by Jenna Sutton
“Don’t worry,” Beck assured him. “Gabe and I can handle that.”
Gabe frowned. “I’m flying home tomorrow morning. Remember? I promised my mom I’d go antiquing with her this weekend. I canceled my last trip, and I really don’t want to disappoint her again.”
Gabe’s mother, Annabelle, was one of the nicest women Beck had ever known. When his dad had died, and he needed a place to live so he could finish his senior year of high school, Annabelle welcomed him into her home. And when Callie tried to ruin his life, Annabelle was one of the few people who hadn’t believed his ex-girlfriend’s lies.
“I don’t want you to disappoint her, either.” Beck rubbed the top of his head. “Don’t cancel your trip.”
Ren grimaced. “Why would you waste your time antiquing? There are so many better things to do.”
“Because it makes my mom happy, and I want to spend time with her.”
Beck could understand why Gabe wanted to make Annabelle happy and spend time with her. In fact, if she were Beck’s mother, he might be one of those sons who went antiquing too. But his mother wasn’t anything like Annabelle, and he couldn’t care less about making Sibley Beck happy or spending time with her.
He hadn’t seen or spoken to his mother since she’d packed up her belongings and blown out of town shortly after the Feds knocked on their door. Beck hadn’t been surprised when Sibley decided not to stand by her man, but he hadn’t expected her to forget she had a son.
Gabe nudged Beck’s forearm with his elbow. “Since Ren and I are going to be unavailable, it looks like Ava Grace is all yours.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Deep cracks snaked across the sidewalk leading to Trinity’s office, and Ava Grace gingerly picked her way around them. She didn’t want the five-inch heels of her strappy black stilettos to get stuck. At best, she’d be embarrassed. At worst, she’d break her ankle.
She usually wore cowboy boots or ballet flats, but she’d decided today’s meeting with Beck required do-me heels and a short, sexy dress. Admittedly, it was an outfit better suited to a night out. But she had a very good reason for wearing it. She wanted Beck’s attention. She wanted to see lust burning in his dark eyes.
Ever since she and Mercy had talked at the farmhouse, Ava Grace couldn’t stop thinking about the sad state of her sex life. It really was pathetic.
Mercy was right—working with Trinity offered Ava Grace the perfect opportunity to get to know Beck better. She needed to take advantage of it. Take advantage of him.
As she reached the door, she gripped the handle. Nerves made her hands sweaty, and the steel slipped through her fingers.
Beck was the first man she’d ever chased, and she wasn’t entirely comfortable being the pursuer. She didn’t want to come across as desperate, but she didn’t want to be too subtle either.
Irritated with herself, she shook her head and wiped her hand on the stretchy material of her red dress. There’s no reason to be so nervous!
She’d sung live in front of millions of people when she competed on American Star. She’d toured the nation with some of the hottest acts in country music. She’d been a guest on every major morning and late-night TV show.
If she could handle all that, she could handle a one-on-one meeting with Beck.
Suddenly, lurid images of being one-on-one with him flooded her mind—his hard body on top of hers, his chest cushioned against her breasts, and her legs wrapped around his waist.
Her stomach fluttered and warmed, and she pressed her palm against it. Maybe she couldn’t handle a one-on-one meeting with Beck after all … not without making a fool of herself.
Why was it easier to flirt with guys she wasn’t attracted to rather than a guy she really was interested in?
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before pulling open the door. It was cool and quiet inside the warehouse, but she heard the faint sound of male voices. She ventured deeper into the building, her heels clicking against the concrete floor.
“Hello,” she called out, wincing when her voice echoed.
Beck’s voice boomed from the back of the warehouse. “Be right there.”
She turned toward his voice, and he emerged from an open doorway. He wore jeans topped with a faded maroon T-shirt inscribed with: Keep Your Friends Close and Your Bourbon Closer. She wondered how many of those bourbon shirts he owned.
He made his way to her in a long-legged stride, his boots making a hollow thump with every step. As he stopped in front of her, one side of his mouth lifted in a smile.
“Good afternoon, Miz Landy.”
She held out her right hand, and he stepped closer. With her sky-high heels, they were almost the same height. “Total strangers stop me on the street and call me Ava Grace. You can too.”
Staring into her eyes, he took her hand. “Good afternoon, Ava Grace.”
It was the first time she’d heard him say her name. His deep drawl, along with his warm, callused hand, made her mind go blank. It took her a moment to respond.
“Good afternoon, Beck,” she replied, her voice huskier than normal.
Her extreme response to him sent unease slithering through her. She couldn’t think of any other man who impacted her like Beck.
“Thanks for coming by today,” he said.
“I’m…” Her lips were dry, and when she licked them, his gaze dropped to her mouth. The warmth in her belly started to simmer. “Excited,” she finished breathlessly.
His fingers tightened on hers before he abruptly dropped her hand and stepped backward, putting more space between them. “Ren was upset he couldn’t be here, but he had a family emergency.”
“What happened?” she asked, knowing the question was nosy, nosy, nosy.
Beck gave her a censuring look. “It’s a family emergency.”
She smiled, neither embarrassed nor repentant. Her curiosity was one of her worst and best traits.
“I’m horribly nosy,” she confessed, pushing her loose hair over her shoulder. “I don’t even try to control it anymore. It takes too much effort. And I eavesdrop too.”
Beck stared at her, clearly stunned by her admissions. Then he threw back his head and laughed. The rumbling sound ricocheted off the high ceilings.
“Amelia says I could’ve had a great career in law enforcement if I hadn’t won American Star.”
“Landy, Texas Ranger.” Beck’s grin showed off his straight, white teeth. “It has a nice ring to it.”
She laughed. “Well, I’d rather use handcuffs than wear them, that’s for sure.”
His eyes widened, a swath of red settling high on his cheekbones. He cleared his throat roughly. “Umm…”
She hadn’t intended any sexual innuendo, but he certainly had heard one. And now that he obviously had sex on his mind, she decided it was the perfect time to call attention to her outfit.
“If I were a Texas Ranger, I couldn’t wear a dress like this.” She skimmed her hands over the red fabric covering her hips. “Where would I put my gun?”
She tapped a finger against her bottom lip, and his gaze fell to her mouth. “I’d probably have to strap it to my leg,” she said, pivoting her knee outward and patting her bare thigh.
His glance slid down to her leg, and she watched him as she stroked her hand a little higher, just under the hem of her dress. He breathed deeply, the movement of his broad chest noticeable.
“And I’d have to put my badge here,” she added, trailing her hand from her thigh to her chest.
His eyes followed her hand. She stopped when she reached the low-cut square neckline.
Dipping her forefinger into her cleavage, she murmured, “I’d put it right here.”
She moved her finger up and down. His nostrils flared, and the color on his cheekbones spread to the rest of his face.
“Where would you put it, Beck?” she asked softly.
His head snapped up, and when their eyes met, she saw exactly what she’d hoped: lust. A volcano of desire erupted inside her,
flooding like lava through her veins and pooling between her legs.
They stared at each other, still and silent. All too soon, the fiery lust in his eyes cooled.
“This is a working distillery,” he growled. “Next time you visit, wear something more appropriate.”
His chastising words made embarrassment creep through her. But she hid it behind a sarcastic question, “And what would be more appropriate?”
She knew the answer, of course. But overalls and steel-toed boots wouldn’t have caught his attention.
“Clothes,” he snapped.
“I am wearing clothes,” she replied in a dulcet tone.
He snorted. “Just barely.” Looking down at her feet, he snorted again. “And your shoes … are you training to be a dominatrix?”
“No.” She smiled sweetly. “I already graduated.”
He barked out a harsh laugh. “With straight As, no doubt.” He studied her for a moment before tilting his head toward the doorway. “Ready to learn about bourbon?”
He didn’t wait for her to respond. He led the way, and she followed, taking care not to trip. He’d probably laugh if she did, or say I told you so. She growled under her breath, overwhelmed with a new desire—the desire to kick his tight butt with the pointy tip of her dominatrix shoe.
“This is my office, at least until we renovate the warehouse,” he announced as she crossed the threshold.
The cardboard boxes were the first thing she noticed. They covered every inch of the concrete floor. She wasn’t an organization freak, but her fingers itched to unpack them.
The back wall was exposed red brick and featured several large windows. A rectangular whiteboard hung on the side wall, also red brick. The walls, coupled with the sleek glass-and-metal desk and black leather chairs, created an industrial-meets-high-tech vibe. A large computer monitor and keyboard sat on the desk, along with several bottles of bourbon and a number of crystal tumblers engraved with the Trinity logo.
“Have a seat,” he invited, gesturing to the chairs.
While he stood next to his desk, watching her with those coffee-colored eyes, she tossed her purse in one of the chairs and sat in the other. She crossed her legs, slowly, deliberately, and enjoyed a whisper of satisfaction when his gaze flicked to them.
His jaw tightened before he moved toward the whiteboard. After picking up the dry erase marker, he began to write. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, emphasizing the lean muscles of his back.
Clenching the armrests, she scooted the chair until it faced the whiteboard. He’d written Bourbon 101 at the top in large block letters, but his body hid the rest of the board. After a couple of minutes, he shoved the cap back on the marker and turned.
“You might want to take notes,” he suggested curtly.
“I think I’ll be okay. I have a good memory.” She gave him a teasing, flirtatious smile. “And if I have to, Professor Beck, I’ll stay after class for special tutoring. Maybe you can suggest a couple of ways I can earn some extra credit.”
*****
Beck kept his gaze on Ava Grace’s face, trying not to think about her earning “extra credit” on her knees with her hot mouth wrapped around his cock. Her plump lips were slick with red gloss the same color as her miniscule dress.
Jesus, that dress. And those shoes. Just kill me now.
She tilted her head, and long hair spilled over her shoulders in a waterfall of pale amber and champagne. It was beautiful—thick and shiny—and he wondered if she was a natural blonde. An evil voice inside him whispered, Why don’t you find out?
Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind to focus on bourbon instead of blow jobs and blond bushes. He spun to face the whiteboard again and shifted to the side so she could see.
“Okay, the first thing you need to know: bourbon is an alcoholic distillate from a fermented mash of grain. That definition applies to all whiskey, and it’s important to understand all bourbon is whiskey, but not all whiskey is bourbon.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There are several differences.” He pointed to the first bullet point on the whiteboard. “First, bourbon is an American spirit. Federal regulations require whiskey to be made in the U.S. to qualify as bourbon.”
“So other countries can make bourbon, but they just can’t call it that?”
He glanced over his shoulder and found Ava Grace’s gaze locked on his ass. He wasn’t sure any woman had ever ogled him quite so blatantly. Her obvious appreciation made his cock throb.
He swallowed hard before turning back to the whiteboard. “If other countries make bourbon, they have to label it whiskey,” he confirmed. “The second thing that differentiates whiskey from bourbon is the grain, both the types of grain and the percentage of each grain. Bourbon is made from corn, malted barley, and either rye or wheat.”
He moved to his desk and picked up one of the glass containers used to bottle Trinity. Instead of liquid, however, the triangular-shaped vessel was filled with layers of grain.
Holding the bottle in one hand, he pointed to the grain with the other. “This is Trinity’s grain recipe. It represents the percentages of each grain we use.”
He extended the bottle to Ava Grace, and she grasped it with her slender hands. Raising it in front of her face, she studied the contents.
“Most bourbons on the market today are made with rye,” he continued. “Trinity is a rye bourbon.”
She looked up, her eyes more green than gold in the late-afternoon sunshine. “How many bourbons are on the market?”
“If you include all the craft distilleries like Trinity, there are hundreds of bourbons. But only fifteen or so use wheat instead of rye.”
Her dark blond brows rose. “You do have a lot of competition. Maybe you should make Trinity with wheat instead of rye so you’d have less.”
“The overwhelming majority of bourbon drinkers prefer rye bourbon. Plus, I’m not afraid of a little competition.” He smiled at her. “And I know you’re not either. You not only beat out thousands of people to be on American Star, you won the whole damn contest.”
Beck wasn’t a fan of reality TV. Nonetheless, he knew winning a national singing competition like American Star required more than just talent. It required a hell of a lot of guts and determination.
He propped his ass on the edge of his desk, stretched out his legs, and crossed his ankles. He was curious about her experience with American Star. Hell, he was curious about her. He had been since he heard her sing at Quinn and Amelia’s wedding.
“How many people try out for American Star?”
“Something like fifty thousand.”
“Holy shit! That would fill an entire football stadium.”
She laughed softly. “And now I sing for entire stadiums.” She rested the grain-filled Trinity bottle in her lap and leaned forward, her luscious breasts just inches from his thigh. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Tell me all your secrets.
“Go for it,” he invited.
“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Yeah, okay, I promise.”
“I just heard from Wally that the NFL wants me to record the Sunday Night Football theme song—the one that kicks off all the games.” She gave him one of her breathtaking, imperfect smiles. “Sunday Night Football is the most-watched prime-time show. More than twenty million viewers. It’s a really big deal for me.”
He whistled. “That is a big deal. Congratulations.”
The NFL deal was further proof Ava Grace had some serious star power. He was damn lucky she was willing to work with Trinity, and he silently vowed to be polite and professional, regardless of how short and tight her dress was.
“Thank you.” She leaned back in her chair. “Please, Professor Beck, continue with your lesson.”
“Where were we?”
“Grain percentages.”
“Okay. For a whiskey to be considered bourbon, it must be made from at least fifty-one percent corn and no mor
e than seventy-nine percent corn.”
He stood and rounded his desk. He pulled open the bottom drawer, and as he rummaged around in it, he said, “That brings me to the next difference between whiskey and bourbon: the barrel and aging.” He looked up. “Do you know what aging is, or do I need to explain it?”
“Isn’t it just the process of putting bourbon in a barrel and letting it age?”
“Yeah, basically,” he answered, resuming his search for the four-inch piece of wood he’d cut from one of Trinity’s used barrels. “By law, bourbon must age for at least two years in a new oak barrel. Distillers can’t use barrels more than once.”
He finally spotted the wood and nabbed it from the drawer. Straightening, he nudged the drawer shut with his knee before holding up the wood.
“This is a piece of oak from a Trinity barrel.” He passed it to Ava Grace. “See how it’s black on one side? The inside of the barrels are burned at very high temperatures. They’re charred. The charring gives the bourbon its color and adds to its flavor.”
She rubbed her fingers over the burned wood before raising it to her nose. “I can smell the bourbon.”
He nodded. “The oak is porous enough that some of the bourbon soaks into it. When that happens, the char flakes off. A lot of distilleries sell dried char pieces to barbeque joints.”
She held out the wood, and he took it from her, making sure not to touch her. He didn’t need to be reminded how soft and smooth her fingers were.
“Bourbon must be distilled at no more than 160 proof, which is eighty percent alcohol by volume,” he explained. “Do you know how proof is determined?”
She looked at him blankly, and he chuckled. “That’s okay. We can discuss proof another day.”
After depositing the wood on his desk, he picked up a bottle of bourbon. “The final difference is nothing can be added to the bourbon to enhance it. The color and the flavor must come solely from the mash, the water, and the barrel.”
He worked the cork out of the bottle and poured a finger of bourbon into a tumbler. “This is from Jonah Beck Distillery in Nelson County, Kentucky.” He passed the glass to her. “It’s won several awards. By the way, if you drink your bourbon without water or ice, you drink it neat.”
