Tenor
The rack house was quiet. I could’ve been done a half hour ago, but I was taking my time. Being alone with nothing but rows of stacked, aging barrels was a form of solitude I needed.
I breathed in the smell of old wood and must with a nice undertone of bourbon: the angel’s share of bourbon that had evaporated out.
I had been on edge since last weekend, but I’d heard nothing from Ruby. Last night, I had debated stopping in before I went to Billings for my game night, but I had passed. I had served the ball and she hadn’t returned it.
I had another book highlighted and ready to go. I’d put another Jane Austen cover on it.Emma. The real book was a space romance. A fake facade on a fictional story to tell her my real feelings.
Nice fucking metaphor.
The exit door opened. Boots crunched against the concrete floor. I didn’t bother to turn around, though the intrusion in my thoughts was welcome. If I stood here much longer, I’d sweat through my shirt. Natural fluctuations in temperature played through the ground and walls to help age the barrels. The heat in the summer would make the alcohol expand into the wood and absorb the characteristics of the oak. Then the cold winters would cause the spirits to contract, extracting all the flavor. That needed to happen for at least four years before whiskey was considered a bottled-in-bond bourbon. Just one of many specifications. Only I didn’t have to stand out here for an entire cycle.
Teller rounded the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spotted me. “Those the ones?”
I had the tablet that would verify which oak barrels would become our special batch. Instead of doing a single-barrel line for the holidays, this year we were blending three barrels. “Yes.”
After the barrels were taken by forklift to the main distillery, Teller and I would use the whiskey thief to extract amounts to blend. Then we’d work on a taste profile to give to Wynter. Sometimes, she joined us. Summer too. Tate sat out more and more every year as he got busier with his kids and the ranch.
“I’ll get them hauled in.” Teller propped his hands on his hips. “I forgot to tell you that Ruby left that book in the same spot for you.”
I frowned. She was giving it back? What’d that mean? “Thanks.”
“What’s that all about? You two start some sort of book club?”
“Something like that.”
“So you’re talking?”
“I don’t know.” I started for the door. “I’ll meet you inside.”
Trotting across the parking lot, I managed not to sprint. The book was the only form of communication between us. I ducked into the lobby, waved at the college kid who was leading the tour until his semester started in Wyoming at the end of the month, and barged into the quiet tasting room.
I found the book in the same place I’d left it for her. The fake book wrap was still on it. Flipping the book open on the counter, I searched for some sort of message from Ruby.
My pulse jumped when I spotted a section highlighted in pink.
He doesn’t realize words mean little to someone like me. The prettiest compliments can wield the harshest insults. Words can cut where a blade can’t. They can cauterize old wounds but leave the ugliest of scars. His words weren’t going to sway me. It had always been about action.
My gut twisted. Goddammit.
I rubbed between my eyes. Talking to her through passages in a romance novel had not been a success. She was not moved.
I blew out a breath and found another sentence in pink, spoken by the heroine.“You were everything I wanted. I trusted you with my whole heart. And what did that get me? Thrown away. Like I was nothing but some spacetrash. Now you’re trying to claw me back? Maybe you shouldn’t have ejected me in the first place.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. I wanted Ruby back, but finding stupid sentences in romance novels wasn’t how to do it. I had fucked up. She’d only seen my attempts as superficial dribble.
There was no way to turn back time. It was impossible to take back my words and learn my lesson before I jacked everything up.
She didn’t trust me. I had hurt her and she didn’t trust me.
It had always been about action.
Wasn’t that what I had set out to do when we’d first started fake dating?
I shook my head.
When had we been fake? From our first kiss, we’d been real. I would quit denying that.
