That is music to my ears.
“Oh, yeah? When was that?”
“When you let my dog sleep in your bed with me. Now shut up and kiss me.”
“My pleasure.”
So I do.
Epilogue
WINNIE
Ian sets three small glasses on the wooden tasting table like he’s arranging something delicate instead of pouring bourbon.
I watch his hands.
I’ll never get tired of looking at his hands.
The man has ridiculously competent hands. Calm. Precise. The kind of hands that know exactly where they’re going and don’t apologize for taking their time getting there.
Much to my benefit.
“Okay,” he says, sliding a glass toward me. “First rule. “You’re not allowed to shoot it.”
“I don’t even have a gun,” I joke.
The corner of Ian’s mouth turns up. I know he finds me funny. He just doesn’t like to admit it. He nods toward the first glass. “Start with the nose.”
Barrel is sprawled under the table at Ian’s feet like he owns the distillery. Traitor.
“The what?”
“The aroma of the bourbon. Smell it.”
“Oh good. You’re translating.”
I pick up the glass and swirl it just for funsies. Then I sniff.
And immediately cough.
Ian reaches over and gently lowers the glass. “Small sniffs,” he says. “Or you’ll punch your sinuses.”
My eyes are watering. “I feel like I got maced by Kentucky.”
That actually earns a quiet laugh from him.
It’s warm. Low. The kind of laugh that makes me want to hear it again just to see if it sounds the same twice.
“Don’t inhale it.”
“I never inhale.” I can’t help it. The joke was right there. But before he can respond, I add, “Okay, proceed with caution. Got it.” I lean in cautiously.
Okay. That’s…nice.
When I made my now infamous bourbon balls, I just poured. I didn’t taste any of the bourbon because I was still recovering from the mint juleps I drank the night before.
But it’s been two weeks since the Spring Fling and when I’m not working or meeting up with various clubs I’ve joined, I’ve spent every spare minute with Ian.
