I smiled widely. “He’s going to be so excited.”
“After he gets mad at you for keeping this from him,” Finn said with a laugh.
“You let me worry about your brother.”
Up to that point, I’d given Owen strict instructions that he wasn’t allowed to come see the inside of the distillery until I was fully finished staging and decorating, and I finally gave him the green light on Thursday evening. The next day, our bartenders would come in for a full day of training, led by none other than Liam Danvers. I always forgot he was a talented mixologist, and when he’d asked me in passing a few months ago if there was anything he could do to help, Owen and I jumped at the chance to get him involved.
First by managing the distilling operation, and now, in taking responsibility for each of the cocktail recipes we’d be offering.
So before we headed to have dinner at Granny’s that night, we drove up to the distillery.
“You ready for this?” I asked, unbuckling my seatbelt and preparing to exit his truck.
“As I’ll ever be,” he said with a sigh as he followed me out, and I was chuckling as I met him around the front.
We threaded our fingers together, but before I could tug him to the doors, he stopped me, turning me to face him.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“Okay...” I said slowly.
“This whole exterior facade? It looks exactly like the house Igrew up in.”
“I…what?” I asked dumbly. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
He shrugged, bringing our linked hands to his chest. “I guess I was afraid of what it might mean. That you had unintentionally created something so precious to me.”
“And now?”
“And now…I can’t help thinking my dad sent you to me, that he’s responsible for all of this.” He swept his arm out at the distillery, then gestured between us. “He would’ve loved you so much,” he said, his words so low they were nearly carried away by the wind before they reached my ears. “I know I’ve told you that before but…he loved Aria so much. He loved us boys too, but there’s something different about that father-daughter relationship, you know?” I nodded, extremely familiar with the phenomenon. “And he would’ve loved having another daughter. He couldn’t wait for the day me and my brothers started getting married. Always said once one of us found the one, the rest would fall like dominoes.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I guess we’ll see, though I have trouble imagining West ever settling down.”
“I wish I had the opportunity to meet him,” I said, slipping my free hand around the back of his neck, lightly scraping my nails against the hair at his nape in the way I knew tended to ground him when stress or grief gripped him. I shifted our joined hands over his heart, feeling its steady, reassuring thump right down to my bones. “But he’s right here. And I get to learn about him through you, and your brothers, sister, and mom when I eventually get to meet them. He’s still with us, and when we visithis grave, I’m going to thank him.”
“For what?”
“For you,” I said, scoffing like he didn’t already know that. “And for us.”
His shoulders drooped several inches as he relaxed, exhaling on a slow breath. I rose onto my tiptoes and captured his lips with mine. He fisted his free hand in my coat and hauled me into his body as his tongue slipped along the seam of my mouth.
I’d never tire of kissing the man, of being wrapped in his arms as he devoured me. As he poured every bit of love and longing into the places where we connected. I loved the way he nibbled at my bottom lip, gently trapping it between his teeth and pulling it when he retreated. I loved how rapidly his pulse thrummed when I swept my fingers up the column of his neck and into his hair.
And fuck, I loved the way his massive palm spanned the front of mine, exerting slight pressure on my windpipe and cupping my chin, holding me exactly where he wanted.
I especially loved it when he did that in bed while he pounded into me.
With that thought, I broke away from him with a gasp.
“That’s not what we came here for,” I reminded him, attempting to marshal my breathing.
“That’salwayswhat I come for,” Owen replied, though he yielded a step and pulled me toward the door of the distillery at last.
“If you hate it…too fucking bad,” I told him as we stepped inside, suddenly nervous that hewouldhate it and break up with me because I’d ruined it.
The main wall of the foyer was decorated with a large tin sign, painted white and distressed to allow some of the metal to show through. Emblazoned across its length was our brand name in a rustic, Old Western font.
“That was designed by an artist in Detroit,” I told him. “And I paid a pretty penny to have it expedited so we’d have it in time for this weekend.”
Owen glanced down at me, a brow raised. “Do I want to know?”
