A disappointed rumble leaves his chest, and he rifles through the already opened bottles of whiskey. “You haven’t been having the right cocktails.”
“I’ve had plenty.”
“Have you had Foster House?” He selects a bottle withbarrel proofwritten on the label and pours a splash into one glass. The other gets a pour that just readssingle barrelon the label.
“Yes, of course. It tastes like any other whiskey. Did you like the stuff before you started making it?”
“I liked it just fine, but now I know the art and the science of it. Not just the entertainment.” He hands me a glass of the single barrel. “This isn’t barrel strength, so we’ll start with that.”
“What does that mean?” I accept the glass. I should be worried about looking stupid in front of Durban, but something about him makes me unashamed of being curious. Perhaps because he admitted to having had to learn it all too.
“It’s not watered down. The bottling proof isn’t more than two degrees lower than when we dump the barrel.”
“Why do you dump it?” When did we get only a couple of feet apart?
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “That’s what we say when we empty a barrel for bottling. It has to get strained first.” He tips his head toward the glass in my hand. “Swirl it, smell it, sip it.”
“Only if you tell me why.”
“Swirling releases the aromas. The tapered neck of the glass captures them while the flared opening lets the alcohol dissipate so you don’t suck it in.”
I gently swirl, then lift it to my nose.
“Open your mouth,” he says in a quiet growl that sends shivers coursing over my skin. “And inhale.”
Flutters erupt in my stomach as I smell, taking in pleasing notes of vanilla, caramel, and spice. I blink and smell again, concentrating. He’s giving me a tasting, not coming on to me. “Cherries?”
“Yes. Now sip and let it coat your palate. This is an eight-year-old ninety-two proof.”
“The distillery isn’t that old.”
“Lane and Cruz made some single barrels in Denver to get us going while our product ages.”
“So none of this stuff is from Huckleberry Springs?”
“Some of it. We can use it for tasting, but we can’t sell bottles in-house if it’s not all made in-house. Drink, Campbell.”
I would guzzle it if he spoke to me like that again.
Ugh. This isDurban. I’m not supposed to find it so appealing. I can appreciate his mountain-man good looks, but finding his judgmental ass irresistibly sexy? No. I’m not the lonely girl looking to poach someone’s man—and if he can be seduced away, I don’t want him.
I take a sip.
“The flared base?—”
I cough and sputter.
Laughter dances in his eyes. “—of theglassallows the liquid to coat more of your tongue. So let it coat your palate.”
Do regular tastings here always sound so sexy? I keep my breathing calm. Every time he talks in that deep voice of his, my chest constricts. I take another sip, and spice fills my tongue. Vanilla, oak, and caramel. Those cherries I smelled. “Mm.”
Satisfaction etches his features. “If we were doing this for real, I’d add a couple of drops of water.”
“What does that do?”
“Opens up the flavors. Softens some. That’s part of the fun. Finding out.”
“Durban Hennessy, I didn’t know you were a wild man.”
