If he only knew what that got him in some bars—one, in particular, that took that request to its limits and made one helluva show about it.
I reach for the metal shaker, and it hits the ground with an exaggerated clang.Brilliant.
Viv smiles at me, sensing that I’m feeling all sorts of out of my comfort zone, and pushes her empty shot glass forward. “It’s a three-finger kind of day, Naomi. Hit me with another.” As particular as both Boss and Viv are, they take their roles here seriously, and I’ll forever be grateful for that. Equal parts protectors and therapists, among other things.
I pull the bottle of whiskey again and pour her shot to the rim. It’s enough to shake me out of my head and focus on a task I’ve done plenty of times.
“Since you’re technically lost, are you passing through or planning to stay?” I ask Julian, looking over at him again and holding up the bottle.
With a tilt of his head toward the bottle, he says, “I wouldn’t mind staying if you tell me a little more about what you’re pouring.”
I rub my lips together, trying to play off my smile and not geek out too much. There are two things I understand and know more about than most—catalyst reactions in organic compounds, and whiskey. Most of the time, I’m shoving this kind of information at customers, and they couldn’t give a damn. So I start with what most distilleries start by saying. “Every bourbon is whiskey?—”
“But not every whiskey is bourbon,” he finishes, and it has me noticing the way his scruff is meticulously groomed right at the jawline, and the black ink of a tattoo peeking out just below the neckline of his shirt. I survey the things that make this man seem different from everyone else. Rugged but polished around the edges. His hands are clean but callused, the kind of strong hands that have seen a hard day’s work, just not the kind this farm town is known for. Large hands and corded forearms always seemed like a cliché attraction, but I’d be lying if I saidI didn’t want to see what they would look like on me—touching, playing...
I clear my throat.What the hell was that?
“I know some bourbon boys. I’ve heard them recite those rules plenty of times,” he continues with a smirk. He isn’t posturing or trying to mansplain anything to me.Andfuck, is that a turn-on.
A smile tugs at my lips as I pull out another few shot glasses—one to add to each of the flights I’m pouring, and then a clean shaker. “Whiskey, as you know, is a little different. Those differences are based on where it’s made and how it ends. Where I’m from,womenknow whiskey.”
He cuts in, “And where exactly is that?”
My eyes dart up, finding him looking at me in a way that’s sincere and not predatory, and it makes me want to answer truthfully. “Small town you’ve probably never heard of before.” I turn to Viv and ask, “What was that saying about the devil you're always spouting?”
Without missing a beat, she says, “The devil’s greatest power was making everyone believe she didn’t exist.” Of course, she gave me the wrong quote.
“Not that one,” I say, chuckling as she sticks a clove cigarette in her mouth and holds open her palm for me to pass her a book of matches.
Boss points at her without looking up. “Outside.”
She huffs, stands, and mumbles, “Asswipe.”
He flips her off.
I shake my head and focus back on Julian, who’s equally amused by the two of them. When he shifts his attention back to me, I correct the quote I was referring to. “What I was expecting her to say is that ‘the devil is in the details.’”
“Ah,” he says. “I’m very fond of details.” His eyes never leave mine.
A rush of confidence buzzes through me as he listens so intently, his weight shifting forward just slightly enough that it feels like he wants to be just a little closer. I clear my throat, trying to recall where the hell I was going with this.Whiskey, right.
“There aresomewhiskeys that are just as nuanced and need to follow strict rules, like bourbon. But even more so...” I pause, knowing I’m entering dangerous territory with this next fact. “Tennessee whiskey. All Tennessee whiskey is bourbon. But not all bourbon can be Tennessee whiskey.”
I pull my bottle from the middle shelf. Its logo, a fox head wrapped around the letterF, is prominent. If anyone knows anything about expensive bottles, they’d assume I’m about to do a tasting with a two-hundred-dollar bottle of small-batch bourbon. I recycled this one because Foxx Bourbon also made beautiful bottles for their delicious bourbon. It didn’t get made in Tennessee and it didn’t get filtered through sugar maple charcoal. But it’smywhiskey. I tied a piece of thyme and a dried vanilla bean around the neck of the bottle—the notes its drinkers will hopefully find as they taste.
Whiskey has stamina; it evolved and could change. That’s the beauty of it. There are still rules if you’re going to make, bottle, and sell it. But those rules gray out at the end for whiskey. It has the luxury of being finished in all sorts of ways. Time matters, but it doesn’t define it. And time is something that I have a lot of now. I would’ve preferred it to happen in a barrel, but I’m not in any position to be particular.
“Typically, when people think of whiskey, they assume a bar like this would only offer Jack, Jim, or Johnny.” I smile as I grab the small kitchen torch and light it, pulling a few dried pieces of rosemary from the bouquet perched next to the rest of the garnishes. I light each one, blow them out, and then place them beneath each of the turned-over rocks glasses we use asmakeshift tasting glasses. “But tasting flights are a great way to show off how much more is out there,” I say, sliding the first tasting toward Julian.
As the podcast plays in the background, my sister talks about the way flavors can be just as powerful when they’re smelled as when they’re tasted. It’s something we’ve talked about countless times.
“It’s all about manipulating the senses and tying those to things you’re familiar with,” she says. “Which leads me into this next case, one that feels more about trust than deception. Countless women are subjected to this kind of behavior every day. While plenty of my listeners are men, this is a reminder for the ladies; the easiest way for someone to take your control is to manipulate your power to say no.”
I watch him tip the glass to his lips and take a small sniff first before sipping. Why do I find that so intensely sexy? I shift my weight and try to ignore the way my cheeks feel like they’re on fire.I need to get a fucking grip.
Julian doesn’t bother covering his smile, whether it’s from watching me or the drink he just tasted. Regardless, a little spark of pride lights in my chest and turns into something much more arousing as it makes its way between my thighs.
A few customers hold up their glasses, and I hear, “Naomi, that’s some damn fine whiskey,” and “I’m going to need another pour of that one.” But it’s Julian’s hum after taking a second taste that has me preening. “Might have just tasted my new favorite thing.”
