“I’m on it.”
Without another word, Gus dismissed me, more than happy to let me do his dirty work.
I slipped into our one and only bathroom in our little share of the distillery, washing my hands and face the best I could with short notice. Not that it mattered. The kind of people who could afford to spend what I’d pay for a good car on a barrel of whiskey didn’t give a shit what I looked like when I told them about it. They only cared about the liquid gold inside.
So, I dried my face and hands, rehearsing the words I’d said to hundreds of rich men and women before this one as Gus’ sentiment rang true in my own mind.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Noah
Anytime I had to go to the welcome center, I always garnered more than a few curious looks.
There were several small groups of tourists milling about the welcome center, taking pictures with our founder’s statue and reading about the transition of our bottles throughout the years as they waited for their tour slot. As I made my way through, heads turned, brows arching as they took in my appearance. It made sense, seeing as how I was always dirty, and a little smelly. My mom would argue that the reason they stopped to stare was because I was “handsome enough to make a church choir stutter in unison.”
She said I got that from my dad, too.
I still said it was the whole smelly thing.
I smiled at a pair of older women near the ticket desk who weren’t the least bit ashamed as they ogled me. Their husbands, on the other hand, glared at me like I was a bug that needed to be squashed. I just smiled at them, too, and kept my head down.
“Noah Becker,” a loud, boisterous, and familiar voice greeted as I neared the ticket desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Came to beg you for a date, of course.” I leaned over the desk casually, cocky smirk in place. “What’dya say, Lucy? Let me spin you around on the dance floor this Friday?”
She cackled, her bright eyes crinkling under her blushing cheeks. Her skin was a dark umber, but I always caught the hint of red when I flirted with Lucy. She was my mom’s age, a sweet woman who had a reputation for fattening all of us at the distillery up with her homemade sweet potato pie.
“You couldn’t handle me.”
“Oh, don’t I know it.” I tapped a knuckle on the desk, looking around the seating area. “I’m looking for the potential barrel buyer. She was supposed to be waiting up here.”
“Ah,” Lucy said, her lips poking out as she tongued her cheek. “The Barnett.”
“That bad, huh?”
Lucy nodded toward the front doors. “Too pretty for manners, I suppose. But then again, can’t really blame her, considering who her mother is.”
Lucy kept talking, but my gaze had drifted to the fiery-haired girl pacing outside. The sunlight reflected off her auburn hair like it was the red sea, her eyes shielded by sunglasses too big for her face as her all-white stilettos carried her from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. She had one arm crossed over her slim waistline, accented by the gold belt around her crisp white dress, and the other held a cell phone up to her ear. Her lips moved as fast as her feet, the swells painted the same crimson shade as her hair.
She was nineteen, dressed like she was at least thirty, with a walk that told me she didn’t take any shit.
“She stepped outside to take a phone call a few minutes ago,” Lucy said, bringing my attention back to her. “Want me to let her know you’re ready?”
“No, no,” I said quickly, my eyes traveling back to the girl. “I got it. Thanks, Lucy.”
When I pushed out into the Tennessee heat, squinting against the glare of the sun, the first thing I noticed were her legs.
I’d seen them from inside, of course, but it wasn’t until I was right up on her that I noticed the lean definition of them. They were cut by a line of muscle defining each slender calf, accented even more by the pointy-toed heels she wore. She was surprisingly tan, considering her hair color and the amount of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, and that bronze skin contrasted with her white dress in a way that made it hard not to stare. The skirt of that dress was flowy and modest, but it revealed just a little sliver of her thigh, and I had to mentally slap myself for checking out a fucking teenager.
“Mama, I don’t care if the flowers are dust pink or blush pink. That sounds like exactly the same shade to me.” She paused, turning on one heel as she reached the far end of the sidewalk.
I kept watching her legs.
“Well, I’m not Mary Anne.” Another pause. “Why don’t you just call her, then? She’d be happy to argue with you about which shade of pink is better, I’m sure.”
“Ms. Barnett?”
She stopped mid-stride, slipping her sunglasses down her nose just enough to flash her haunting, hazel eyes at me before the shades were back in place again.
“I have to go, Mama. I think the…” She hesitated, assessing my appearance. “I think the fine gentleman who will be showing me the barrel is here.”
I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest. If she thought I was going to back down from her I’m-better-than-you attitude, she was mistaken.
“Yes, I’ll come right home after. Right. Okay, okay.” She sighed, tapping her foot before she pulled the phone away from her ear. “Okay, gotta go, BYE.”
When the call was ended, she let out another long breath, pulling her
