For Love & Bourbon (32 page)

“You sure?” Her hands twisted together in front of her, a sign she was stressed. He added that to the long list of other things he blamed himself for.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about me.” Because it felt right, he cupped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her in for a quick, tender kiss. He felt her stiffen against him, then give in until he released her.

He stepped away and left the bar without looking back, not wanting her to see just how weak he was for her.

Marco paid the tab and silently followed him, keeping a safe distance behind.

“DOES IT
ever get old doing the same tour day after day?” Cooper asked, walking with Ava through the barrel house. It was late and the staff had gone home, giving them the entire steel building to themselves.

Ava eyed him playfully. “When you love your job, it never gets old.”

“I love my job, but there’s still boring days.” He spun her against him, his mouth teasing hers. “Like being here with you, for example. So boring. I can’t believe they stuck me with this shitty job.”

She laughed, nipping at his lower lip. “I’d say as far as jobs go you’ve got it pretty damn good.”

He shrugged, considering her point. “Well, there are those afterhours moments when I get to do this.”

He pushed her up against the nearest wall of barrels, his face a breath from hers. He exhaled slowly, aching for her even though she was only inches away. She angled her mouth to meet his, kissing him in that way she had that stole the air right out of his lungs.

They had spent the better part of the week this way, tangled up and lost in each other. He’d almost forgotten his reason for being there, though it was always at the back of his mind. Each day that passed it became less and less relevant and surrendering to her became everything.

Stolen kisses in the barrel house, midnight walks to nowhere, more whiskey than he’d ever consumed in his whole life. The days with her were dipped in gold and the nights more brilliant than starlight. She was his every waking thought, his every breath, and though he’d never been one to suffer from addiction, he suffered from her. That smoky smile, her full-bodied laugh, the flecks of green in her eyes that came out only when they made love by firelight. He was consumed by her, fully and absolutely.

And knowing he was keeping a terrible secret from her was killing him.

“I should get you home,” he murmured, his mouth trailing over hers. “It’s getting late.”

Ava’s eyes fluttered open, her smile wicked. “I can think of something better we could do.”

He groaned when her hand drifted downward, teasing him. “Christ, Ava. Someone’s gotta be responsible here. They’ll come looking for you.”

“Let them,” she decided, drawing back from him. “You think I care what anyone thinks at this point?”

He met her eyes and knew she didn’t. “I guess your dad already knows. It doesn’t get much worse after that.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about? When did he find out?”

Cooper could have kicked himself for that slip up. He wracked his brain for some excuse, knowing he couldn’t admit to having spoken to Ty that first morning. “He heard me leave your house the other day. He watched me drive away.”

Relief erased the worry lines from her face. “Oh. Well, not like it matters. We’ve barely said a word to each other since…”

She didn’t have to finish her sentence. He knew exactly what she was thinking. “Hey, look at me.” She did, and he offered her a warm smile. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

“I hope you’re right.” She lifted her hand to his cheek, tracing the light stubble he’d let grow over the last week. “You’re looking more and more like a country boy every day, Slick.”

He grinned. “Is that a good thing?”

She brought her lips to his. “Everything about you is a good thing.”

AFTER COOPER
pointed out that they could get caught, Ava started noticing all the questioning looks and hushed conversations of those around her. The distillery employees were the worst, but she couldn’t help that. They saw Cooper lurking around and many hadn’t accepted her excuse that it was simply a formality related to the tax investigation. It didn’t help that whenever Cooper was nearby she lit up, making eyes at him from across the room every chance she got. Everyone had expected a longer mourning period from someone who had so recently lost their mother.

The truth was that not a day, or even an hour, went by that she didn’t think of her mother and the unjust way she’d been ripped from their lives. But keeping her focus on the launch of Lucky Joe’s single barrel bourbon, loading her guns in preparation for war with Ned, and savoring every moment alone with Cooper was distraction enough to help her move on. She’d get her revenge, she was sure of it. She just needed to practice patience, like Cooper had advised.

Her mood soured at the thought while she waited for her next tour to matriculate in the tasting room. She was getting tired of waiting around like a sitting duck. If something didn’t happen soon, she was going to explode.

As her group gathered around, she fixed on a smile. At the back, her eyes landed on an attractive man with russet hair and piercing blue eyes. He was staring at her intently, and when they made eye contact the edge of his mouth curved in a knowing grin. The sight of it caught her off guard, but she was used enough to the occasional suggestive look from a man to not let it get to her.

“Welcome to Lucky Fox Whiskey!” she began, placing her hands on her hips as she eyed the rest of the group. Several people stood before her, mostly middle-aged couples and retirees with a few outlying younger city folk. It looked to be a good crowd, minus Mr. Calvin Klein in the back who was standing with his arms crossed and that smug smile still on his face. “My name is Ava Brannon, and I’m the granddaughter of Lucky Joe, the founder and master distiller here at Lucky Fox.” She turned around to lead them further into the distillery showroom with the giant copper stills. “As you can see, unlike most other bourbon distilleries, we triple distill our bourbon to guarantee optimum flavor and clarity.”

“You mean you do it the Irish way.”

She spun on her heel to see who had spoken, saw the man in the back give her a curt nod. There was a lilt to his voice, similar to her grandfather’s but smoother, like cream over ice. She guessed him to be British, and offered him a smile. “Triple distillation is not unique to Ireland, but yes. We do things with an Irish flair to reflect Lucky Joe’s heritage.”

One of the man’s eyebrows slid up at her words. “I thought he had a feud with the Irish Brannons? Why do things their way then?”

Heat shimmered over her skin as her temper sparked. It wasn’t the question that bothered her so much, it was the way he asked it. Like he wanted to rattle her nerves and pick a fight.

“Because he’s not too proud to admit they had a good way of doing some things,” she replied, trying not to let her irritation show. She could feel the rest of the group growing uneasy at the exchange, and knew she needed to stamp it out. “It was the recipe he didn’t agree with. He knew the flavor would be better if blended with grain whiskey and his family disagreed. So he packed up and came to Kentucky, and the rest, folks,” she held out her arms and offered the crowd a brilliant grin. “Is history. Now, let’s talk about how bourbon’s made and what makes it different than Irish whiskey…”

For the remainder of the tour, the Brit was quiet. She kept an eye on him regardless, noting how he stared around the distillery looking completely unimpressed with the entire operation. It made her wonder if he was some kind of competitor, but they did little to compete with the British market. So who was he, if not that?

By the time the tour came to an end and the patrons gathered around the tasting bar to test their newfound knowledge of whiskey, Ava had nearly forgotten all about him. She was having such a good time answering questions and sharing jokes with the other guests that when a few of them cleared out and he swept in to take their place at the bar, it gave her a jolt.

He smiled, nicer this time, and she tried to relax.

“Let me guess. You’d like to try the Irish first?” she asked, setting a fresh glencairn in front of him.

He nodded. “I would. I’m sorry if I came off as rude earlier. I hope I didn’t offend.”

She studied his face, all fine lines and roguish good looks, and decided he was relatively charming when he wasn’t wearing a scowl. “Not at all, honey.” She turned to grab the bottle of Irish whiskey from the shelf, then poured a sample into his glass. “Now, you’ve seen how we make the whiskey. That’s just science. But what you taste will be unique to each individual palate. I could tell you what to expect, but I think it’s best to leave it a surprise.”

His eyes lowered to the glass as he studied the liquid inside. He gave it a quick swirl, then brought it to his nose. She watched his brows crease as he deciphered the aromas, and when he at last gave it a taste shock registered over his face.

Ava angled her head. “Not what you expected?”

He set the glass down, looking unsure of himself. He pursed his lips and met her eyes. “It tastes like flowers. It’s quite different from what I’m used to.”

“And what’s that?”

A hardness came over his expression, his eyes blazing. He seemed to consider how to respond, only to decide not to answer her at all. “I’ll try the Distiller’s Choice next, please.”

She obliged him, though warning bells went off in her head. She quickly scanned the room for Cooper, but he was nowhere to be found. Most likely he had stepped out to make a phone call to check in on Marco.

“You’ll notice a difference between the Irish and the bourbon,” she said conversationally, ignoring the flutters of panic in her belly as she fell into her routine. “Bourbon has a more robust flavor and is a bit heavier on the tongue.”

He lifted his glass to the light, then breathed in the aroma before taking a sip. He appeared less affected by it than the Irish whiskey. “It’s a fine drink, to be sure. Though not as sophisticated as I’d like.” His eyes met hers, and she felt her stomach clench in knots. “You know your stuff, Miss Brannon. And clearly you love what you do. That kind of passion is a rare find.”

“I was raised on it,” she told him, wondering why he felt the need to compliment her. “It’s in my blood.”

An odd little smile crossed his face. “Mine too. Take care, Miss Brannon.”

He got up to leave, not bothering to taste anything else. She stared after him, grateful he was gone but curious about him all the same. Maybe he
was
a competitor, she decided. Who else out there would claim to have whiskey in their blood?