“There’s a new distillery down by the riverfront,” I explained. “You want to check it out?”
He laughed. “You don’t even like whiskey.”
“Neither does she.”
Bella
Anybody who insisted on trying everything once had clearly never tasted whiskey.
I’d tried to keep an open mind. Really, I had. I was the kind of person who liked discovering new things, who ordered the oddest flavor combination on the menu just to see what would happen. I ate pickled vegetables straight out of the jar, often with peanut butter, because everything tasted better with peanut butter.
But this stuff tasted like burnt caramel regret, like someone had taken a perfectly good tree, set it on fire, and then dared me to sip the ashes.
And Ethan, my date, was even worse.
It was clear that he’d planned the entire evening around this whiskey tasting, hoping for any opportunity to share his vast knowledge on the subject. We had been sitting at one of the tasting room’s high-top tables for nearly an hour—me, swirling the amber liquid in my glass and sipping when necessary, and him, droning on about “subtle notes of charred oak and vanilla bean.”
At least the distillery was cool, in that upcycled barn kind of way. Edison bulbs, wooden beams, and an entire wall made from stacked barrels—a perfect representation of old and new Rose City. Come to think of it, it would make the perfect setting for a market or farm-to-table event.
I made a mental note to reach out to the owner next week.
As Ethan’s voice faded into background noise, I let my mind continue to wander.
To a honey and whiskey pairing event. To the list of books I still needed to pick up for class on Thursday. To the cheeseburger I could’ve been enjoying by now—one with bacon and peanut butter and absolutely no hint of smoky wood—had I taken Bennett up on his offer.
My gaze drifted across the room, toward the wide doorway that led back out to the main floor. I pictured Bennett leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips like he was in on every joke.
I sighed, blinking away the daydream. And then my stomach dropped.
He was here. In the doorway, framed by warm light and weathered wood, like he’d stepped straight out of my head and into the distillery.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Nope, still there.
My heart stuttered.
He’d changed into a knitted pullover that hugged his shoulders exactly right, fabric stretched tight across his chest, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the strong lines of his forearms. The striking blue color made his eyes look nearly wolflike, and his hair was still a little windswept from the cold outside, curls falling loose over his forehead.
Like walking, talking, L.L. Bean sweater porn.
Mm, my favorite.
He scanned the room, casual at first, until finally, his gaze landed on me. And never left.
Heat rushed up my neck, my pulse thudding in my ears. Ethan was still talking about peat levels, but it all blurred into white noise as Bennett King eye-fucked the hell out of me.
Diaz appeared beside him a second later, grinning like he’d won the lottery, and nodded in my direction. Bennett neverlooked away from me as he crossed the room toward our table, that quiet intensity rolling off him in waves.
“Holy shit,” Ethan said, following my gaze. His smile faltered. “That’s Bennett King.AndPeter Diaz.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, voice steadier than I felt. “They play baseball with my brother. He pitches for the Roasters.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Wait, you’re telling me I’m on a date withJared Pink’s sister? Do you think you could hook me up with a signed jersey or something?”
Whoop, there it is.
Diaz reached us first, all easy charm. “Fancy seeing you here, Belles. Mind if we join you?”
