“This really is fascinating,” she says, scanning the space like she’s trying to memorize it. “You mentioned something about history, too?”
That sparks something warm in my chest. A good kind of surprise.
I nod, leaning a little heavier on the railing.
“Aye, I did. The place has been in the family for five generations now,” I tell her, glancing out over the still house. I’ve looked at it a thousand times and cursed its quirks, but standing here next to her, watching her take it in with wide, curious eyes,I see it differently. “Started with my great-great-grandfather more than a hundred and thirty years ago. Passed down to my great-grandfather, then my grandfather, then my dad…and now, me and my brother.”
Legacy. It’s in the walls here. In the whisky. In my blood, whether I like it or not.
Standing here with Juliette while she looks at me like none of this is ordinary makes it feel a little less like a weight and a little more like pride.
“That’s incredible. Has it always been successful?”
My gaze sweeps over the worn brick walls and copper bones, all of it held together by generations of stubbornness and sweat. Perseverance layered over failure, year after year. The kind of work you don’t do for glory. The kind you do because it’s yours.
“No,” I tell her honestly. “Far from it.” My thumb brushes absently along the railing, lost in the memory of lean years and late nights. “There were some tough stretches. Years where it could’ve gone either way. But we fought for it, and now, we’re in a damn good place.”
When I glance back, she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even flinch. Just holds my gaze like she’s flipping through pages I didn’t mean to leave open. Her brow’s slightly pinched, like she’s puzzling me out, but there’s a softness there, too, that makes it weirdly hard to swallow.
I clear my throat, glancing away before I let myself get caught up in it. “There’s more to see, if you’re interested?”
“Absolutely,” she beams. “Lead the way, Captain.”
The nickname makes me smirk. I could get used to hearing her call me that.
Our next stop is the tasting room, which is Callan’s domain. This is where my brother thrives, right here in the thick of it.
I catch sight of him mid tour, standing at the head of thecrowd, glass in hand, voice as smooth as the whisky he’s pouring.
“Swirl your glass gently,” Callan instructs, “take in the aroma, really let it hit you. Notice the color. Sip slow and let it roll over your palate. Let it change on your tongue.”
Juliette slows beside me, watching him work like she’s stumbled upon some kind of magic show. I’ve spent my whole life watching him hold court like this, spinning stories and tasting notes until strangers start looking at a dram of whisky like it’s holy.
It’s a gift, I’ll give him that.
His gaze snags on us then, his charming grin pulling at his lips as he lifts his glass in a casual salute.
“Feel free to ask questions as you go,” he wraps up, voice carrying effortlessly through the room. “And most importantly—enjoy. Slàinte Mhath!”
The room fills with the clink of glasses, blending with the soft murmur of conversation. We linger near the door as Callan makes his rounds, answering questions and cracking a few jokes before finally making his way over.
“Hiya,” he greets, clapping me on the back. His gaze shifts to Juliette, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “And who is this bonnie lass?”
She steps a little closer to my side, and just like that, her scent wraps around me, all sunshine and citrus. It catches me off guard, how easily it pulls me in. I’ve never paid much attention to things like that before, but with her, it’s impossible to ignore for some reason.
Focus. This isn’t the time to be noticing how good she smells or how she’s slipped into my space like she belongs there.
I nod toward Callan, keeping my voice even. “Juliette, this is my brother, Callan.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes as he takes Juliette’s hand, ever the showman, and presses a light kiss to the back of it, all charm and theatrics. The foolish flirt. It’s a wonder his ego still fits in the room.
Looking at him is like seeing a slightly younger version of myself. We have the same build, same height, though his hair is lighter and more golden blond to my lighter brown. The biggest difference is our eyes. Mum always says mine are as green as a spring meadow and his are blue as a glacial lake. She has a knack for sayings, always tossing them around like breadcrumbs. When we got too rowdy as kids, she called ussquirrels on espresso.
Juliette’s sweet laughter spills out, and the sound hits deep in my chest.
“Quite the gentleman,” she muses, dipping into a playful curtsey. “It’s nice to meet you, Callan.”
He clutches his chest like he’s been struck by a mortal blow. “A lass after my own heart! Tell me my brother hasn’t already whisked you away. Get it? Whisked. Whisky.”
