Okay, maybe slicing off half my shirt wasn’t the most professional thing.
Fine, Logan — you win that point.
“I’m Mallory Scooter,” I said. “Yes, as in the daughter of the owner, granddaughter of the founder. I’ll be your guide today.”
The faces of the tourists in our group lit up, a few of them exchanging excited glances. I looked back at Logan to see if he was bothered, but he still watched me with an amused smirk.
Asshole.
“So, if you’ll follow me right this way, we’re going to load up on that bus over there that will take us down to the first stop on our tour — the spring — which is where we get the fresh, delicious water that we make your favorite whiskey with.”
Everyone smiled, chatter picking up as they followed me down to the bus. I smiled proudly at Logan, but he just jotted something down on his clipboard, piling onto the bus after the group and taking a seat in the back.
And from there, the tour went perfectly.
For about ten minutes.
Talking about the spring was easy. I’d heard my grandfather tell stories about how he’d first came upon it, how it had been on the land of a pastor — a pastor who, funny enough, had a hankering for good whiskey. It was actually the two of them who made the first batch of what would become known as the distinctly flavored Scooter Whiskey.
I told that story with pride, adding in a few fun jokes my grandfather had told me about the spring, and then we were off to the next stop on the tour.
And that’s when things went downhill.
We were outside for longer than I expected — mostly due to me chatting more than was needed — and I was shivering so much from the cold, my teeth were chattering as I tried to explain the distilling process, and how the yeast from our process combined with the microcosms near the freshwater spring to form the Baudoinia mold they saw covering the trees around the distillery.
One of the women on the tour asked me if I wanted her jacket.
To add insult to injury, I completely bypassed a part of the tour in my effort to get warm, skipping the warehouse with our limited-edition single barrels inside, and going straight to the warehouse with the pot stills that initiate the distilling process. Logan had to remind me, and we had to turn back, making an unnecessarily long trek back to where we’d just left before circling around again.
The more that went wrong, the more wired I became — and the worse the tour got.
To his credit, Logan’s snarky know-it-all smirk had softened, and where he was quick and happy to point out that I’d missed part of the tour earlier, his voice was gentler as he filled in the blanks for stuff I missed as the tour continued.
Still, I was proving his point.
And I hated it.
“This is one of my favorite parts of the tour,” I explained when we made it to the barrel-raising warehouse. I schooled my nerves, reminding myself that I knew more about this place than almost anyone, and not to let a few hiccups rattle me. “Scooter Whiskey is one of the few distilleries that still makes and chars our own barrels. And this team of four is the incredible team that brings those barrels to life.”
I gestured behind me to the boys, and they all waved before getting back to work. I didn’t miss the questioning glance Noah gave Logan, but Logan just shook his head, as if to say I’ll explain later.
“Now, you might remember them from the video earlier. If—”
“What video?”
I stopped, searching for the source of the question. It was an older woman, the one who had offered me her jacket.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said we should remember them from the video. What video?”
“I—” I paused, realizing I’d skipped over the small museum of history put together over the years. It included all the versions of our bottle, label, and the first blueprints for the distillery.
It also included the video I’d just referenced — that no one had seen, thanks to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said with a smile, shaking my head. “I must have forgotten that stop. We’ll circle around after this.”
“So, you forgot that stop, and the stop earlier, and, apparently, the other half of your shirt,” she said, eyeing my midriff disapprovingly before she looked at her husband. “You’d think the daughter’s owner would be better prepared to give a tour — especially one we paid for.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group, and a few people looked away with discomfort.
I swallowed. “I’m very sorry about missing that, but I assure you, we’ll go—”
“I don’t need your assurance, dear. I need you to give us the tour we paid for. Yelp reviews said this was an amazing experience, and so far, it’s fallen pretty flat. I don’t know about these folks, but I’d like a refund.”
There were more nods, more agreements, and something that felt a lot like embarrassment settled low in my stomach. If I’d have been a more emotional woman, I might have teared up, but as it was, I just stood there, frozen like a stupid deer in headlights, not knowing what to do or say to make it right.
My eyes found Logan, and he frowned, tucking his clipboard under his arm as he made his way to the front to stand next to me.
“I apologize for the mishaps in today’s tour, ladies and gentlemen. Mallory is a new tour guide, and this is her first tour she’s led by herself. As you can imagine, it can be a little nerve-wracking.”
He touched my arm — just for a second — but it was the only source of warmth I felt in that moment.
“We’d be happy to provide refunds,” he continued. “But first, let me tell you a little more about these barrel-raisers, and then we’ll get to the best part — the tasting. Sound like a fair deal?”
There were some chuckles and murmurs of approval at the mention of the tasting, and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Logan slipped on his charm and took over, doing his best to turn the tour around.
And I couldn’t even stay to watch it.
I smiled as best I could at the group, letting them all pass me before I escaped out the back door of the warehouse and practically ran back to the main building. I crossed my arms over my exposed stomach, shaking my head as the disaster of a tour replayed over and over in my mind. By the time I made it back to the tour guide lobby, I felt something so close to what I remembered crying feeling like that I locked myself in the bathroom so I could get my shit together.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, fully clothed on the toilet, elbows on my knees and face in my hands as I focused on breathing. In and out, inhale and exhale. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t calm down, and it didn’t take me long to realize why.
I had made a fool of myself, just like Logan had said.
It was time to eat crow, to apologize to him and take back everything I’d said. Suddenly, my shirt felt idiotic. It was my sad attempt to rebel in whatever little way I could against my father and the deal we’d struck, and it’d been the catalyst for this whole disastrous day.
I had acted like a child, and what was worse, I’d lived up to the nickname I loathed so much.
I sighed, taking a moment to splash water on my face before I left the bathroom in search of Logan. He was just setting his clipboard down in his office from returning from the tour, and when he turned and found me standing in his doorway just as I had that morning, he gave me a soft, sympathetic smile.
“You okay?”
He could have gloated — God knows if it were me in his shoes, I would have — but instead, he stood there with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders folded, eyes sad like he’d just kicked a bunny.
Like I was said bunny.
I shook my head, swallowing down what was left of my pride before my eyes met his again. “Logan, I—”
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”
My words were cut off by my Uncle Mac blowing past me into Logan’s office, eyes murderous, face red and puffy as he slapped a thick stack of papers do
wn on Logan’s desk.
“A tour of twenty-five, and every single one of them demanding a refund. I had to give out free shot glasses from the gift shop in an effort to stop them from ripping our distillery a new asshole on Yelp reviews,” he fumed, pointing a finger directly at Logan. “I need an explanation, and I need it now.”
Logan stood straight, chin high and chest broad as he addressed my uncle. “Mac, this was all my fault. I thought Mallory was ready, and I let her lead the tour. I th—”
“It’s her sixth day on the job, and three of those days were spent in orientation, for Christ’s sake. What were you thinking?” He didn’t wait for Logan’s response before he continued his rant. “Of course she wasn’t ready, and you knew better than to let her do more than pour the whiskey at the tasting, let alone lead a full tour.”
“Yes, sir,” Logan agreed. “I thou—”
“I don’t need any more excuses,” Mac said, holding up a hand to silence him.
“Uncle Mac,” I said, stepping in to defend Logan. It was my mess, after all. “This wasn’t his fault. I insisted on leading the tour. I know more about this place than almost anyone, and I didn’t want to shadow. I was bored.”
“Oh no,” my uncle cried dramatically, hands framing his face. “You were bored? Well, we can’t have that.”
“You’ve made your point,” I deadpanned.
“Have I?” He took a step toward me then, and his eyes slipped to my navel, brows screwing together. “What in the hell are you wearing?” He turned on Logan again. “You let her lead a tour dressed like this?”
Logan opened his mouth, but just shut it again without responding.
I knew it was taking everything he had to not throw me under the bus.
I knew it was taking everything in him to take that verbal scolding from my uncle without standing up for himself.
“Look, I don’t have time to listen to whatever it is that’s going on here,” Uncle Mac continued, gesturing between me and Logan. “But you just lost us money, and I have zero tolerance for that. Get your shit together and don’t ever let me hear about someone in your group requesting a refund ever again. Understood?”
Logan and I both nodded, Logan’s eyes on the floor and mine on his, begging him to look at me.
“Good.” Mac glanced at Logan once more before heading toward the door, and he shook his head at me as he passed. “And for fuck’s sake, get her a proper uniform.”
I flinched when Mac left the office, slamming the door behind him and leaving me and Logan alone. I let out a long breath, shaking my head as I crossed the space between us.
“I’m so sorry, Logan. You were right, I wasn’t ready to—”
“I think we’re done for the day, Mallory,” he said, not giving me so much as a glance as he rounded his desk and took a seat, a frustrating sigh leaving his lips.
I should have left it alone, but I just stood there, waiting.
Logan picked a pen out of the cylinder on his desk, writing something on his clipboard and effectively ignoring the fact that I was still there.
“Logan, please. Talk to me.”
“About what?”
I scoffed. “Come on. I know what I did was immature, and I’m sorry. I just thou—”
“I know what you thought,” he said, slamming his pen down. He stood, finally meeting my gaze, and when he did, I wished he hadn’t.
His warm, hazel eyes were gone, replaced by a cool steel that I felt piercing me to my bones.
“You thought you knew everything. You thought my training plan was stupid, and that there was nothing I could teach you that you didn’t already know. You thought I took my job too seriously, and that you were too good to be here.”
My heart sank at my words being thrown back at me. “I didn’t mean—”
“You know, all this time I thought you were this intriguing girl,” he said, rolling his lips together before he continued. “I thought Mallory Scooter was an enigma. You were always this fascinating creature to me, because you were unlike anyone else in this town. I thought you were different, elevated, just… I don’t know. I couldn’t ever put my finger on it, but you were something I’d never experienced.”
Something happened then, a flip of my stomach, a flood of something warm and dizzying settling deep in my chest.
“Really?” I whispered.
“Really,” he said. His eyes searched mine, like he’d lost his train of thought, but in the next exhale, he flattened his lips and shook his head. “But after today, I know I was wrong. You’re just like everyone else. You have no regard for the people around you, you only think about Mallory and what serves her. So, thank you. Thank you for shattering the illusion I had of the mysterious Mallory Scooter. The veil has been lifted, along with the spell, and now I see you for exactly who you are.”
That sting I felt earlier tripled, and my eyes glossed over — not enough to leak actual tears, but enough for me to feel a cool rush of wind all the way down to my toes.
I swallowed, trying to hold my head high as Logan waited for me to respond.
But I didn’t.
What could I possibly say to that?
“Like I said, I think we’re done for the day,” he echoed, sitting back down and snatching his pen off the desk.
He started writing again, and I stood there — numb, ashamed — like a little kid put in her place. I wanted to apologize, but saying I was sorry felt just as foolish as my shirt did now. I’d gotten him in trouble, and he was pissed — he deserved to be. I wanted to make it right, but I didn’t even know where to start.
So, I left, tucking my tail between my legs like the dog I was, without another word.
There were too many emotions flooding through me as I made my way out of that distillery like a zombie. I barely remembered the drive home — only that I could barely breathe, could barely think, could barely remember why I’d been so set on leading that damn tour in the first place.
I needed to calm down, to go to the place where I could be alone, where I could work through what had happened and get a lasso around what the hell was happening to my emotions.
I needed a pencil and a blank sketch pad.
I needed a camera and a sunset in the mountains.
I needed a canvas and a palette of paint.
And I needed to find a way to make it up to Logan Becker — and prove to him I wasn’t the girl he thought I was.
Nothing cleared my mind and brought me peace as much as sketching did.
My left hand was covered in gray dust, fingers guiding the pencil over the page in my sketch pad as I kicked back in the corner of my very messy, soon-to-be art studio. More and more boxes of supplies I’d ordered had started to arrive, but I hadn’t found the time or energy to go through anything yet.
My dream was in mountains all around me, and yet something was stopping me from unboxing it.
I couldn’t think about that, though — not when my thoughts were consumed with Logan Becker and the hellish day I’d had at the distillery. And to escape those thoughts, I’d picked up a fresh new pencil, a blank sketch pad that I’d plucked from one of the boxes, and I’d turned my worries loose.
Sometimes my mind wandered while I sketched, but most of the time, it was just me and whatever I was creating — that image I was bringing to life. I’d lose myself in the comforting sounds of pencil against paper, of my hand skating across the page with each dark line or light shading. I had a soft indie playlist playing in the background, and the setting sun streaming in through the Main Street windows as my light.
A rush of cool wind blew my hair back off my shoulders, and it brought me out of my daze. I blinked, looking up at the front door, the first time my eyes had left the page since I’d sat down.
And then I sighed.
My parents were just inside the studio, looking around at the mess — Dad with his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, Mom with her hands folded over her purse hanging off her shoulder.
Dad wore
a cream cowboy hat over his white hair, his skin somehow tan even in the middle of winter. Wrinkles lined his long face, revealing more about the life he’d lived than any words could. He was tall and lean, a picturesque cowboy from an old western film. I half expected the sound of spurs clinking on his boots when he started making his way toward me, scanning the piles of boxes and yet-to-be-built furniture and supplies before his gaze found me.
“Looks like things are coming along,” he said, a sympathetic smile touching his leather lips.
I closed my sketch pad, letting it fall on the folding table I’d had my feet kicked up on before I scrubbed my hands over my face. “I know it’s a mess. I’ve been tired after work,” I said that last part pointedly. “But I’ll get started unpacking this weekend.”
“I wasn’t judging,” he assured me, though his eyes told me otherwise.
I’d learned long ago that though my father always had the sweetest words for me, though he acted as if I was the pride and joy of his life — I was far from it. It was the same with my mother, who loved him unconditionally. And with my brother, who looked up to him like he was a superhero who could do no wrong. They thought they were his everything, that he’d go to war for them — just like I’d used to think.
But I’d learned better.
My father’s main priorities were money, and that distillery, and this town of old men he had wrapped so tightly around his little finger.
That I was sure of.
“I bet it will be beautiful when you’re all done with it,” Mom chimed in, trying and failing to hide the wrinkle of her nose as she looked around the space. She wore a rose-colored pea coat that wrapped her up from shin to neck, and a fashion hat the same color hid her short, brunette-dyed hair. Her nude kitten heels tapped on the floor when she crossed to where Dad and I were. She smiled, folding her gloved hands in front of her and not saying another word.
That was what I’d come to know my mother as — a silent sidekick. Agreeable, polite, and ever the dutiful wife.
“I heard you had a rough day at the distillery,” Dad offered, resting his elbow on one of the tall boxes that held shelves I needed to put together. “Everything okay?”
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