Best Kept Secrets (Complete Series)

by Kandi Steiner

  “Ah,” Lucy said, her lips poking out as she tongued her cheek. “The Barnett.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Lucy nodded toward the front doors. “Too pretty for manners, I suppose. But then again, can’t really blame her, considering who her mother is.”

  Lucy kept talking, but my gaze had drifted to the fiery-haired girl pacing outside. The sunlight reflected off her auburn hair like it was the red sea, her eyes shielded by sunglasses too big for her face as her all-white stilettos carried her from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. She had one arm crossed over her slim waistline, accented by the gold belt around her crisp white dress, and the other held a cell phone up to her ear. Her lips moved as fast as her feet, the swells painted the same crimson shade as her hair.

  She was nineteen, dressed like she was at least thirty, with a walk that told me she didn’t take any shit.

  “She stepped outside to take a phone call a few minutes ago,” Lucy said, bringing my attention back to her. “Want me to let her know you’re ready?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly, my eyes traveling back to the girl. “I got it. Thanks, Lucy.”

  When I pushed out into the Tennessee heat, squinting against the glare of the sun, the first thing I noticed were her legs.

  I’d seen them from inside, of course, but it wasn’t until I was right up on her that I noticed the lean definition of them. They were cut by a line of muscle defining each slender calf, accented even more by the pointy-toed heels she wore. She was surprisingly tan, considering her hair color and the amount of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, and that bronze skin contrasted with her white dress in a way that made it hard not to stare. The skirt of that dress was flowy and modest, but it revealed just a little sliver of her thigh, and I had to mentally slap myself for checking out a fucking teenager.

  “Mama, I don’t care if the flowers are dust pink or blush pink. That sounds like exactly the same shade to me.” She paused, turning on one heel as she reached the far end of the sidewalk.

  I kept watching her legs.

  “Well, I’m not Mary Anne.” Another pause. “Why don’t you just call her, then? She’d be happy to argue with you about which shade of pink is better, I’m sure.”

  “Ms. Barnett?”

  She stopped mid-stride, slipping her sunglasses down her nose just enough to flash her haunting, hazel eyes at me before the shades were back in place again.

  “I have to go, Mama. I think the…” She hesitated, assessing my appearance. “I think the fine gentleman who will be showing me the barrel is here.”

  I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest. If she thought I was going to back down from her I’m-better-than-you attitude, she was mistaken.

  “Yes, I’ll come right home after. Right. Okay, okay.” She sighed, tapping her foot before she pulled the phone away from her ear. “Okay, gotta go, BYE.”

  When the call was ended, she let out another long breath, pulling her shoulders back straight as if that breath had given her composure. She forced a smile in my direction, the phone slipping into her large handbag as she stepped toward me.

  “Hi,” she greeted, extending her left hand. It dangled limply from her dainty wrist, a diamond ring the size of a nickel glimmering in the sunlight on her ring finger as it hung between us. “I’m Ruby Grace Barnett. Are you showing me my barrel today?”

  “I am.” I took her hand in my own, her soft skin like silk in my calloused, dirty palm.

  Her nose crinkled as she withdrew her hand, and she inspected it for dirt as she reached into her bag, pulling out a small tube of hand sanitizer.

  “I’ve been waiting forever.” She squirted a drop of the cleaner in her hand and rubbed it together with the other. “Can we move this along?”

  I sniffed, tucking my hands in my pockets. “Of course. My apologies, ma’am.”

  I started off in the direction of the warehouse that stored our single barrels, not checking to see if she was following. I heard the click-clack of her heels behind me, her steps quickening to catch up.

  “Ma’am,” she repeated incredulously. “That’s what people call my mother.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not an ounce of actual apology in my voice. “Would you prefer Miss?”

  “I would,” she said, sidling up to my side. Her ankles wobbled a little when we hit the gravel road. “Is there… are we walking the entire way?”

  I eyed her footwear. “We are. You going to make it?”

  The truth was, we had a golf cart reserved specifically for showing our clients the single barrels. In the back of my mind, I knew I should grab it. Miss Barnett was a potential buyer. But the way Lucy had responded to my mention of her name, and the way she’d practically curled her lip at the sight of me was enough to make me conveniently forget about the cart.

  Little Miss Ruby Grace could walk in those heels she loved to tap so much.

  She narrowed her eyes at my assumption. “I’ll make it just fine. I’m just surprised you don’t have… options for your clients. Especially considering the price of the product I’m here to inquire about.”

  The words were strange as she spoke them, holding a level of arrogance but softened by the lilt of her Tennessee twang. It was like she was still a little girl, playing dress up in her mom’s heels, trying to be older than she was.

  I stopped abruptly, and Ruby Grace nearly ran into me before her heels dug into the gravel.

  “I could carry you,” I offered, holding my arms out.

  Her little mouth popped open, her gaze slipping over my dirty t-shirt. Even though she was eyeing me like a mud puddle she had to maneuver around, I noted the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks, the bob of her throat as she swallowed.

  “I don’t need you to carry me, sir.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “What is your name, anyway?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I started walking again, and she huffed, hurrying to catch up.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  It means, I know you don’t give a rat’s ass what my name is and you’ll forget it as soon as you walk out of this distillery and back into your little silver-spoon world.

  I sighed, biting my tongue against the urge to be an asshole.

  “Noah.”

  “Noah,” she repeated, rubbing her lips together afterward, like she was tasting each syllable of my name. “Nice to meet you.”

  I didn’t respond, reaching forward to unlock the warehouse door, instead. Once the lock clicked, I tugged it open, gesturing for Ruby Grace to enter.

  She stepped through the doorframe, pushing her glasses up to rest on top of her head as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The distinct smell of oak and yeast settled in around us, and when the door closed, Ruby Grace’s eyes found me, wide and curious.

  “Wait,” she said as I flipped on a few more lights. “You’re Noah Becker, aren’t you?”

  The skin on my neck prickled at the way she said my last name, as if it said more about me than my dirty clothes in her mind.

  “What about it?” I turned on her, and she was so close, her chest nearly brushed mine. She was still a few inches shorter than me, even in her heels, but her eyes met mine confidently.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, taking a tentative step back. “I didn’t mean it in any way. It’s just, I used to sit behind you in church. When I was little.” Her cheeks flamed. “We would play this game… oh gosh, never mind. I feel so silly.”

  She waved me off, stepping even farther away as her head dipped. She clasped her hands together at her waist, waiting for me to speak, to lead us through the towering rows of barrels, but I just stared at her.

  It was like seeing her for the first time.

  That one apology, that awareness of herself, it was genuine and true. It was the young girl she actually was, slipping through the façade she’d painted so well.

  And I smiled.

  Because I did remember.

  I wasn’t sure how
I hadn’t put two and two together, but then again, how could I recognize the stunning, classy woman before me as the same freckle-faced kid who used to kick the back of my pew? She’d been just a girl then, and I had been eighteen, fresh out of high school and just as bored in church as she was. I couldn’t even remember what the game was that we played, only that it used to make her giggle so hard her mother would thump her on the wrist with her rolled-up program.

  I smiled at the memory, and then it hit me.

  I’d just checked out a woman who used to be the annoying little kid behind me in church.

  New low, Becker.

  “You were a little shit,” I finally said.

  Her eyes widened, a small smile painting her lips. “Says the Becker. You boys are notorious for causing trouble.”

  “We like to have fun.”

  She laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

  Her eyes twinkled a bit under the low lighting as she assessed me in a new way. She didn’t look at me like I was dirty and beneath her, but rather like I was an old friend, one who reminded her of youth.

  She was only nineteen, but the sadness in her eyes in that moment told me she lost her innocence a long time ago.

  I didn’t realize I was staring at her, that we’d gravitated toward each other just marginally until she cleared her throat and stepped an inch back.

  “So,” she said, eyes surveying the barrels. They were stacked thirty high and a hundred back, each of them aging to the perfect taste. “Which of these beauties is mine?”

  “The single barrels are back here,” I said, walking us down one of the long rows of barrels.

  Ruby Grace’s eyes scanned the wooden beasts as we walked, and I opened my mouth to spout off the usual selling points of a single barrel — how limited they are, how no one else would have a barrel of whiskey that tasted like hers, how each barrel was aged differently, for different time periods, and at different temperatures. But the words died in my mouth before they could come out, a question forming, instead.

  “So, you’re buying a barrel for your fiancé, huh?”

  Her eyes were still on the barrels, the corners of them creasing a little as a breath escaped through her parted lips.

  “That’s right.”

  I eyed her ring again.

  “When’s the big day?”

  “Six weeks from Sunday,” she sighed the words, fingers reaching up to drag along the wood as her heels clicked along in the otherwise-silent warehouse.

  I whistled. “That’s pretty soon. You ready?”

  Ruby Grace stopped, her fingers still on the wood as she eyed me under furrowed brows. “What?”

  I arched a brow. Did I say something wrong?

  “For the wedding? To be married? You know, commit yourself to someone for the rest of your life, that little thing you said yes to?”

  She swallowed. “I… Well, no one has asked me that.”

  “No one asked you if you were ready to get married?”

  She shook her head.

  Somehow, the rows of barrels felt smaller, narrower, like they were moving in on either side of us, pushing us together centimeter by centimeter.

  There was so much wrong with the fact that no one had asked her that pivotal question — at least, in my mind. Here was this young girl, not even twenty years old, not even close to her prime years, and she was settling down. It wasn’t unheard of in Stratford, or anywhere else in Smalltown, USA. Plenty of my friends got married right out of high school. Most of them had kids before they could even have a legal drink.

  But something told me that wasn’t what Ruby Grace had pictured for herself.

  “Well, I’m asking. Are you ready?”

  She blinked, and it was as if that blink stirred her from the thoughts she’d been tossing around. She started walking again, folding her arms gently over her chest. I watched her try to slip on the same disguise she’d been wearing when she introduced herself to me. She wanted the world to believe she was poised — a polished woman, a dignified lady who didn’t take shit.

  But the truth was, she was still a girl, too. She was still nineteen. Who made her feel like that wasn’t okay? To just be a nineteen-year-old girl who doesn’t have it all figured out yet?

  “Of course,” she finally answered. “I mean, Anthony is great. He’s older than me, twenty-five to be exact, and he’s so mature. He just graduated with his master’s in Political Science from North Carolina. That’s where we met,” she said, her head leaning toward me a bit on that note. “At a party on campus. He said the first time he saw me, he knew I’d be his wife one day. Which is so sweet. And he’s on track to be in politics for life.” She smiled, but it didn’t mask the slight shake of her voice. “The engagement happened a little faster than I expected… I mean, we’ve only known each other a year. But I think when you know, you know. You know?”

  I smirked in lieu of answering.

  “And Mama was so excited when we announced our engagement, she wanted to do the wedding right away. It’s crazy, knowing we have what usually is about a year’s worth of work to do in six weeks. But, she’s been taking care of a lot of it… Lord knows that woman loves a project.” Her voice trailed off on a soft laugh before she spoke again. “And Anthony, he’s exactly what my family had in mind for me. And we get along, you know? We have so much fun.”

  Why did it feel like she was trying to convince me? Or maybe, it was herself she was trying to convince.

  “And you love him,” I pointed out.

  She paused, eyes flicking to mine as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Right. And I love him.”

  I could have stared at her all day, deciphering her like a riddle that had an obvious answer if I just thought about it long enough. But she shifted under my gaze, and one glance at the rock on her finger reminded me that she was someone else’s puzzle to put together — not mine.

  “Well, here they are,” I said, tapping one of the barrels on the back wall. They were stacked just as high as the rest of the room, each barrel stamped with a batch number and an exclusive, gold-plated plaque that had all the details about when it was distilled, barreled, what rows it’s been aged in over time, and more.

  “There are so many,” she said, eyes scanning up. “How do I choose? I mean, should I be looking for something specific?”

  I scratched at my jaw. “I mean, there is incredible whiskey inside each and every one of these barrels. Part of what makes buying a single barrel so enticing is that you’ll have a one-of-a-kind whiskey,” I said, finally remembering to give her the spiel I’d put off before. “Usually, we let our potential buyers taste a few to compare but…” I smirked. “There is that whole legal drinking age debacle.”

  Ruby Grace laughed. “Oh. Yeah. That old thing.”

  She swayed from foot to foot, grimacing a little as she eyed the barrels.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her face twisted again as she shifted her body weight to her left foot. “Yes. Sorry, it’s just these stupid shoes. I told my mom I didn’t need to wear heels to inspect whiskey barrels, but she was not having it with me wearing boots.”

  For a split second, I pictured her in said boots. I wondered if the brown leather would cap off under her knee, if her thighs would have been even more exposed in the shorts she would have paired with those boots. Or would she have worn jeans, covering her legs altogether?

  Stop thinking about her legs, Becker.

  “Take them off.”

  Her brows shot up, eyes widening as they found mine.

  “What?” She asked, laughing. “I can’t just take my shoes off.” She threw her arms up, gesturing to our surroundings. “We’re in an old, dirty warehouse.”

  “You act like you weren’t born and raised in an old, dirty town.”

  “Yeah, well,” she said, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t exactly working in the distillery or out raising cows on the outskirts, now was I? A little bit of a different setting when you’re the Mayor’s dau
ghter.”

  She tried to smile, but a soft curse left her lips when she shifted her weight again.

  Without hesitation, I reached back for the collar of my t-shirt and ripped it up over my head, laying it down on the ground at her feet.

  “Here,” I said, holding out my hand. “You can stand on that. It might not be a freshly polished marble floor, but your precious feet should survive.”

  Ruby Grace was gaping, her jaw completely unhinged as her eyes crawled over my abdomen and chest. “I…”

  “Shoes. Off.” I pointed at her feet. “You do that, and I’ll let you taste a few barrels. Just don’t tell anyone, least of all your parents.”

  She chuckled, but finally stepped out of her heels. They fell on their sides as a relieved sigh slipped through her lips, and I watched her polished toes curl on my t-shirt.

  “God, that feels so much better.”

  I shook my head, reaching back behind the first row of barrels for the tasting glasses we housed there. “Are you always so stubborn?”

  “I wasn’t being stubborn.”

  “I guess that’s my answer,” I said, pouring a tiny splash from one of the barrels before holding the glass toward her. “Here. Take a sip.”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s okay. Like you said, I’m underage.”

  “So you’ve never had a sip of alcohol in your life?” I challenged.

  She bit her lip. “I mean… I have, but not whiskey. That’s a man’s drink.”

  At that, I full on belly-laughed. “What the hell kind of talk is that? Whiskey is a man’s drink?” I shook my head. “It’s whiskey. It’s expensive whiskey, at that. And I assure you, it’s delicious — whether you have tits or not.”

  Ruby Grace blushed, biting her lip against a smile. “God, sorry. I sound like my mother. More and more every day now, actually,” she mused, glancing down at her toes before her eyes found the glass in my hand again.

  I pushed it toward her. “Just a sip. You’re not even going to get close to feeling a buzz. But this way, you can taste the difference between a few barrels that were aged in different ways.” I swallowed. “You can pick out the perfect one for your future husband.”