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“Of course. It’s the least I can do.”

“C’mon. I’ll give you a crash course in all things distillery.” Ezra stretches out an arm, wrapping it around Delilah’s shoulder as he leads her to the back office. I glare at my handsy little brother.

Warren, wiping down the bar, chuckles. “Like I said. Under your skin.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Tonight.” Ezra glances back over his shoulder, gaze dipping between the two of us. “Nine o’clock. We’re trying the limited edition.”

11 Cole

“C’mon, assholes, chime in.” Ezra lifts his whiskey glass and takes another sip. “What do you think?”

Uncle Vaughn, my brothers, and I stand in a circle around the limited-edition barrel Ezra pulled from the rickhouse. The garage door to the distillery is thrown open, letting in the buzz of the wild Montana night.

“You were right. Damn near perfect.” Warren holds his glass up to the light.

Uncle Vaughn echoes Wells’s nod. “That’s the good stuff, right there.”

We always have two to three tasters, enough people to have a consensus, but at the end of the day Ezra always has the final say on whether the whiskey is ready. He never went to school or pulled a degree, but like Uncle Vaughn, he has that gift.

“Don’t look at me.” I hold my glass to the light and then take a long smell. Layers of flavor jump out at me. “I just raise barrels.”

Wells winks. “But you drink whiskey.”

I take a swig of the whiskey, running the liquid over my tongue. There’s something about it that makes it different from all the rest. It’s a higher proof than usual. The perfect balance of oak, cinnamon, and caramel. This one, ready for a fall release, is darker, smokier than any I’ve ever had.

I finish the whiskey in my glass, then say, “We’re going to sell a shit ton of it.”

Instead of his typical stoic expression, our younger brother wears a big grin on his face. If anything can make him smile, it’s whiskey. “That’s what I like to hear.” He pulls the whiskey thief from the hole in the barrel, gives everyone one last taste, then corks the barrel. “We need a name.”

“Mom and Dad always named their whiskeys after things they loved,” Wells says.

An age-old tradition. Every limited-edition whiskey we launch is named after something beloved. There’s the Sweet Caroline Rye after our mother. The Big Sky Islay after our father’s favorite place on earth—Montana.

“We need it fuckin’ ASAP.” Warren gives Ez a look. “It’ll be fall in less than five months.”

“And you’ve got a party to plan,” Uncle Vaughn says as he finishes his whiskey.

“I’m not planning it. Not anymore.” Ezra grins. “Delilah is.” Ezra tells the group about Delilah’s offer to plan the launch.

Vaughn nods. “Not a bad idea.”

An image of Delilah leaving the tasting room today, the pockets of her apron teeming with tips, pops into my head.

“I ain’t so sure about that,” I say, just to be a contrarian. It irks me that Ezra is letting some stranger, some girl who waltzed onto our ranch plan the limited-edition launch party. Because it isn’t any typical party. It means more. It’s for our parents. We have to do it right.

“What’s your deal with Delilah?” Ezra glares at me, glasses slipping down his nose. “She hasn’t missed a step yet.”

“She keeps changing the music in the goddamn tasting room,” I grumble.

“That’s what your problem is? The music?” Ezra gives me a doubtful look.

“Try harder, Cole,” Wells drawls, then leans against the wall in amusement.

I stare into my glass, willing away the memory of her. Yet since the day she landed at the ranch, she’s been a constant thorn in my side. A distraction.

River shrugs his shoulders, siding with Ezra. “You said she’s good, right? She can handle it, Cole. Relax.”