He takes a sip and smiles after he swallows. “Wouldn’t mind sipping on that at picnics.”
I nod proudly.
“How long have you been thinking about this one?”
I shrug, not wanting to answer him. Probably too long for something that’s a Sunday hobby. I knew that on its own, these flavor profiles might not work, but the mint and citrus mixed with carbonated water turned it into a spritz.I could see people drinking this. Or even businesses buying it as concentrate and making their own.
“It’s a creative take. I haven’t had anything like it,” he says honestly.
And the sense of pride that fills me as I hear it feels so much more meaningful than being commended for grants and research by colleagues.
“Alright, I need to head back to the B&B,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “You might want to take a look at those barrelsover in the far corner. Your mom spent some time out here with that batch.”
My heart stutters, and I whip my head to look at where he nodded. “Why would she...”
But Tommy’s already halfway to the door. He shouts over his shoulder, “Like I said, kiddo. I don’t ask too many questions, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”
Looking up and outside, I lock my elbows straight and lean over my workspace. A sense of calm washes over me as I take inventory of each part of this view—tall oaks and stout maples, plenty of river birch that lean along the riverbed. In the ending dip of summer, only a few wildflowers still hold on, the pale yellows and creamy whites peppering the tall grass. All of it is land that hasn’t been touched by anyone other than Crownes, simply because Birdie doesn’t allow it.
There’s a strategy to the way these buildings have been updated and laid out. My father’s family owned what was on this side of the river, and my mother’s family owned, lived, and thrived on the other. She used to say that they were the original Hatfield and McCoys, except most of my father’s family died, leaving Tommy to handle what was left, plus the bed-and-breakfast.
There’s been so much lore about my family over the years, it’s hard to determine what stems from truth and what’s wrapped in total bullshit, including the one about my mother being a black widow. There have been plenty of rumors about what had really happened to my father. I don’t miss him. My mother hated him and had plenty of bad things to say over the years, and I understood it. One day, he was gone for good, and Birdie bought the whiskey distillery, allowing Tommy to stay and keep it up until she decided what she wanted to do with it.
The southwestern winds shake the three oversize garage doors, making them clang loudly, and I glance at my phone, noticing messages waiting for me.
JULIAN
Do you know how hard it was not to touch you, fuck you, fall asleep next to you?
My lips part as I read the message more than once, suddenly feeling hot all over. He didn’t gloss over anything, and I hate how much I like that about him.
WYN
I had a very nice view of how hard it was, yes.
JULIAN
Comments like that make things hard all over again.
WYN
Sounds like you might have a problem on your hands.
JULIAN
Tell me I can see you later.
Chapter Eighteen
Julian
I readour text exchange again, smiling at the way she had no problem telling me exactly like it is. And yeah, she’s right; we’re nowhere near done.
Running my hand through my hair, I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to figure out how I went from being so adamant about this being my last job and to focus my attention on the work that is more palatable, to obsessing over this woman. I’ve never been this guy, the one who’s head turns easily, getting caught up with a pretty face and a great body.
I shake my head. She’s more than that.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe out to myself. What the hell do I want to do next?
