Before Ethan could answer, Bennett slid into the seat beside me—close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table, sending a jolt straight up my thigh.
“Small world,” he said, his cobalt eyes holding mine hostage.
“Uh-huh, really small.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “We’re kind of in the middle of—”
“The eight o’clock tasting group?” Diaz cut in smoothly, setting down two glasses. “Yup, we signed up for the same one. We snuck in for the last few minutes of the tour.”
Ethan’s smile tightened. “Great.”
Our “taste guide” returned, launching into the next pour, an Islay Scotch that supposedly evoked memories of a “bog at sunset.” Bennett leaned in as the guide talked, his arm resting on the back of my chair. Not touching but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint cedar of his cologne.
“Not bad,” he murmured, lips barely moving.
I glanced across the table at Ethan, making sure he was too engrossed in the guide’s presentation to hear me. “You’ve got to be joking. It’s like drinking a barbequed Christmas tree.”
His lips twitched. “I knew you weren’t a whiskey girl.”
“Guess not.”
“It’s not too late to grab a burger at the tavern.”
“I can’t do that to him,” I whispered, nodding toward Ethan. “Even if he hasn’t asked me a single question all night. Actually, that’s not true. He did ask for Jared’s autograph.”
Bennett shrugged. “Sucks for him.”
“What does?”
“That he’s thinking about somebody else while sitting across from you.”
I felt heat creep up my neck, grateful for the low lighting. “That’s sweet of you to say.”
“Maybe, but it’s true.”
My chest did a stupid flip when his knee pressed against mine again, deliberately this time.
The four of us continued the tasting like some bizarre double date none of us had signed up for. I swirled, sipped, and smiled when appropriate, my tongue quietly begging for mercy and a glass of water that didn’t smell like a campfire.
And then, miracle of miracles, there was one I didn’t hate.A small-batch bourbon with just enough sweetness to soften the edge, warm instead of punishing.
Hell, it was probably honey.
I took another sip, surprised, then a second that bordered on intentional. It wasn’t something that I would ever order on my own, but if somebody were to pour it for me at a party, I might not fake a cough and dump it into a plant.
And then there was dram number seven.
“Classic medicinal note,” Ethan said, inhaling dramatically, eyes closed in rapture. “Laphroaig vibes, but with more brine.”
Diaz took a cautious sniff and winced. “It’s giving . . . eau de burning rubber. But in a good way.”
Bennett chuckled low beside me, the sound rumbling through his chest. His knee stayed pressed to mine under the table, a steady, warm point of contact that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
“I’m getting a burnt Band-Aid odor,” he murmured, winking in my direction. “What about you?”
“Generational trauma,” I whispered back. “With a side of iodine.”
Ethan, meanwhile, was still holding court. “It’s all about the peat reek.”
