“Are you brewing right now?” I asked.
The owner turned to me as if noticing me for the first time, and his look of shock was priceless.
“Seamus, may I present Selena Langston, owner of Langston-Forge in Philadelphia.”
Seamus winked at me, then took my hand and kissed it. “A good whisky, Langston-Forge, when we can get it.”
“As is yours—one of my favorites, to be honest,” I said.
“You hardly look old enough to drink, much less run a distillery.” Seamus’s voice dropped. “But when I heard your father passed, I was glad to see the company stayed in the family. There were rumors it would be broken up and sold.”
“I couldn’t let that happen.”
“I would think not.” Seamus snorted. “When whisky is in your blood, you can’t get it out. Money isn’t everything, you know, but a board… All they know is money. They don’t know shit about the business.”
“True,” I told him, “But to be fair, none of them grew up in the business—to them, we’re just another company.” I was aware of Forge’s hand slipping from mine as he went to the small table and sniffed the unlabeled bottle, then poured three glasses.
“A whisky brat, then, just like me.”
I laughed. “I’ve heard of army brats, but never a whisky brat. But yes, I grew up at my dad’s side at the distillery, learning as much as I could.” Seamus reminded me of Granddad, with his irreverent attitude and shooting me a mischievous wink after every comment.
Seamus chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned, then. Tell me what you think, once you taste my finest creation.” Our table consisted of an old barrel and three mismatched chairs, but the complex cachet of the whisky reached my nose as Forge pressed a glass into my hand.
Seamus sat down heavily. “Let’s see how much you know, Selena Langston.”
I hid my smile. What Seamus didn’t know was that I’d studied his operation thoroughly. I was always looking at my competition, and Hadrian’s was my biggest, in terms of quantity. Hadrian’s was well run, and they distributed to every corner of the earth, while still maintaining their quality. After meeting Seamus, I could see why.
I took a tentative sip, letting the whisky warm my mouth and burn my nose before I swallowed.
“Smoky, but without the bitter bite, so you used peat to dry the barley. I can taste the oak… European oak barrels, I believe. And the citrus…” I took another sip and truly savored the loveliness of it this time. “Double-charred barrels.”
Seamus clapped his hands. “That is very good, Miss Langston. But all I had to see was the look on your face to know you truly enjoy it.” He poured another round, and we all raised our glasses. “Sláinte mhath.” The clink of our glasses sounded like a bell.
“What do you like most about making whisky?” Forge asked, his dark eyes searching mine over our glasses.
“I guess for me, it’s when I go somewhere and see a bottle of Langston-Forge, and I know either my dad or my grandpop bottled that. Knowing that really brings our family history home. I like knowing I can make a whisky that people truly love, and somehow, it makes the world seem like a smaller place.”
Something sparked in Forge’s eyes, just before he hid it away. “A very good reason to enjoy what you do.”
Seamus and Forge began a good-natured banter back and forth while I enjoyed the simple pleasure of whisky and good company. It had been a long time since I’d stopped and allowed myself to relax. Years, maybe, if I was honest, and it felt wonderful to let the warmth sink into me, to let Forge put his arm around my shoulder.
Bobby drove us back to the airport, and when we landed in Perth, my cheeks were still heated from the whisky and I was feeling quite content. I let Forge bundle me into the waiting car, and then fell into a blissful sort of fog as he and our new driver fell into a string of unintelligible Gaelic.
“Selena, we’re here.”
I lifted my head off his shoulder—somehow, I’d fallen asleep on him—and looked around. Cameron Distillery was nestled in a deep gorge between two sheer spires of granite. Smoke billowed out of the tall chimney stack, and I felt Forge’s fingers intertwine with mine as he tugged me out of the car into the cool, pine-scented air.
Of every other whisky I’d ever tasted, Cameron was my hands-down favorite. This distillery was even older than mine, and their blend was the whisky I hoped to rival with Dad’s special batch—and all the ones that came after. I can’t believe I’m actually here. I spun in a circle, my arms thrown wide, the coat flying out like a cape.
“This place is…magical.”
For a second, Forge froze, then cupped his hand beneath my elbow. “It is, isn’t it,” he murmured as we made our way to the building. Surprisingly, Forge didn’t knock, just pushed through the door, bringing me inside with him.
Cameron was everything I’d imagined a Scottish operation to be. Stone floors, high plastered ceilings and a thick, palpable layer of history over the entire place. Forge flicked on the lights, bathing the room in the golden light of old incandescent bulbs. “I’ll fetch glasses and a bottle,” he said as he strode away, leaving me to wander.
This distillery didn’t strive to be on any Scottish Highlands tour—it was a bare-bones operation with no intention to impress. Somehow, not what I’d expected. I did remember when I’d researched Cameron that their online presence had been meager, just a landing page with a generic picture of the Highlands.
I paused in front of a faded, stained photograph. It was clearly the distillery’s staff, gathered out in front of this building, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. The date
