I found myself remarking how beautiful and unexpected life could be, at how sometimes, in the most precious moments, not even a photograph taken by the most talented photographer in the world could truly capture all the magic.
And as Theo crossed the room and put his arm around me, kissing my hair before he looked down lovingly into my eyes, I knew one thing was for certain.
Whether tonight, next week, a year from now, or ten years down the road, I was going to marry that devastatingly handsome man.
And when I did, I’d vow to fall in love with him a little more every day, knowing it would be the easiest promise to keep.
Want more Aspen and Theo? Check out this bonus scene where Theo meets Aspen’s family for the first time!
Thank you for reading Close Quarters. I hope you enjoyed reading this angsty goodness as much as I enjoyed creating it.
If you liked this book, check out my new box set – The Pain in Loving You – where you can read THREE of my angsty all-time bestsellers. You’ll get Weightless, A Love Letter to Whiskey, and Make Me Hate You all in one epic collection.
You might also enjoy my Becker Brothers series, following four rowdy brothers in a small town in Tennessee as they solve the mystery of their father’s death – and find love along the way. Keep reading for a sneak peek inside!
Three of my very close friends also released new books this month, and I cannot recommend them enough. Check out Hold the Forevers by K.A. Linde if you want more angst, Bet the Farm by Staci Hart if you’re ready for a rom com after all this tension, or Eastern Lights if you want to feel the kind of love and emotion only a Brittainy C. Cherry book can bring.
I also love to hang out with my readers online. My favorite place to hang out is Instagram, but I’m also on TikTok if that’s your jam. And, my group on Facebook gets exclusive giveaways, sneak peeks, and more – so come hang out.
You can also sign up for my newsletter if you don’t want to do all the social media, but also don’t want to miss any new releases from me.
And again, thank you for picking my book out of the millions you could have selected to read. I truly appreciate it.
Noah
When you hear the word Tennessee, what do you think of?
Maybe your first thought is country music. Maybe you can even see those bright lights of Nashville, hear the different bands as their sounds pour out of the bars and mingle in a symphony in the streets. Maybe you think of Elvis, of Graceland, of Dollywood and countless other musical landmarks. Maybe you feel the prestige of the Grand Ole Opry, or the wonder of the Country Music Hall of Fame. Maybe you feel the history radiating off Beale Street in Memphis.
Or maybe you think of the Great Smoky Mountains, of fresh air and hiking, of majestic sights and long weekends in cabins. Maybe you can close your eyes and see the tips of those mountains capped in white, can hear the call of the Tennessee Warbler, can smell the fresh pine and oak.
Maybe, when you think of Tennessee, all of this and more comes to mind.
But for me, it only conjured up one, two-syllable word.
Whiskey.
I saw the amber liquid gold every time I closed my eyes. I smelled its oaky finish with each breath I took. My taste buds were trained at a young age to detect every slight note within the bottle, and my heart was trained to love whiskey long before it ever learned how to love a woman.
Tennessee whiskey was a part of me. It was in my blood. I was born and raised on it, and at twenty-eight, it was no surprise to me that I was now part of the team that bred and raised the most famous Tennessee whiskey in the world.
It was always in the cards for me. And it was all I ever wanted.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Until the day Ruby Grace came back into town.
My ears were plugged with bright, neon orange sponges, but I could still hear Chris Stapleton’s raspy voice crooning behind the loud clamor of machines. I wiped sweat from my brow as I clamped the metal ring down on another whiskey barrel, sending it on down the line before beginning on the next one. Summer was just weeks away, and the distillery swelled with the Tennessee heat.
Being a barrel raiser at the Scooter Whiskey Distillery was a privilege. There were only four of us, a close-knit team, and we were paid well for doing a job they hadn’t figured out how to train machines to do yet. Each barrel was hand-crafted, and I raised hundreds of them every single day. Our barrels were part of what made our whiskey so recognizable, part of what made our process so unique, and part of what made Scooter a household name.
My grandfather had started as a barrel raiser, too, when he was just fourteen years old. He’d been the one to set the standard, to hammer down the process and make it what it is today. It was how the founder, Robert J. Scooter, first noticed him. It was the beginning of their friendship, of their partnership, of their legacy.
But that legacy had been cut short for my grandfather, for my family. Even if I had moved away from this town, from the distillery that was as much a blessing to my family as it was a curse, I’d never forget that.
“Hey, Noah,” Marty called over the sharp cutting of another barrel top. Sparks flew up around his protective goggles, his eyes on me instead of the wood, but his
