Table of Contents
Blurb
Sneak Peek
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author | By Elizabeth Noble
Coming in February 2019
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Colt’s attention was drawn to a brochure for the Kensington Distillery and Still House. A half hour later, he was waiting in line yet again to exit a vehicle, this time the small bus to the distillery. The images in the brochure displayed only a tiny percentage of the beauty of the place. When Colt climbed down, he stood still and took everything in. While other people walked by, he remained transfixed. From the wide parking lot, a walkway led to the distillery. The collection of buildings was nestled among trees, with a manicured flower garden lining the front and walkway.
It was breathtaking. It was perfect. If Colt was ever to believe in love at first sight, it would be because of this place. He wanted to spend more time here; he wanted to belong here. He had five and a half hours to figure out how.
Whiskey and Moonshine
By Elizabeth Noble
Drunk on love.
Like a well-aged whiskey, master distiller and old-money entrepreneur Malone Kensington is elegant and refined. Unfortunately he’s also a perfectionist who is more dedicated to the success of his generations-old company than his own love life.
That company needs a public spokesman.
What Colton Hale lacks in sophistication, he more than makes up for with the charisma that’s allowed him to survive on the street from a young age and charm his way into the lucrative—if overwhelming—public position at the Kensington Distillery. When Mal takes Colt under his wing, hoping to polish off his rough edges, opposites attract and a passionate romance blossoms despite the differences in age and background. But can it survive a Kensington Board of Directors who believe Colt is nothing but a gold digger and a kidnapper determined to profit from the love of Mal’s life—dead or alive?
Acknowledgments
I’D like to thank my friends Terry, Ann, Lisa, and Naomi for their help and encouragement while I was writing this book. As always, the cover art is amazing and beyond my expectations. A big thank-you to my senior editor, Andi Byassee, and the editing team for all their help and work turning my manuscript into a book! Extra thanks to Elizabeth North and Lynn West for making me part of the Dreamspinner Press family. Mostly, a huge virtual hug to my readers. One of the joys in my life is knowing people find enjoyment from the books I write. Thank you for reading.
Chapter One
ANY day Colt managed to avoid getting the crap kicked out of him was a good day. Today wasn’t that day.
He curled into a ball, desperate to escape the blows striking his ribs. Wrapping his arms around his chest in an effort to protect himself, Colt rolled so he faced the pavement as much as possible. He coughed and gagged up pink saliva.
“You think you’re too good to suck my dick?” sneered a rough voice belonging to a man Colt only knew as Sully.
Colt pushed away from the ground and wiped one wrist over his mouth. “I got another job.”
“Yeah, day worker picking up trash is such an impressive career move.” Another kick accompanied the words.
“C’mon, this piece of shit ain’t worth our effort,” another voice said. Colt thought it was Theo, but he couldn’t be sure. “There’s much better ’cross town.”
A backpack landed on Colt’s head, and one final, brutal kick connected with his ribs. “Find a different town to live in,” the rougher voice said.
Colt shifted onto his side and watched two pairs of boots retreat down the alley. “Leaving isn’t a bad idea. Sick of this town, anyway.”
The truth was that ever since Colt, fifteen and kicked out on his—how did his father put it? “Sick little gay, fucked ass”—nearly ten years ago, he’d had nowhere to go except onto the streets. He’d moved around and eventually landed in Toledo, where he’d spent the last four years. He sort of liked it here.
However, he could learn to like it somewhere else. His health and longevity likely depended upon it. He sat up and moaned. Every bit of him ached, but he’d had worse beatings. He pulled his backpack onto his lap and rifled through it, yanked out shirts, a pair of jeans, and socks, and dumped them on the pavement beside him. His wallet was there, but the few dollars inside were gone.
“Assholes,” Colt muttered and reached through to the bottom of the pack. He pried the layers apart and stuck two fingers inside. The feeling of the cash, smooth and held with a large clip, sent a wave of relief through him. He stuffed his few possessions back into the pack and zipped it up. Colt climbed to his feet and slung the backpack strap over his shoulder, then staggered to the main street.
He kept his head down and didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he walked to the bus station. Walking through that part of Toledo at night could get a guy beat up. Good thing he’d already been beaten up. He looked bruised and battered enough that it was likely no one would come after him. Lightning didn’t strike the same place twice—he hoped. The sky was a murky black, no stars visible because of the shroud of clouds. Humidity covered the atmosphere in a thin film of haze.
Colt stepped aside when a young couple left the bus station, then slid through the open door in their wake. It was after midnight, and he was tired and aching through to his bones. He made his way to the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, he ran the water and washed sweat and dirt from his face. He dabbed at a cut on his lip a few times with a paper towel before turning the water off and looking at his reflection in the mirror.
He went into a stall, made sure it was securely locked, and hung his backpack on the hook on the door. After moving his clothes to the side, he pulled up the hidden compartment and took out his money, peeled off about half of it, and replaced the other half. Then he tucked his clothes back in place and stuffed the bills into his jeans pocket. After taking a piss, he left the stall and returned to the sink to wash up again before leaving the bathroom.
There was no one waiting in line at the counter, which considering the hour wasn’t surprising.
“I need a ticket,” Colt croaked. His throat was dry and sore, his head was throbbing, and his ribs ached.
The man behind the glass looked him up and down. “Where?”
Shoving his money into the little space under the glass, Colt said, “Wherever that will get me on the first bus I can get on.”
“One way?” The man took the money with gnarled, pale fingers and then tapped on a keyboard. Colt nodded, and a minute or so later, a ticket came through the slot and into his waiting fingers. “Charlotte. It’s in North Carolina. Been there. It’s nice.”
“Thanks.”
The man reached out and rested his knobby fingers over Colt’s. “Good luck. Make it a fresh start.”
Colt looked at the man, really looked at him. His washed-out blue eyes peered at Colt from behind drooping eyelids. They were kind eyes. Colt smiled weakly. “Thank you. I’ll try.”
“The bus is boarding over there.”
Nodding, Colt made his way to the indicated terminal. He used some of his change from the ticket to buy a bottle of juice from a vending machine before he took his place in line behind the four others already there. Once on the bus, he found a seat and sank grate
fully into it. He could finally relax and close his eyes. No one was going to beat him up here or remember that a few short weeks ago, he was turning tricks for not very much money at all. The seat was comfortable, and he relaxed farther into the heavy cushions. The temperature inside the bus was pleasant, and the idling engine provided a gentle hum. By the time the bus pulled out of the station, Colt was barely awake enough to notice.
When Colt stirred again, the interior of the bus was bright with natural light. Pushing himself straighter, Colt stifled a groan; all his muscles had stiffened up while he slept. He leaned one elbow on the window frame, rested his head against the cool glass, and rubbed his eyes. Yawning, he stretched again and looked out the window.
“Holy…!” Colt gasped softly.
He took the bottle of juice and twisted the top off, sipping as he watched the scene roll by.
The bus was traveling over a bridge. Mountains filled the windows. Mist, looking like smoke, curled up from somewhere deep in the trees. The landscape was a swirl of grays, blues, and greens.
Colt had heard of the Smoky Mountains, seen pictures and images on television, but those barely did the reality justice. He sat transfixed at the sight of tree-covered mountains that seemed to go on forever. Once across the bridge, the bus slowed and pulled into a parking lot. Shouldering his backpack, Colt waited his turn to leave the bus. It was a good thing he was able to simply stand there for a few minutes since his joints were stiff, his left foot had fallen asleep, and his knees creaked. He was toward the back, so it was several minutes before he reached the exit and steps leading outside.
“Six-hour layover, folks,” the bus driver announced via the loudspeaker as passengers shuffled to the exit. “The Kensington Distillery and Still House is just down the road a piece. They have tours, and a shuttle runs every half hour from here. Any alcoholic beverages must be in sealed containers to be brought on board. If you purchase more than two bottles, they’ll have to go in the luggage compartment.” He handed small slips of paper to everyone to label any items they wanted stored on their return.
The change from the air-conditioned bus to the warm, humid afternoon was shocking. Colt stepped to the side so others could leave the bus and dropped his head back, inhaling deeply and gazing up at the sky. The air was clean and a little damp, and the aroma of pine trees and soil filled the air. It was a pleasant change from the dingy alleyways, oil-stained pavement, and dumpsters full of rotting trash he’d left behind.
Colt dipped his neck from side to side, then rolled his shoulders and turned around to get a good look at the area as he wandered to the nearby building. The rest stop had a diner, gift shop, bathrooms with showers, and, near the door, a stand filled with brochures advertising the sights to see in the area. He bought a bag of trail mix in the gift shop and ate as he walked around.
His attention was drawn to a brochure for the Kensington Distillery and Still House. He wondered what the difference was as he thumbed through the leaflet. The photographer had taken great advantage of the picturesque landscape surrounding the distillery. “Smoke” from the mountains made up the backdrop, and a rising sun graced the sky. The buildings blended in with the scene perfectly.
“What the hell. This looks appealing, and I’m not interested in hiking around in this heat,” Colt mumbled aloud as he stuffed the pamphlet into his backpack and jogged outside to a waiting shuttle.
A half hour later, he was waiting in line yet again to exit a vehicle, this time the small bus to the distillery. The images in the brochure displayed only a tiny percentage of the beauty of the place. When Colt climbed down, he stood still and took everything in. While other people walked by, he remained transfixed. From the wide parking lot, a walkway led to the distillery. The collection of buildings was nestled among trees, with a manicured flower garden lining the front and walkway.
It was breathtaking. It was perfect. If Colt was ever to believe in love at first sight, it would be because of this place. He wanted to spend more time here; he wanted to belong here. He had five and a half hours to figure out how.
Those wishing to take one of the tours were directed to the visitor center in the middle building, so that’s where Colt went. There were free lockers for the guests since, according to the sign, bags and purses of any sort weren’t permitted in the distillery. Colt found a locker, took his wallet and the hidden money from the backpack, and shoved them into his pockets before securing the bag inside.
Colt paid for his ticket and joined the tour. When their path took the group through the distillery itself, Colt gazed in awe at the machinery used to create what was referred to as Tennessee whiskey. Colt was a little hazy on the details that distinguished whiskey from bourbon from Tennessee whiskey, but he didn’t care. The entire process was fascinating, and in the little time he’d been there, he’d become obsessed with knowing more.
A door marked Employees Only at the back of the distillery caught Colt’s eye. He sidled up and tried the handle. It was unlocked. He slipped through and took a look around at what he quickly realized was a break room. There were two refrigerators, a couple of oval tables with chairs dotted around the room, and a counter with a sink, coffeepot, electric kettle, and microwave. Two vending machines sat against one wall. Along the opposite wall was a door marked Bathrooms. When that door opened, Colt turned toward the wall, pretending to read a bulletin board.
A man walked through with his head down. It was doubtful he even looked at Colt. He certainly didn’t seem concerned that Colt was in an area reserved for employees. On the board was a flyer with job openings. Pulling the paper from the cork, Colt studied the list. A few words leaped off the page at him.
It was fate.
Along with openings that would be filled from within the current workforce and required some knowledge or skill related to distilling, there were several positions that seemed as if they were entry-level and available for new employees. There was one job that paid a dollar over minimum wage, a fortune to Colt. According to the date listed, this position had been open for a few months. The other positions had been added to the list only a week or two ago.
Colt folded the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket. He ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair and drew it back to wrap it around itself into a bun, hoping that looked neat enough. Another glance around the room revealed a fire map on the wall, which told him where the distillery manager’s office was located.
It was a short walk from the break room to the section of the building with offices. He read the names stenciled on the glass doors as he walked by. There were janitorial services, marketing, shipping, and others. One door announced Malone Curtis Kensington, Owner, President, and CEO. Curious, Colt peeked inside, but the lights were off and the room looked deserted, which he thought odd. Surely the owner would have at least one assistant and be buried in work at this time of day.
Shrugging, Colt tried to picture what Malone Kensington looked like, but he couldn’t. He was sure he must have seen the man’s image on the side of a bus or a billboard or something. An image of a big man with a bigger cowboy hat, a white suit, and a loud, abrasive manner popped into Colt’s head. Maybe he’d eventually catch a glimpse or learn something about the man if he stayed.
On the opposite side of the hall was a door stating Distillery/Still House Management. Colt pushed through that door. This was spur-of-the-moment; he hadn’t had time to plan a presentation or obtain better clothes, so he decided to go with the truth. The best cons had some basis in truth, and he only wanted a job, not to scam anyone.
Walking up to the closest desk, he folded the paper to show only the one job, held it out, and spoke to the woman standing next to the desk. Colt made sure to keep his voice soft and to appear humble. “Excuse me. Do you work here? I was hoping to talk to someone about this job.”
The woman was tall—probably close to six feet—and slender. She had the sort of toned body that came from athletics and working out. Her long black hair was pulled b
ack into a sleek ponytail that hung almost to the middle of her back. She had piercing gray eyes, high cheekbones, and impeccable makeup. Her business suit was sharply tailored and a gray that matched her eyes. Colt’s first thought was that she was a modern-day Southern Belle. Her jewelry was tasteful and understated. Probably old money.
She arched an eyebrow, folded her hands together in front of her, and asked, “Why do you want a job here?” Her voice had a soft Southern twang to it, but Colt saw immediately this was no pampered rich girl. She might have come from money, but he doubted she was a pushover. He got the impression she worked hard and long every day.
Colt glanced at the floor for a second before looking her in the eye. “I want to live in this area and learn about making whiskey. It’s sort of been a dream of mine since I was a little kid.”
Truth, sort of truth, flat-out lie? Maybe he would have to weave a bit of a tale. Wasn’t that what any job interview was anyway? A con?
“Where are you from?”
“Toledo.” Mostly true since that was his previous city. “I came here to get a fresh start.” Absolutely true.
“Do you have references?” she asked.
Colt shook his head. None that you’d want. “Mostly did day labor and kept to myself, ma’am.”
The faintest hint of a smile graced her lips for a few seconds. “Where did you live?” Now her voice was softer.
“When I could, I rented a room. Sometimes I stayed in a shelter, or in a camp, but I went to work every day,” Colt said. All true.
Her next question surprised him. “How long have you been on the streets?”
“Since I was fifteen.”
“Why?”
That threw Colt for a minute. No one ever asked why. Swallowing hard, he bit his lower lip a few times and tried not to tear up. “My dad kicked me out because I’m gay.”
The woman blew out an angry breath and looked away for a few seconds, and her entire demeanor changed. She relaxed and let her hands drop to her sides. Her face softened, and she leaned against the desk. “Felony criminal record?”
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