“You can thank my three timers for that.”
Bewilderment flickers in his eyes, but he stands back and ushers me into the meeting room, a minimal but stylish area like the rest of the building. Two walls of windows overlook the line of pipes running from the stills. There’s only a simple stained wood table, a nook with a coffee station in the corner, and office chairs that look like I could sit in them for hours.
“Have a seat,” he says as he takes a seat.
“Cruffin?” I slide the box across the table and pick a spot across from him.
His gaze dips to the pink bow printed on the container. “No, thanks. The sugar sticks to my mustache.”
“Lick it off.”
He pauses, shuffling papers that look like they have the wedding schedule I designed on them. “I assure you, there’s nothing I like more than licking sweetness off my whiskers, but there’s a time and a place for it.”
Heat hits me like a tidal wave. Surely, he doesn’t mean... In my mind, a picture forms: my legs splayedopen with him in between, his lips and chin glistening with?—
“What exactly is this ex-prick of yours expecting from Foster House?” he asks like he didn’t just saythat.
But mention of my ex and his wedding snaps me out of my lustful daydream. For a few blissful moments, this ordeal wasn’t the center of all my thoughts. I’m so desperate for a distraction, I’m lusting after Durban. “I only ask you don’t refer to him as Ex-prick on Hawthorne grounds. He might overhear. Or the happy bride could.”
“Is he here?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “He’s going to be soon. I’ve been corresponding with them.” I had to unblock his phone number for this shit. “His family is going to arrive about three weeks early. They want to make a vacation out of the wedding, with the ceremony as the cap to it all.”
He does a quizzical shake of his head. “You don’t have to plan his family’s vacation too, do you?”
“More events, more money.”
He narrows his eyes, but I don’t feel any heat of disapproval. “That’s fucked up.”
“It’s a job. I’ve done plenty of events where I don’t like the people involved. This is no different.” Is that a glint of respect in his eyes? “My main role is to make sure the bride and groom are happy with what they’ve booked.”
“Do they really deserve to be happy?”
“I really don’t care. Like I said, it’s my job, and once it’s done, I don’t have to have anything to do with them anymore.”
Sympathy darkens his rich-brown eyes. “Were you and January close?”
We’ve veered off topic, and normally, I’d charge away from this subject. But the unexpected compassion in his voice encourages me. “I considered her my best friend outside of my sisters, though she seemed to want more of a mentor out of me—how to dress, how to flirt, what’s the best mascara. Probably because of her mother. Her birth mom wasn’t interested in being a mother to her or Sydney, and her stepmom is hyperaware of looks and status.” I shrug. “In the end, January wanted to be me, and she made my bed. Now she can lie in it.”
“A lumpy mattress?”
A smile traces my lips. “Poorer quality than I thought at the time.” I don’t have a paper schedule, but I pull up the information on my phone. “So Ex-Prick has said he wants guests to be able to order any whiskey- or vodka-based drink possible.” He opens his mouth, but I hold up a finger. I’m laying all of Stanford’s cards on the table, and now I’ll inform Durban of which ones I’ve flicked off. “Itold him that the best plan would be to have Foster House offer a menu for them to order from. Three to five of each if you’re going with whiskey, vodka, and gin.” I wave my hand in the air. “Makes it feel more exclusive, especially if you offer at least one different cocktail for each spirit just for each night.”
His brows draw together. Crap. Does he think it’s too much? Too simple? Did I somehow insult his whole personality?
“You seem to get into their heads,” he says. “How much psychology goes into this job?”
Startled he’s asked such a serious question, I considermy answer. “Um, a little.” I think about clients I’ve talked out of a panic over the years. “A lot. Besides, I’ve been placating Stanford for years. That’s like second nature.”
Both his brows lift. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
Shame heats the back of my neck. I didn’t know I was doing it at the time. “I emailed you the times. So far, the couple would like a Foster House bar at the dinner for Stanford’s family when they all arrive. Then there’ll be the bridal luncheon the Thursday before the wedding, a groom’s dinner Friday night, and the wedding ceremony and reception Saturday evening. The wedding is at seven. If you could arrive forty-five minutes to an hour before each gathering, that’ll give us a buffer if there are any hiccups.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Like what?”
He’s unusually agreeable. Is this distillery a different dimension, or is the situation extra pathetic? I don’t want to know the answer. “Broken bottles, missing equipment—speaking of that. Do you want to use what the ranch has in its bar?”
“Yes, and I’ll haul all the spirits I’ll be using, but I can store them there until the wedding’s done.” His phone buzzes where it’s sitting by the laptop. He glances at it, and the corner of his mouth quirks up as fondness crosses his face.
