"I hope I’m making the right decision. I don’t want to be the reason this shop fails either. I don’t know what is best right now."
Brett drops his hand from my elbow and delicately places his palm on my cheek. "If you follow your heart, it will be the right decision. That’s what I think."
The warmth of his touch eases the pain in my chest and slows the rapid breaths rushing from my lungs. "What did my dad tell you the night of his ‘goodbye’ party? The night of the celebration, before he died. I saw you two having a serious talk."
Brett offers a faint smile. "Something I can’t share with you just yet."
I pull away from his hand. "What? What do you mean?” I snap.
"Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s not some secret. He said something about a letter he sent to you. Did you read it?"
My jaw tightens as my breaths quicken again. "No, I haven’t been able to read the letter yet."
"When you’re ready, you’ll know what he was talking to me about," Brett says.
I close my eyes and toss my head back with a relentless feeling of frustration. "Every time I think my heart is hurting a little less, the pain comes back with a vengeance."
"Mel, take a deep breath. You’re going to hyperventilate. Come on," he says, his words utter in a hush. Brett pulls me into his arms and places his hand on the back of my head, holding me against him in a hug I greatly need.
His embrace reminds me of how breakable I am, and I’ve fallen victim to tears with each hug I have received in the past few weeks. I’m trying my best to keep my emotions in check because he doesn’t need to see me break down. It’s been a few days since I’ve let the last of my tears fall and I need to hold it together.
I blow the air out of my lungs through pursed lips, waning the rush of sadness while focusing on the warmth of the embrace and the fragrance of laundry detergent from Brett’s shirt. It’s comfortable here.
"You know. The last time we were standing here, in this exact spot," he whispers in my ear.
The words bring a small smile to my lips, making me lose track of the ache in my chest, replacing it with the heart-fluttering memory of his kiss from all those years ago. "I know," I mutter against his chest. "I wish I could turn back time."
Brett takes a step back, loosening his arms from my body. "Why turn back time, when we’re right back here where we started?"
I lift my gaze from his chest and lose myself in the golden hue of his amber eyes. "Time brought me back here," I say.
"Time brought me back too," he says. "The duration of time determines the worth ofan outcome—that’s what this place is all about. Therefore, if we turn back time, we’d have to start over and bottle up our feelings for another ten years until it would be time to enjoy the potential quality."
"Are you talking about bourbon, or—"
Brett leans down and presses his lips to mine, his arms scoop around my back, pulling me in, holding me tight, making me feel like we have waited more than enough time for this moment. His hand loosens from my back and sweeps across my cheek. His lips part and with only a second to breathe, our lips reconnect. My hands tremble as they wrap around his neck, feeling the short-shaved ends of his hair tickle my knuckles. I have forgotten about life outside of this moment and I want to stay here for this reason alone. Brett kisses my bottom lip, then my top lip, and pulls away to stare down into my eyes. "That kiss has been bottled up and aging for quite a while," he whispers.
I manage a smile, feeling the muscles in my face stretch in a way I haven’t felt in weeks. "There she is—the woman with the million-dollar smile."
"It feels like I haven’t smiled in so long.”
"If a kiss can bring a smile to your face, I have no problem filling that role in your life until you learn how to smile on your own again?"
His words make my cheeks burn, and I press my teeth into my bottom lip. "I might be okay with this.”
"By the way ..." he says. "Becca is my cousin. In case you were curious." Brett winks as if he knows what thoughts were going through my head.
"I wasn’t curious," I lie.
He narrows an eye at me, calling my bluff. "Well, good."
"So, labels," I say, turning around, grabbing a stack.
"Yeah, not those," he says.
"They’re Quinn Pine," I tell him. "Isn’t that what we are shipping?”
"They’re Quinn Pine 2013 and 2014. You’re holding Quinn Pine 2015."
