11. Lindee #2
I rock backward, the news hitting me hard. Like a wave you didn’t see coming while standing on the shore. A custom drink in one of the premier bars on Broadway in Nashville. It’s too good to be true.
Like, actually too good to be true. In a way that is starting to make me question everything again.
“Brandt…” I swallow hard, trying to find the guts to say this. “I need you to please be honest with me. Like, really, really honest.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Lindee.” He takes another step toward me, but I scoot to the side, keeping the distance between us. “We agreed to fake names, but everything else I told you was true. Cross my heart.”
I believe him. Not sure why, but I do.
“You’re not just saying this? The idea of a drink isn’t because you think that’s what I want to hear?”
Brow knitting, Brandt cocks his head to the side, confusion taking over. Rocking back on his heels, he studies me, same as I did him earlier, like he can’t figure out why I would think such a thing.
“Not at all.” He pauses, then nods. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why do you think that?”
I sputter out a scoff, unable to believe that of all the things he could be wondering, that is on the top of the list. Would have thought that answer was pretty obvious.
“Seriously?”
“Ignoring this morning,” he continues. “I get that you think I researched you or something, but I promise you, I didn’t. But…what makes you so skeptical of a cocktail?”
Good question. Decision time. Do I let him in or tell him to pound sand?
The latter is certainly easier. And it’s what Mikayla would want me to do. But it’s not what I want. It hasn’t been from the second I met him. I want to share my secrets with him. All of them.
Including my big one.
“Because of this…”
I round the lab table on the far end, keeping my equipment in between us. Grabbing my notebook off the table, I squat down and open the mini fridge under the counter, pulling out a small beaker that is a little less than half full.
Pushing back to my full height, I finally close the gap between us, starting to let my guard down.
“What’s this?”
“Not a lightbulb.”
My answer sounds like it’s straight out of left field, but Brandt picks up on my reference right away.
“Well, Edison, I’ll have you know, Southern Brothers has a beer, Silver Lining Sour, because of one of our attempts that didn’t result in a light bulb.”
I laugh, any tension I had in my body flowing right out of me. There is something so easy about being with him.
“The Ol’ Fashioned Preacher is a special, secret recipe cocktail that only makes an appearance once a year, at the Tinsel Tangle.”
“Tinsel Tangle?”
I nod, pressing my lips together, trying to hold back my own embarrassed laugh.
“Yup. It’s the bougie, boozy, and incredibly boring cocktail party that the Ol’ Troublemakers, the distillery’s VIP group, puts on every Christmas.
The guy who I was hiding from at breakfast yesterday, that was Jerome Cochran, the president.
He’s…insufferable would be putting it nicely. ”
“Ahhh.”
“Anyway, I’ve been playing around with coming up with something new. Something fun. Maybe that revolved around Wink & Shine. But I can’t quite get it right.”
“And you thought I somehow knew about this, so I was making the offer…”
I slowly nod, admitting to it. Now that he says it out loud, it does—maybe—sound a little crazy.
“You were in here, so it seemed possible that you were snooping.”
“I was…but not in the rummage through your notes sense. More like oh, that’s a cool vintage still sense. I had no idea about your concoction.”
The teenage girl in me giggles as he says concoction, my brain instantly whirring back to Saturday night and his own cock. And all the amazing things it made me feel. That he made me feel. How much I want to feel them again.
My cheeks flush and I force myself to focus on what we’re really talking about.
“It was my grandfather’s.”
“Fourth generation, right?”
Oh, shit, he remembers. A knot forms in my tummy, twisting and turning, the scent of Irish Spring wafting past me.
“Yeah…” I clear my throat, trying to concentrate. “No one knows that I’ve been messing around trying to come up with something. I might know my chemical bonds and what goes into making a great base, but…a master mixologist I’m not.”
Brandt takes two large steps into me, erasing all the space left between us. Carefully, he wraps his hand around the base of the beaker, brushing his fingers against mine. The hairs on my arm stand on edge, the electricity crackling around us.
“May I?”
I nod, letting him take the beaker from me. Raising it to his mouth, he takes a sip, and I watch as the liquid moves over his lips, the muscles on this throat contracting.
Fuck me, I’ve never wanted to be a beaker more than I do right now.
Wordlessly, I take the beaker from him, following his lead and taking a sip. The sweet, tangy flavor hits my lips, follow by the punch from the moonshine. The mix is good, but still somehow falls flat. There isn’t enough oomph to it. What the missing ingredient is, however, is still a mystery.
“See, something is still missing.”
Brandt takes the beaker from me and places it on the table. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing along the skin, hypnotizing me.
“I like it. Almost as much as I like this.”
Sliding his hand from my jaw to the nape of my neck, he leans in, pulling me into him and kissing me.
Butterflies spread through my chest, leaving me feeling as light as air.
The sweet taste of my failed cocktail lingers on his lips, but is overpowered by his spicy taste.
I lean in, wanting more of it. More of him.
Like an addict searching for another hit.
I’m floating on air, overtaken by whatever spell he has me under.
A spell that makes the air thicken and the need for him to be even closer grow with each second. With each swipe of his tongue against mine, I give in, letting myself get lost in this. If I never surface, I’ll be just fine.
“Hey, Lind! Have you seen—oh, shit!”
Fuck!
I let go of Brandt, half pushing him off me, half leaping back so fast I’m surprised neither of us end up with whiplash. Time speeds up, and I frantically try to straighten myself out, not sure where to look or what to do.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Rory stammers, backing up into the doorframe and nearly knocking over a set of glassware. “I’ll…I’ll find one of the other guys.”
Heat blasts my face, my embarrassment doing a salsa dance around the room. Whoops…not what I wanted my employees to see.
“That…that was Rory MacDougal, our chief distillation specialist. He’s Scottish, and even though he’s never actually been to Scotland, he likes to tell us all about how whiskey is actually a Scottish creation and the Irish stole it,” I start to ramble, unsure what else to say. “He also plays the bagpipes and—”
Brandt cuts me off with a kiss, stealing whatever wild tangents of useless information my brain was starting to summon up.
“Perfect…” he mutters, slowly releasing me.
Ohhhhhhhh…
“Lindee…” he whispers, pressing his lips to my forehead. My heart soars, wanting nothing more than to curl into him. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
I giggle. “Working.”
“Can I steal you away instead?”
And now I’m flying.
“How about I steal you?” I counter. “Show you some things you’ve never even dreamed of?”
I waggle my eyebrows, leaning into the unintended naughtiness in my question.
“It’s a date.”