A Shot With You (Bourbon Brothers)

by Teri Anne Stanley

  Lesa’s eye began to twitch, and she blinked to keep Papa from noticing. It was the same argument they’d had forever, and yet it always stressed her out.

  Papa’s eyes sharpened. “I know. You will go with him and find out if this place is okay,” Papa said.

  “What?” Her heart leaped, but she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. Papa never wanted her to do anything but greet tourists and file paperwork.

  “We’re going to be closed to tourists for a while. You don’t have anything else to do. I do. I have meetings with suppliers all week.” Probably to bargain for more time to pay the bills. “You will see if this Blue Mountain Distillery is as safe and stable as Mr. Morgan says it is. You’ll report back to me, and then we will decide about making a deal.” He nodded as though this was a done deal.

  Lesa wasn’t about to argue. He probably thought that if she got to take a short vacation to the U.S., her dreams of leaving the tequileria to travel the world would be satisfied, and she wasn’t going to tell him there was nothing in the universe that would stop her from leaving Pequeño Zarigüeya–leaving Mexico altogether—for good, as soon as she had a chance.

  He turned and went back to the living room and said to Brandon, “Lesa will come with you. This is okay?”

  Brandon shot her a look that was part pleasant surprise and part deer in the headlights.

  “Well, sure.” He shrugged those wide shoulders.

  “But remember jefe—you touch my daughter? You die.”

  Brandon’s shoulders got a little broader, his straight back a little more rigid. Dios, he was bueno.

  “Sir, I would never do anything Lesa didn’t want me to do.” The determined way he didn’t look at her spoke volumes. Volumes Lesa was willing to fill with exquisite details about what she might like him to do to her.

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” Papa told him, but after a moment of steely eyed intimidation, waved him off.

  She sent a quick prayer of rationalization to heaven. Mama? This counts as helping Papa, right? Funny how fast the answer came back to her.

  Before Papa could change his mind, Lesa took off down the hall and said, “I’ll pack.” She touched her fingertips to Mama’s picture, where it hung in the hallway next to Jesus, between her and Papa’s bedrooms. She figured Mama would approve—after all, some of her last words, before the cancer killed her, were “Follow your dreams and help your Papa keep Pequeño Zarigüeya alive.” Considering that her dream was to travel, not to slave away at the struggling tequileria for the rest of her life, this was the best of both worlds.

  Papa followed her into her room. As she tugged the ancient suitcase from beneath the bed, he said, “You think this is a good chance for us?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she told him, with a kiss to the cheek. She grabbed three pairs of sandals and tossed them in the suitcase. The new gold heels might finally get a workout. “If you do this deal with Blue Mountain, and they help us with promoting the tequila, we’ll be in good shape in no time.”

  Papa shook his gray head. “Maybe, but I need you to be sure.”

  Lesa narrowed her eyes, folding a dress and laying it over her favorite jeans. “Okay, Papa. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  He shook his head. “You will do more than keep your eyes open. You will look. Do you understand? Make sure there is nothing risky going on there.”

  “You want me to spy?”

  “It’s not spying. It’s business. He would do the same thing. He may even be doing his own corporate espionage as we speak.”

  Lesa stuck her head out of her bedroom door and looked down the hall. Brandon stood with his hands in his pockets, examining the hundreds of family photos on the wall behind the couch. When he noticed her in his peripheral vision, he turned his head and smiled at her, an open, honest smile. Oh, that smile. And she was going to get to bask in it for a bit.

  “Okay,” she told Papa.

  “You’re a good girl,” Papa repeated. “Your mama would be proud of you.”

  She hoped so, she really did.

  Chapter Four

  Brandon maneuvered his old SUV up the long, winding driveway to his family home, glancing over at the sleeping Lesa. He wondered at her ability to sack out so completely. She’d barely murmured when he swerved to avoid hitting a deer that jumped in front of the car a few miles earlier.

  How on earth had he managed to pick up a girl on vacation and bring her home with him? He imagined his bus riding partner Edna giving a thumbs up, but his sadder, wiser conscience warned him that he might be making a terrible mistake. She was a woman, and he was…weak. No, scratch that. He’d been weak once. Not anymore. He’d learned from his mistake—from Suzanne—and he wasn’t going to be blinded by a pretty face—and sexy body—ever again.

  But damn. If he was going to have a fling with a business associate ever again…nope. No fling, no matter how much his body was trying to remind him that he was still on vacation.

  He shifted in his seat. His pants had been too tight since he’d met this woman. He had a brief moment of panic—what was he doing? Had his arousal-clouded mind influenced his decision to propose a barrel deal with Pequeño Zarigüeya? And what about his larger goal? To increase the reach of Blue Mountain Distilling into other markets? He had a fantasy that someday his family would have a hand in every pot—or still–in the world. Tequila now, then Scotch. Russian vodka. German—well, beer. That wouldn’t require a still. But he had to keep his mind on the long-term goal and not get distracted by sex.

  Though her father had threatened to kill him. Which tweaked the testosterone-fueled section of his—he-man brain?–well, whichever brain that was. But no, that wasn’t what attracted him to her. It was her quick wit, her easy smile, her energy and enthusiasm.

  Lesa was here to evaluate the distillery for its financial stability. Not to get busy with the owner’s son during the time they’d be spending together. Closely together.

  Everything had become a complete whirlwind once it had been decided that she’d come with him to visit the distillery. Brandon called his parents and grandparents, who were still on the cruise ship, to let them know of his plans. He was still a little embarrassed at how loudly Gramps had cackled over the line. “Boy, you don’t just get lucky, do you? You win the damned lottery!” Lesa had heard him—how could she not?—and given a tiny, almost secret, smile.

  After he let the cruise company know he wouldn’t be returning—and wasn’t lost at sea—they’d made plane reservations and rushed to the airport to make the last flight of the day. Lesa’s cousin had driven them, and he chattered the whole time, practicing his English.

  The cousin was especially interested to learn which celebrities Brandon knew. After assuring Raoul that he didn’t know Tom Hiddleston, Brad Pitt, or even Vin Diesel, the boy moved on to hip-hop stars, most of whom Brandon hadn’t even heard of. He was afraid he was a terrible disappointment, but Lesa assured him that Raoul told her that he thought Brandon was the shit.

  They hadn’t been able to get seats next to each other on the plane, and she’d fallen asleep moments after they got into the car.

  “Hey, Lesa. Lesa, we’re here.” He put the vehicle into park and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Oh.” She pushed her silky, black hair away from her face and smiled sleepily. A surge of affection and lust shot through him. He wouldn’t mind seeing that drowsy expression first thing in the morning. On the pillow next to his.

  “I hope there’s an unoccupied sofa available. I think I’m going to sink into it and stay there until noon tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Except there are empty beds. Mine. I mean…you can have my bed, and I’ll sleep in my brother’s room.” Good reminder that she wasn’t here to sleep with him. At all. She was a business associate. And pillow sharing wasn’t included in any of Blue Mountain Bourbon’s contracts.

  She stifled a yawn and said, “I won’t argue tonight. I’m too tired—but I don’t want to put you out of your own be
d.”

  As they exited the car and gathered Lesa’s things—Brandon’s bags were still on the cruise ship and would come home with his parents—the chilly Kentucky spring wind blew the scent of home into his lungs.

  Breathing deep, he sighed. “Just smell that air.”

  Lesa sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Huh.”

  “Doesn’t it smell great? New grass, the woods just starting to come back to life?”

  She smiled at him, and he realized he must sound like a complete dweeb.

  He shrugged, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just love this place.”

  “I can see that.” She looked wistful, turning to peer down the hill. On one side of the drive, over a rise at the bottom, was the distillery. Security lights on poles shone a fuzzy, yellow glow in the misty midnight air.

  “So that’s it,” she observed.

  “Yeah.” He tried to see it from a stranger’s point of view.

  A cluster of buildings of odd shapes and sizes all connected by cobblestone paths. Over the hill, he knew, was the building site for the new visitor’s center and tasting room. Farther away were the rickhouses. First the old one, tall, narrow, and weathered from the years and years of sun and rain. Tiny windows pierced the sides to allow airflow inside the warehouse, making it look like a prison, or a sweatshop factory, he supposed.

  Beyond that was the newer storage facility, shaped the same, but daylight would show its more uniform coloring because it hadn’t suffered as much abuse. Well, except for the fire damage. He’d only seen photos that his brother had sent after the fire. Hopefully the new construction would be underway soon.

  Sooner than soon, actually, if he was to convince Lesa that everything at Blue Mountain was copacetic.

  Lesa tugged at the backpack Brandon held for her, and he let her have it, hoisting the heavier duffel over his shoulder and shutting the back end of his vehicle.

  A security light illuminated the long stairway to the deck that led into the kitchen…the only entrance anyone here used. There was a front door, but it overlooked the other side of the hill, toward the main road, so only people driving by ever saw it. Mom said it was dumb to have even built a front door.

  “Hang on,” he said, before they went up the steps. He bent over and picked up the solar-powered glow-in-the-dark frog at the bottom of the steps. Yep, there it was, the same house key they’d been using since he and his brother were old enough to be out without their parents. “Okay. Let’s get inside and get you settled in for the night.”

  Yawning, she said, “That sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to get up tomorrow and see everything there is to see about this Kentucky you are so proud of. And Blue Mountain Bourbon.”

  God, he’d love to show her around Kentucky. Too bad they’d be spending all of their time together going over the books and the facilities with a fine-toothed comb.

  That was a weird thought. While he did love his state, and had waxed nostalgic over it just a few hours ago, he hadn’t done any local stuff in years, preferring to work, rather than waste time having fun. Although he was supposed to still be on vacation with his family. Maybe they could find a little time to sightsee. The thought didn’t give him as many heebie-jeebies as he expected.

  He climbed the stairs behind Lesa. And her behind, which swayed with every step she took. Hypnotized, he nearly stumbled into her when she reached the top and halted.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I, uh, think maybe I’m more tired than I realized,” he lied.

  “Well, then, good night, Brank,” she said with a wink, reminding him of the kiss they’d almost shared in the tequileria.

  Ah, hell. He was going to be lying awake for a long time tonight, thinking about the warm woman sleeping in his bed.

  …

  Lesa slid between the clean, crisp sheets on Brandon’s bed and breathed in his scent. The room was steeped in him. He—and his room—smelled…good. Honest. Like clean laundry, fresh air, and warm wood. Safety and peace, with a smidgen of sugar cookies.

  As different as it was—a log home with American country decorations, this place felt more comfortable to her than the house where she’d grown up, with its curtained windows and sick-room smells.

  In spite of her earlier fatigue, there was no way she’d be able to sleep here. She’d snoozed a little on the plane and really zonked out in the car—probably more passed out than actual sleep, because she’d been pretty buzzed on bourbon when she’d decided to come. But it was a good decision. Getting away from Papa and Pequeño Zarigüeya for a while was just what she needed. And if she managed to help the distillery without having to be there? All the better.

  The door to the room next to this one opened and shut. Brandon had showed her how the bathroom connected the two bedrooms. Now she heard the lock on her side click, and water running. It was surprisingly intimate listening to Brandon perform his nighttime routine. He brushed his teeth before unlocking her door again and leaving the bathroom. He would be kissably fresh when he crawled into bed—his brother’s bed, since he was giving her his, because, he said, he knew the sheets were clean.

  There had been a moment as he’d bid her good night when they both paused. He looked down at her, just inches away. His blue eyes warm and friendly, his body tall and strong in front of her, his scent enveloping her. She’d wanted to lean into him. She might have even swayed slightly forward. Maybe not. His mouth had quirked up, and he said, “Sweet dreams.”

  Dios, he was fine. And she’d caught him checking her out when she’d been dozing in the car on the way home. And there had been that almost kiss in the tasting center, although that could have been the alcohol.

  Well, they’d be together for a whole week. And though she was supposed to be studying every aspect of the distillery, looking for cracks in the financial veneer, she looked forward to being a tourist. With the hottest tour guide in the state.

  Bedsprings creaked when he lay down on the other side of the wall. There was a low murmur of voices from the television coming through. What did he watch before falling asleep? Sports? Movies? The news? Porn?

  She rolled over, hugging one of the pillows against her midsection. It didn’t really work as a human substitute, but it was as close as she was likely to get.

  Traveling always roused her senses, and this trip seemed to be arousing her…sensations. The pillow pressed against her breasts, and her nipples hardened in response. Oh, no. She wasn’t going to get busy with herself here in someone else’s bed. At least not without his permission. She giggled a little at the idea of going next door and asking if Brandon minded if she masturbated with his pillow.

  He would probably panic and have her on the next flight home before she knew what happened.

  She sighed, and her stomach growled. The only thing she’d eaten since…wow, since morning, was a couple of cookies on the plane.

  After sliding out of bed, she cracked the door to the hallway. Brandon had pointed the way to the kitchen, but told her he didn’t know if there was much in the pantry, since the family wasn’t due back for a few more days, and his brother and the girl next door had taken off on some sort of trip.

  Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she flicked on a light that showed a vast space with marble countertops, dark wood cabinets, and an enormous kitchen table.

  Opening the giant silver refrigerator, she found a drawer full of apples. She grabbed one, rinsed it in the sink, and then dug around a little more. There was a jar of peanut butter. That would work, but the loaf of bread on the counter was a few mold spores past its best-used-by date.

  Hmm.

  There was a clean spoon in the dish drainer next to the sink so she grabbed it, unscrewed the jar, and dug in. Smearing the peanut butter on the apple, she took another bite of the fruit. Her stomach sighed with joy. Not quite as exciting as snuggling up with a handsome American distiller, but as good a substitute as she could think of at the moment.

  While she chewed, she perused the life of the Morgan family a
s indicated by the contents of their kitchen. It was about as homey as a place could get. She tugged at the collar of her night shirt.

  Magnets from all over the world held photos and various papers on the refrigerator. There was a picture of a guy—almost as good looking as Brandon, but bulkier and with razored short hair, wearing military fatigues. He must be the warehouse-burning brother. There was also a picture of Brandon, in a suit and tie, accepting some sort of award. He looked really good. Happy, comfortable, pleased.

  “I won the county volunteer of the year award,” Brandon said from a few inches behind Lesa’s right ear.

  “Oh!” She whirled and smacked him in the face with a peanut-butter-coated apple.

  “Ow!” He laughed, jumping back. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Oops.” She put the apple and peanut butter on the counter and reached for a paper towel. “I was just helping myself to your kitchen. And snooping.”

  “It’s okay, really,” he told her. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  “I didn’t realize you speak Spanish,” she said.

  “Oh, honey, I know how to say all kinds of things,” he said, accepting the paper towel and swabbing at his chin. “I know ‘hasta la vista, baby,’ and ‘Una cerveza, por favor’.” He scratched his chin, with its day’s end of scruff. “Oh. And ‘Y’all know where el baño is?’”

  “Wow, that’s quite impressive,” she laughed. She was quickly falling in love with his accent.

  He was adorable in his flannel sleep pants and white T-shirt. His feet were bare, and his long toes looked vulnerable on the cold tile floor. He smiled and glanced at the apple on the counter. “I’m sorry. I should have fed you dinner when we got off of the plane.”

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I got into bed,” she admitted. “Here, you missed a spot.” She reached up and ran her thumb under his bottom lip, scooping up a glob of peanut butter. Without thinking about it, she held it up in front of him.

  He took her wrist and sucked the digit into his mouth. His tongue was warm and wet, stroking the pad of her thumb. Lesa nearly came from the sudden shocking sensuality of the gesture.