7. Brandt #2
Closing my eyes, I hold back a sigh, her smile and those hazel eyes flitting through my thoughts again. I should have gotten her number. I should have manned up and said, “Fuck our agreement; I want to see you again.” But I didn’t. I let her walk away.
That was really fucking stupid of me.
She knew a lot about this place, and I wonder if she’s ever been in this room.
She must have been. I assume everyone in this town is connected to the distillery in some way, but she seems to know more than the average bear.
Could she work here? Does she work for Leland, giving tours just like this one to tourists, reciting this same information over and over again?
For a second, I consider asking him. But then I stop myself. That would be weird.
“Gil and Fergus first started their science experiment in 1915 when they were nineteen and twenty-one respectively. By 1917, when the US joined World War I, the two of them started a small distribution operation up by the old church, with the help of Reverend Horatio Abernathy, selling to the miners who lived in the barracks nearby. While prohibition did put a damper on things, after the twenty-first amendment repealed the eighteenth, making the manufacture, sale, and transportation of liquors legal again, the brothers banded together to commercialize their venture, and Tennessee Trouble was founded.”
Pure, mountain moonshine, based on a recipe that is more than a hundred years old. The way God intended…
Luna’s voice wafts through my mind, a smile spreading across my face. I can’t help it, and I don’t bother fighting it. It’s like a cool breeze on a summer’s day—welcome, comforting, and leaves me wanting more.
More that I can’t have.
“And just down this way is the tasting room,” Leland continues, leading me out of the archives and down around a winding staircase.
“We’re doing things a little backward. Normally from the archives you would hit up the distilling operation, but the team is working on something at the moment and asked that we not bring guests in there quite yet. ”
Ha, that’s a good excuse.
As valid as it might be, it’s pretty convenient that such a thing happened on the morning I’m visiting.
That they aren’t allowing someone who might be able to stumble upon a secret into where the magic happens.
The basics of alcohol production might be the same from brand to brand, but there’s always a secret. You just have to know what to look for.
I know what to look for.
“Here we go!”
The tasting room is set up to look like a prohibition-era speakeasy.
Dark green walls give it this hidden underground feel, while the signs with the eighteen amendment graffitied over hang on the walls.
Large oak casks serve as tables, spread across the room, with a long, polished bar on the far wall.
It’s exactly the kind of place that makes you want to sit and have a drink while bullshitting with old friends.
“Tennessee Trouble whiskey is known for its smooth, sweet taste, with its trademark zing that lingers on the tongue. Ol’ Reverend Moonshine is known for being simple, neat, and crisp.
Old-school recipes for those who aren’t looking to mess with the classics.
” He gives me a nod, like he approves of the approach, and that I should respect the history.
Which, I do. Despite the little spat that occurred, I have nothing but respect for those two men creating a still in some holler in these mountains back in the day.
“Our newest product, Wink & Shine, is a take on moonshine, designed to be—”
The harsh, shrill ring of a phone cuts him off. We both jump, the sound slicing through the air like an errant foul ball.
“Oh! Gotta take this!”
Leland turns away from me, leaving me to glance around the tasting room.
I wander over to a large picture window that overlooks part of the production floor—what looks to be the start of the aging process, pouring the new batch into the oak casks to be aged—once again letting it soak in.
Behind me, Leland is a mix of “uh-huhs” and “yups,” his conversation seemingly pretty one-sided.
“Alrighty, Mr. Rawlins. They are ready for you. Shall we?”
We shall.
Time to get this over with.
Please, dear Lord, let me remember all the things I rehearsed in the shower this morning…
I am a dead man if I screw this up. Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but the powers that be back home will be pissed.
As if it’s my fault that after my blunder there was an impostor who took my comment and ran, continuing to taunt Wink & Shine online, saying things I would never. Not if you held a gun to my head.
A short elevator ride takes us up a couple of floors, depositing us in a vestibule that screams corporate office. Even louder than corporate office, it screams C-Suite. Not my place at all. I’m a taproom, brewhouse kind of guy. Can we go back to the casking of the whiskey, please?
Leland leads me to a conference room, where three people have already joined. All three stand as I enter, looking like they are part of a police lineup. One of each type—a brunette, a redhead, and a dirty blond—introduce themselves one by one.
Kyra—the redhead—is the head of marketing and social media. Rylan—our dishwater blond—is the Vice President of Operations and Manufacturing. Leaving the brunette, Mikayla, as CEO. The Murrays.
“Mr. Rawlins,” Mikayla starts, her voice sharp as a nail.
Everything about her is as sharp as a nail actually. Clearly all business and no play, the disdain for me is dripping down her. To the point where it’s making this room uncomfortable, and all she’s done is say my name.
Her two siblings sit on either side of her, both of them a lot more relaxed. In fact, if anything, Rylan looks bored. Like he feels that this is a waste of his time.
You and me both, buddy…
“Thank you for joining us today. Normally we would provide an agenda for meetings, but today, there’s only one. Southern Brothers Brewing’s slanderous statements about Wink & Shine.”
Slanderous. Wow, way to break out the big words right away. This women isn’t messing.
I take a beat, wanting to make sure she’s finished before I speak. She stares me down, demanding a response, her eyes all no-nonsense. There is no room for joking with her.
So much for my defense…
Squaring myself, I stare back at her, ready for this. The flicks of green and gold in her hazel eyes dance in the light from above, stealing my breath. My chest tightens as it hits me like a linebacker coming at my blind side.
I know those eyes.
Those gorgeous, sweet, intoxicating hazel eyes.
The same ones I stared into as one of the most incredible women I’ve ever met fell apart in my arms. The same ones that hypnotized me over breakfast tacos. The same ones I’ve been thinking about all morning.
“You have hazel eyes…” I mutter, almost subconsciously.
“I do,” Mikayla replies, scrunching her brow, not following why that’s relevant.
There’s no way. No. Can’t be. Those are Luna’s eyes.
Luna…the woman whose real name I don’t know. So even if I asked them if they knew her, or said I met someone who had a similar feature, they’d have no idea who I was talking about. There’s no way for me to ask without sounding like I’m crazy.
But I’m not. I know those eyes.
“Sorry!” The door to the conference room slams open. “I’m late, I know. You don’t have to say it.”
All four of us jump at the interruption, turning to look at the perpetrator. That’s when I see her.
Time stops, the entire universe screeching to a halt and stopping on a dime. Forget the record scratch, because there isn’t even time for that.
It’s her.
“Luna…?”