A Shot With You (Bourbon Brothers)

by Teri Anne Stanley

  Holding her gaze, he reached out and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger.

  She shifted and must have leaned forward, because his hand slid past her jaw, into her hair. Just for an instant, and then it was gone, but a trail of heat and energy remained behind. Her nipples beaded inside of her bra, and she fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest, lest she draw attention to her condition.

  The breath left her chest in a huff, and she looked away, embarrassed at how much that simple touch affected her.

  Clearing his throat, Brandon said, “So, uh, do you want to get some ice cream and then head on to our next stop? Or do you want to wait for the bourbon balls?”

  “The what?”

  “Haven’t you ever had bourbon balls?” He stood and waited while she gathered her purse. Taking her lunch trash, he shoved it in the bag with his and tossed it to a waiting trash can, making a perfect basket.

  “No, what’s a bourbon ball?”

  “Oh. Darlin.’ You haven’t lived. A bourbon ball is enough to make you give up your travel plans and move to Kentucky. It’s a chocolate truffle with bourbon in it, and it’ll rock your world. My friend Allie makes something called Brown Dog Balls, which are made with coffee and raw whiskey, and those puppies’ll put hair on your chest. See?”

  He turned and pulled the placket of his polo shirt apart, and sure enough, she glimpsed a respectable dusting of golden hair.

  She snorted. “I may have to pass on the Brown Dog Balls, then,” she told him. But he should definitely keep eating them.

  He nodded. “Good idea. But the bourbon balls at the place we’re going? Eating those are as close to heavenly as eating—” Cutting himself off, he closed his mouth, and a bright red slash rose to each cheekbone.

  “That good, huh?” Yeah, she knew exactly what he was going to say. And she had a definite urge to compare the two heavenly activities.

  Chapter Eight

  Lesa had, indeed, loved the bourbon balls. Vocally and sensually loved them. Had moaned and sighed and done everything except cry “more, baby, more,” at them.

  He promised to get his grandmother’s recipe for her, and she left the candy shop with a chocolate smudge on her lower lip and a smile on her face. “Where to next?” she asked.

  Anywhere you want, he thought, not for the first time. His cerebral cortex piped up and reminded him that he was supposed to be showing her the Blue Mountain books, or taking her to visit retail outlets in the area to show her how well-placed their products were.

  But the parts of him that begged him to slide his hands around her waist, pull her against him, and kiss her senseless said, “What would you like to see?”

  “Horses. Up close. We’ve driven by a million farms. I want to pet some.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “I know just the place.”

  …

  She was delighted with the Kentucky Horse Park. She practically ran from stall to stall visiting each animal, cooing over the draft horses and thoroughbreds alike.

  What had been a great spur-of-the-moment idea may not have been his best one, Brandon mused an hour later. The horse park had everything he remembered from coming here as a kid. Statues of famous racehorses, history, farriers and leather workers, and of course, horses. Which he’d half-hoped he’d outgrown being allergic to. As his eyes began to water and his nasal passages swelled, he felt like an ass. But he supposed he was in the right place. They kept horses and asses here.

  “Ibe sorry,” he told Lesa, after he sneezed for the hundredth time. “I’ll go wait id the car, you go odd and see the foals.”

  “Nonsense,” she told him. “Where’s the gift shop?”

  “I really dought thick I cad go shoppig right dow, but you go ahead.”

  He thought she shook her head, but his vision had gotten so blurry, he wasn’t sure.

  “Just sit here for a minute,” she said, and shoved him at a bench.

  “Honey, stay away from that man,” he heard a mother tell her child. “He’s spewing virus all over the place.”

  He wanted to protest and explain it was just an allergy, but he was too busy sneezing.

  “Here.” Lesa was back before he knew it. “I got you some antihistamine and some tissues.” She handed him the little bottle. “Hang on, there’s water here, too.”

  He managed to get the medicine opened and tipped the pills into his hand.

  “Thagks,” he muttered, swallowing the pills with a big chug of cool, kind, throat-clearing water.

  Then he blew his nose.

  “You okay to walk now?”

  Brandon was glad Lesa remembered where they’d parked his car, because he could barely see his own feet. This was not a good feeling, needing to be led around by his arm. He should have known better. It had been years since he’d been around a horse—good thing they were bourbon people and not Derby folk, so he could avoid the beasts. Most of his friends and family went to Keeneland for the yearling sale, or Churchill Downs for the Derby each year, but he avoided both venues. He wasn’t much of a betting man, anyway, so he hadn’t realized the horses could still get to him.

  Watching Lesa pet and coo over the animals was worth every tissue he needed now. She made as much of a fuss over an old grizzled draft horse with one eye as she did over the elegant Arabian. And his pain-in-the-ass dogs, for that matter.

  They reached the car and Brandon dug out the keys.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Lesa said. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

  True. He could still barely see. He sneezed again and blew his nose.

  “Let’s get in and turn on the air conditioning. That’ll probably help.”

  It wasn’t particularly warm out, but running the air should filter out some of the horse dander in the local air. It was worth a shot.

  He hated feeling out of control like this. His attempt to show Lesa what a fabulous business he was part of had already hit a few snags, and now he was reduced to a sniffling, teary, itching mess of hives.

  Oh hell. He was breaking out in hives. He began to scratch.

  “Brandon, your shirt is covered in horse hair. And so are your jeans. Hurry up, take them off.” She tugged on his waistband, pulling his shirt up.

  He started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, giving a hard yank that nearly took his head off.

  “I’ve been fantasizing about you ripping off my clothes since I met you, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be in a public parking lot,” he said.

  There was silence.

  Brandon ran back over what had just come out of his mouth. “Well, the good news is, the Benadryl is taking effect,” he said.

  Lesa chuckled, maybe not as offended by his lame attempt at humor as he expected. A shiver ran over his skin that had nothing to do with allergic reactions.

  She stepped closer, and he managed to focus well enough to see her smiling up at him, a come-hither look on her face if he’d ever seen one. And his dick was hithering. Oh, boy, was it hithering. Hither was the opposite of wither, right? Because he was getting hard.

  Aw, geez. Her fingers slipped behind his belt buckle and began working the leather free from the metal clasp while she stared up at him.

  He leaned to kiss her, but her mouth was so far away, he had to lean more, and then—

  “Brandon!” Lesa caught him before he completely toppled over and pushed him back until he was more or less upright.

  “How many of those pills did you take?” she demanded.

  “I’m not really sure.” Hey, so sue him. He was having an itching, sneezing, watery eyes and hives moment.

  “Give me the bottle.”

  He dug into his pocket and pulled it out, handing it over.

  She popped off the lid and looked inside. “There are three left. You started with twelve.”

  “Um, oopsie?” Brandon yawned.

  “Yes, hello?” Lesa had her phone to her ear.

  “Hi,” Brandon said, finding his own phone
and holding it up. “It’s me, Brank.” He was glad she was calling him. She was so pretty. He liked her a lot.

  “Shhh.” Lesa waved her hand at him. “I’m not talking to—yes, 911 operator, my name is Lesa Ruiz, I’m calling from the Kentucky Horse Park. I don’t know if I need an ambulance, but my friend just took nine antihistamine pills, and he seems very confused.”

  “I’m not confused,” Brandon argued. “I know exactly how I feel. I like you.”

  She smiled at him, a bright, sunshiney, happy girl smile, and he wanted to try to kiss her again. But she turned her back on him. That wasn’t nice.

  “Yes, I’ll hold on.” She turned to face him again. “I’m trying to find out if you’re going to die of an overdose.”

  “An overdose! That’s terrible! I don’t do drugs. I never even tried to smoke pot when I was in—”

  “Yes. Thank you. Yes. My friend was having an allergy attack, and he took nine antihistamine tablets.” She looked at him. “He’s about six feet tall and two-hundred pounds?”

  “Six two and one-ninety,” Brandon told her, hands on hips, indignant that she thought he was short and fat. He thought she liked him back, but maybe he was wrong.

  She was still talking and listening to the person on the phone, but then she smiled again. “Thank you very much.”

  Pocketing her phone, she turned, pushed Brandon around, and marched him toward the passenger side. “The good news is, you’re not going to die,” she told him, opening the car door.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said, bending to get in.

  “Wait.” The command in her voice was clear, and it kind of turned him on. Maybe he should talk her into going back into the gift shop and buying a crop. She’d look really hot in black leather, with—

  “You still have to take off your pants. You don’t need horse hair in your car. I’ll put them in a plastic bag with your shirt.”

  She crossed her arms and tapped her foot while she waited for him to pull off his jeans. He got stuck when they fell to his feet and wouldn’t go over his gym shoes, but she just shook her head and told him to sit down and take them off.

  He finally managed to get his shoes and pants off and slid into the seat.

  A second later, she was in the driver’s seat. “Do you need help with your seat belt?”

  “Nope.” He managed to get it buckled. “You said I’m not going to die. If that was the good news, what’s the bad news?”

  “Besides me having to spend the next hour in a car with you wearing nothing but those ridiculously cute boxer shorts? You’re going to pass out soon and sleep until…well, who knows?”

  “Oh. Then I guess this isn’t a good time to tell you that I decided we should fling, because my hither isn’t withered.”

  And that was the last thing he remembered for many, many hours.

  Chapter Nine

  Late the next morning, Lesa sat in a rocking chair on the porch outside of the business offices of Blue Mountain Distilling and watched the sun fight for dominance in a wet, partially cloudy sky. Brandon was inside talking to the manager, Caleb, but Lesa had elected to wait outside. She figured he needed a break after she’d tried to convince him that she was crippled from having to carry his doped-up self to bed the night before. In reality, he’d managed to stagger in on his own, but as she suspected, he hadn’t actually been awake.

  The morning was glorious as a few victorious beams shot down to the walkway and shone against the cobblestones. A robin landed in the nearby grass and immediately scored something useful, because it carried its prize away, struggling under the weight of the heavy bug.

  If she were in Mexico right now, there would likely be a lizard in their courtyard, sunning itself, waiting for its own unsuspecting critter. And if she were in Paris, it might be a pigeon. Same cycle of life, everywhere around the world.

  It was a couple of hours earlier at home, so Papa would probably just be turning on the television in the living room, settling into his big chair with a cup of coffee. Tia Rita would come in and nag him about the coffee rings on the end table, and he would pretend to agree to use a coaster and then put the cup right back down on the wood as soon as she left the room.

  She missed him, but didn’t miss the distillery. Of course, she’d just replaced one with another. But this was temporary. She’d do what she was sent here for, and then she’d be on her way. Keep your eyes on the final prize, she reminded her conscience. She’d find a way to prove to Papa that he should take a chance, do something different for a change and trust someone—Blue Mountain and Brandon, specifically, and then she could be free and clear, off to travel the world, like she wanted to do.

  All alone, no one to be responsible for, no one to tell her what to do or how to do it.

  Why did that thought depress her suddenly? Before, she’d always thought going around the world, working and living in different places would be so exciting. Like that woman—Julia Roberts played her in the movie—who took off from her regular life to eat ice cream and do yoga?

  Before she was able to fully contemplate the fact that the Julia Roberts character ended up with Javier Bardem, her reverie was interrupted by the creak of a screen door.

  Brandon stood in front of her, completely gorgeous in jeans. Jeans! All sixteen pairs (that was just a guess) of khakis must be in the wash. He did have on his ever-present knit polo shirt with the Blue Mountain Logo across one well-formed pec. He scratched his head. “Well, it looks like the still room is in the process of being dismantled so it can be put back together, so we’ll have to pick back up there tomorrow, hopefully.”

  “That’s okay.” She stood. “We can start somewhere else, if you want. One of the rickhouses?” Or not. She was already impressed with Blue Mountain. Looking at equipment and warehouses wasn’t really up her alley.

  That hand went back to his head, rubbing. “Yeah, so…that’s having a little work done today, too.” He looked up at her from under his eyebrows.

  She already knew that one of the rickhouses had burned recently, and while she wanted to see the functional one, it wouldn’t be a long-involved part of the tour and could wait. “What’s broken?”

  “The pressure regulator on the big still is…” He launched into an explanation of mechanics Lesa assured herself she could have followed if she’d really been interested. “And then we have to get the safety inspector out here to sign off on the repairs before we fire it back up.”

  He was being awfully forthright for someone who was supposed to be convincing her that Blue Mountain was in good financial shape. And it said something about Lesa and the people her family did business with that she was surprised to meet someone who was so…honest about issues he was having.

  So no distillery tours today.

  What a shame—not. They’d have to do something fun again. “How long will that take?” She found herself looking forward to spending more time with Brandon. What had he said yesterday? He wanted to fling. There was something about hithering and withering that she hadn’t understood, but she was more than interested in finding out exactly what that had meant.

  “It’ll take another day or so to get things fixed up.” He looked so distressed that she wanted to reassure him everything would be fine. She’d never met anyone who took his job so seriously.

  She shrugged. “Okay. So what else can we do? What else is there to this Bluegrass state besides horses, bourbon balls, and hot guys?” There were plenty more fun things to see and do around here. He was Mr. Travel Brochure, after all.

  His eyebrows rose at that last part, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he said, “Maybe we can drive to the Corvette museum this afternoon. A big ol’ sinkhole sucked in a few cars there a couple of years ago, and I’ve been hankering to see what they did to fix that mess.”

  “Hankering? Really? And a sinkhole?”

  There was that smile again. Oh. And a dimple.

  Lesa didn’t sigh out loud.

  He tucked his hands in his pockets, which di
d interesting things to the way the fabric stretched across his lower body. “Yeah. I don’t think Blue Mountain is in any danger, but there are all kinds of caves under the western part of the state, and I’d like to see what happens in a worst-case scenario.”

  Lesa shook her head. Leave it to Brandon to put the “work” into an afternoon of fun.

  He smiled. “In the meantime, let’s go over to the McGraths’s and see if we can visit the site of the new business and tasting center. Eve and Lorena got in last night, and they can show us what we’ve got coming in the next few months.”

  Well, that, at least, sounded interesting.

  The McGraths, Lesa remembered, were the other family that owned Blue Mountain Distilling. Lorena was the mother, the father and brother each having died a few years ago. There were two daughters, Eve and Allie.

  “Do you want to walk or take the golf cart?” he asked.

  “Oh, the golf cart. I love fast cars.”

  “Great. You’ll love the Corvette museum, then.” He reached his hand out to pull her to her feet.

  His fingers were warm and firm around hers, and his scent wafted over her as she skipped a bit to keep up. His arm bumped into her shoulder, and she admired his strength, height, and contagious enthusiasm. He tugged her along, down the steps and over the stone path.

  She laughed when she saw the cart. It was yellow with black racing stripes.

  “You did say that you like fast cars, right?”

  “Yes, yes I did.”

  “Well, baby, hang on!”

  …

  “Hello!”

  Brandon watched Lorena McGrath open her slender arms and embrace Lesa in a welcoming air-hug-non-kiss that would have anyone less familiar with the Blue Mountain family believing that the women were long-lost sorority sisters.

  Lesa seemed a bit surprised, but welcomed the embrace Lorena offered after Brandon introduced her as a potential business partner from Mexico.

  Eve, his childhood friend and Lorena’s oldest daughter, shot Brandon a look. From long experience he interpreted it as, “Look out, she’s in Alexis Carrington mode.” Alexis Carrington was the villainess in an eighties prime time soap opera, and while Lorena McGrath didn’t often spend time trying to wreck other people’s marriages, she was a major maternal control freak, rarely listening to anyone but her own internal fears.