls it that, but then again, I’m not a kid. I also don’t have social media accounts. Tried that once, and it landed me here, getting ready to grovel. So we’re not going to do that again.
Wait, did he say half a million?
“How many?”
“Five hundred thousand, two hundred and sixty-three.” He beams proudly.
He should be proud. Damn proud. That’s one large fucking number.
“All organic too. I share my fit of the day—that’s my main content.
But I also have a little side thingy where I offer advice.
Sometimes people just need to be told straight up that something is a bad idea, and they don’t have someone in their life that will do that.
So I started Darlin’, Don’t where I offer up that tough love. ”
Well, I’ll be damned. Good for you, Leland Leslie.
“I can give you my handle, if you’re interested.” He looks me up and down, assessing my outfit, looking like he’s getting ready to unleash some of that tough love on my choice of clothing. Not all of us can pull off robin’s egg blue though.
“I’m not much of a social media guy.”
Leland shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Leading me down the hall, he flips on a light, illuminating a museum style room, filled with photos and relics. Blinking hard, I soak it in for a moment, recognizing it for what it is—history.
“Welcome to the Tennessee Trouble archive. In here we have a number of original items from Gil and Fergus Murray, the founders and creators. The two of them started creating their own spirits as a way to pass the time in the cold Smoky Mountain winters in 1915, and then in the 1930s the product took off, and the Murray family has never looked back. Tennessee Trouble is still family run, with Gil’s descendants now running the distillery, while Fergus’s own the Smoky Spruce Lodge, enabling visitors from all over the world to come visit Trouble and see what these two brothers started. ”
I nod along, letting him get through his spiel without any commentary from me.
This space is set up to flow people through on their tour, supporting the party line of being founded post-prohibition.
I’m sure if I paid close enough attention to the photos, I could find something that proved otherwise.
Just like when I pushed Luna this weekend.
Luna…