I could stay out of your head. But you’re thinking too loudly today, and I can’t shut you out.
I lunged out of my chair and stalked to his office.
“We need to talk like normal people here,” I told him sternly. “Or else everyone around here will think…”
“What will we think?” Emerson said from behind me. I jumped, because I’d thought Forge and I were the only ones down here.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Because the only time Emerson came to the basement was if something was wrong. I hadn’t seen much of him lately, which hopefully meant the company was running smoothly. Not that I’d know, since I was more concerned with being kidnapped.
“Nothing. Just coming to give you a report that the barley is ready to go into the kiln for drying. Tomorrow morning, I have a crew ready to start turning it.” He gave Forge a nod. “If you want to stick around late tonight, Selena can walk you through the process.”
I winced as Forge’s eyes settled on me. I hadn’t exactly filled him in on my plans. Obviously, Emerson was way ahead of me.
All I’d wanted was a few hours of normalcy in the malting room, which didn’t involve anything except me and the job that I loved. Sending Forge home early had been the first step in my plan, and now that was ruined.
“I’d love to show you how we do things here,” I told him with false brightness, well aware he had eons more practice than I did at this stuff. “How does it smell?” I asked Emerson, my feet already moving.
“Perfectly rancid. Waiting for your special touch,” he replied, grinning. He’d always hated the smell of malting, but loved the smell of mash. Go figure.
When were you going to tell me about this, Selena?
Not until I had to, Mr. Forge.
Forge silently fumed the whole way upstairs and over to the malting building, where we ducked in a side door and I took a deep breath. Sweet and sugary, like a rich honey. I didn’t know why Emerson hated this smell so much—it was our lifeblood, and every time I smelled it, I knew another batch would be put into the oak barrels, and after twelve or more years, it could go anywhere in the world.
Look, I’m sorry. I just needed some time alone. Life has been…intense lately.
Slowly, his anger subsided, replaced by concern. That’s all you had to say, Miss Langston. I would have understood. He reached out and plucked my sleeve. “I’m sorry, Selena. Your life has changed completely, and I know it’s been hard.”
“It has been,” I said. “I’m tired of my emotions swinging between panic and fear. All of this”—I swung my hand around in the air—“relaxes me. It’s simple, and uncomplicated, and familiar.”
He nodded, then a mischievous smile curved his lips. I don’t care what Holloway says. This place smells heavenly.
I fought the chuckle rising in me. Heavenly? You are such a romantic, I joked, skirting the piles of germinated green malt. When I’d reached the center of the floor, I crouched down and scooped up a handful. It was slightly moist and fragrant, and on the cusp of being ready.
But to be perfect, there was one more step, something that no distillery did anymore, because it was considered unnecessary and expensive and old-fashioned. The malt needed to be turned once more, and everyone else had gone home for the day.
I’m an old hand at turning malt. How long do we have?
Maybe six hours. I have a system, believe it or not, of telling when it’s ready to go into the kiln.
Forge’s laugh echoed through the metal building. “That’s the middle of the night.”
“Very good, Forge,” I teased. “It’s no wonder you’ve survived forever—you’re wickedly observant.”
He bumped me with his elbow, and I smiled back. “Can I help you?”
“And not afraid of manual labor, besides.” I laughed. “There are coveralls on the hooks, and rakes there.” I waved to the far wall. “If we start now, we might be done by midnight.”
I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be.
Regretting my earlier crack about him being a romantic, I headed for the coveralls. I’d dressed in preparation for this, and slipped the coveralls over a t-shirt and formfitting yoga pants, but Forge had on a suit and tie.
He tossed his obviously expensive jacket onto one of the dusty hooks and undid his tie. By the time he was peeling off his shirt, I was walking to get us rakes. I did not need to see Forge shirtless right now. Not when I’d been spending far too much time imagining him in Scotland, circling Cade, his muscles flexing.
“Rake,” he called, then deftly caught the one I threw. “Where do you want to start?”
“I don’t think it matters,” I answered, which was how we spent five hours, side by side, turning over malt in the barn. When we were done, and completely covered in dust, I grinned as I reached up and flicked a chunk of barley from his cheek. My fingers skimmed his skin, as smooth and cool as marble.
Before I could react, he snagged my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. For a second, we stayed frozen like that, his grip tightening as desire gleamed in his eyes.
“Forge…”
I didn’t know what I was going to say. Maybe a joke to lighten the mood. Maybe a smart-ass retort about Mr. Fancy Pants raking barley.
Forge pulled me into him, and this time there was no awkwardness as we collided.
Our lips snagged on each other’s, then Forge’s hand went to my lower back and crushed me against him as he kissed me, his tongue slipping between my lips. Between the heady sweetness of the barley and my brain spinning at how good Forge tasted, I got lost in the moment.
Damn, but Forge could kiss, exploring my mouth with a thoroughness I truly admired. Practice makes perfect. When the thought popped into my head, I pulled away slightly. “Forge…” I said again,
