Aris’s arm slid firmly around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. “Aristides Christakis. Deanna’s husband.”
Maxwell straightened, shaking Aris’s hand. “Of course, of course. Welcome to Black Ember Distillery, Mr. Christakis.”
“Thank you for having us,” Aris replied, his hand remaining at my waist. He leaned down to whisper in my ear, “You are alright, agápi mou?”
“I’m fine,” I muttered through a tight smile. The feminist in me was screaming about having to put on this whole marriedwoman show just to get my foot in the door. But I knew better than to blow this opportunity.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I know you’ve just arrived, but if you’re not too tired, I’d be happy to show you around the distillery before you settle in.”
“Now would be perfect,” I said. “I’d love to see everything.”
I’d managed to catch a solid hour of sleep on Aris’s private jet during the short flight from Montrose. Being able to stretch out completely and nap without strangers breathing down my neck had helped rejuvenate me.
“You are sure, agápi mou?”
“Absolutely.” I wasn’t about to show any weakness here.
“Wonderful!” Maxwell beamed. “Right this way, then.”
Aris walked by my side as Maxwell led us into the barrel room, where the smell of oak and char hit me. The temperature dropped as we entered; the thick stone walls keeping the bourbon at a steady sixty-five degrees.
I stopped walking, just staring up at the racks that stretched to the ceiling. Hundreds of barrels, each one marked with dates and batch numbers. Generations of family history aging in the dark.
“This is incredible,” I breathed.
“The oak barrels are critical to the aging process,” Maxwell explained. “Each one imparts its own character to the bourbon.”
Aris moved closer to one of the barrels, studying the charred interior visible through the bung hole. “I understand you char the inside first, yes. Is that to caramelize the natural sugars in the wood?”
Maxwell looked surprised. “That’s exactly right. Are you familiar with bourbon production, Mr. Christakis?”
I glanced at Aris, equally curious. When had he learned about bourbon making?
“Please call me Aristides.” Aris hand found the small of my back again. “I have developed an interest in American whiskey recently.”
“I’m impressed,” I whispered when Maxwell stopped to speak to a worker.
Our final stop was the massive, oak-paneled office of Douglas Embers. The seventy-year-old patriarch sat in his wheelchair, but there wasn’t anything frail about him. His handshake was firm.
“So you’re the woman Maxwell’s been tellin’ me about,” Douglas drawled. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“The distillery is quite impressive,” Aris added.
Douglas tilted his head, studying Aris. “That accent you got there. It ain’t from anywhere in this country I recognize.”
“I am Greek. From Athens.”
“Is that right?” Douglas leaned forward with interest. “Always been fascinated by the Old World. Y’all make any spirits over there worth talkin’ about?”
“Greek distillation methods, they go back millennia. We were making perfumes and creating alcoholic concoctions for religious ceremonies almost two thousand years before Christian era.”
Douglas’s eyes lit up. “You don’t say!” He slapped his knee. “We gotta talk more about that later. Maybe over a good pour?”
I stood there, caught between impressed and irritated. Here I was, prepared for months just to get in this door, and Aris walks in talking about ancient Greek liquor and suddenly they’re thick as thieves?
Douglas leaned back in his wheelchair, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Now, Mrs. Christakis, tell me why a small agency like yours thinks it can handle a national campaign for Black Ember.”
