“Maybe tonight. If not, definitely tomorrow.” Winnie flashes me a smile, blowing her hair out of her eyes like she isn’t surrounded by a mountain of dishes and mixing bowls, all dusted with a light layer of powdered sugar.
I didn’t even know it was possible to make this much of a mess with a no-bake dessert.
By the looks of the tray on its side in my sink, little lumps of charred dough that could pass for coal adhered to it, Winnie tried to bake the no-bake bourbon balls.
“The good news,” she continues, “is that my third batch of balls is the best. They’re actually not bad.” She pops one into her mouth and closes her eyes in ecstasy. “Mmm. Mm-mm, that is so good.”
That sound of pleasure she’s making is the only thing on this earth that could distract me from the mess in my kitchen.
That, and the fact that she’s stripped off her sweatshirt at some point and is in form hugging leggings and a sports bra. I see every curve of her beautiful body and my hands are itching to land on that waist, pull her in close, and kiss her low and slow.
“That’s excellent news,” I tell her. “Because the deadline to turn in your entry is in twenty minutes. Do you need any help?”
“Yikes!” She drops a spoon in the sink and turns right, then left. “What am I doing? Do you have a container for these?”
“Sure.” I fish a plastic storage container out of the cupboard. I don’t have the heart to tell her that bourbon balls really need time to sit and soak up the bourbon for the full flavor effect.
Which reminds me…
“What bourbon did you use?” I’ve been at the festival booth all morning and I told her to make herself at home in my kitchen.
I should have picked out the best bourbon for her to use to enhance the flavor.
“That bottle you had in the liquor cabinet.”
My stomach drops. My heart just about stops. “Which one?” I ask, looking frantically around the mess of saucepans, mixing bowls, and spilled nuts.
Then I spot it. “Oh, fuck,” I say.
“What? Am I going to poison someone or something?” she asks, bewildered, letting Barrel lick peanut butter off of a spoon.
I don’t even know why she has peanut butter out. That shouldn’t be in the recipe.
“Why would my bourbon poison someone?” Swallowing hard, I shake my head. “No, of course not.” I pick the open bottle up off of the counter. It’s half empty. Probably because she made three batches before she perfected them. “I just wasn’t planning to drink this bottle.”
Because it’s the very first bottle we filled at Four Brothers.
It has—had—my thumbprint in the wax on the seal.
I wasn’t planning to open that bottle until I retired as master distiller.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry!” Winnie dusts powdered sugar off of her sports bra. “I feel terrible.”
Instantly, I feel worse. The last thing I want is for Winnie to feel bad about it.
She looks so concerned and upset, I can’t tell her the truth.
I’m also distracted by the way her fingers brush over her chest. The way she bites her bottom lip in concern, gaze darting over to the bottle of bourbon. The way when she reaches way over the counter to grab the powdered sugar, I can see every inch of her very perky ass.
She’s distracting, that is for damn sure, but my bourbon has been opened. That shit hurts.
“It’s no big deal,” I manage to say, even though inside I might be crying. “I told you to use anything you want.”
It’s my fault.
No question about that.
I don’t want her to feel bad for my fuck up. I should have put that bottle away or pointed it out to her.
