Rose snorts out a laugh. “Well, we’re ready!”
Except fate, or whatever cosmic force that keeps screwing with my day, has other plans. Rose’s phone starts blaring from somewhere in her pocket, and I watch her grimace when she checks the screen.
“The magazine again,” she groans. “Go on without me. I’ll catch up in a bit.”
Just like that, she’s gone, retreating toward the offices and leaving me standing in the lobby with Juliette. Alone.
Brilliant.
I glance over to find her shifting from side to side, like she’s debating between bolting for the door or toughing it out. To her credit, she stays. Straightens her shoulders. Meets my gaze head-on.
“Hi again,” she offers, a little wry. “I’m so sorry. I?—”
“Juliette,” I cut in, shaking my head. “No apology necessary. No harm done, aye?”
That earns me a look. She quirks her eyebrow and the corner of her lip curves in a way that tells me she’s not quite buying my forgiveness.
“Aye aye, captain,” she fires back.
The smirk I’ve been fighting tugs loose anda deep, genuine laugh rumbles out of me before I can stop it. She’s trouble, I can tell. But it’s refreshing. Unexpected.
I watch as the tension in her shoulders dissipates completely, the guarded edge in her expression disappearing. That spark in her eyes returns, and for the first time since she walked in, she looks like she’s finally found her footing.
Good. Because seeing her unsettled earlier had me feeling something I don’t usually let myself dwell on.
“I have a question for you,” she says, her voice light. “Why doesn’t whisky have an ‘e’ in it here? I was browsing your selection and honestly thought you had a typo on everything.”
“Ah, the‘e’debate.” My fingers brush the edge of my jaw before I tuck my hand into my pocket, like I need somewhere to put the energy she stirs up just by looking at me. “That’s actually a great question. Whiskey, with an ‘e’, is distilled in Ireland or the United States. Whisky, without an ‘e’, is mostly Scottish, Canadian, or Japanese. It’s all about where it’s made.”
She tilts her head slightly, her hazel eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Well, that’s an interesting tidbit. I’m glad I asked. For a second, I was nervous for you.”
I arch a brow, playing along. “I’ve got two questions for you now. Do you like whisky, and do you like history?”
She falls into step beside me as I start walking toward the distillery, answering without hesitation, “Yes, to both.”
Interesting. I figured she’d be more of a wine-and-cheese kind of girl, not someone who drinks whisky neat.
She catches the look on my face, and her eyebrows shoot up, lips twitching as she holds back a laugh. “What? Not what you were expecting?”
She’s trouble. No doubt about it. That glint in her eye, the knowing curve of her smile. She’s enjoying this. And me? I already know we’re going to have some fun.
Her gentle appearance might make her seem reserved, butthe sharpness in her words, the way she meets me head-on, tells a completely different story. There’s fire beneath that calm, and damn if I don’t want to see more of it.
“I didn’t take you for a whisky-loving lass, but I suppose I should know better. I do work with your aunt, after all.”
She grins, her love for her aunt written all over her face. “She’s something else, isn’t she? One hundred percent the fun aunt everyone wishes they had. I’d be lost without her.”
I step up to the railing overlooking the heart of the distillery, palms curling around the cool metal rail. Below us, the copper stills rise, catching the light, all heat and history.
“This,” I start, gesturing to the tangle of pipes, vats, and valves, “is where the magic happens.”
And then I’m off, explaining the process like I’ve done a hundred times before. Fermentation. Distillation. The quiet patience of aging. It’s muscle memory by now, the words coming easy enough that I’ve learned to watch for that telltale glaze in a visitor’s eyes when I’ve lost them.
But when I risk a glance at Juliette, expecting polite endurance at best, what I find makes me pause.
She’s…listening. Really listening.
Head tipped, eyes bright, following every word like it matters. And hell, if that doesn’t throw me just a little.
