by Lauren Layne
She gave him a tiny smile. “You’ve wanted to.”
“Only because you’re a brat.” He smiled back.
“See, that,” she said, spinning toward him now that they’d made it to the top of the stairs leading down to the subway. “That is your usual shtick. Calling me a brat, pissing me off. Just stick to that.”
“I thought I was,” he said, feeling completely flummoxed by her.
“No, you asked me if I was okay,” she said, jabbing a finger at his chest.
Christ. “So?”
“So don’t,” she snapped. “It’s not your business.”
Sam felt his temper begin to fray. “How do you figure? I’m practically part of your family.”
“Exactly,” she said, taking a step closer. “Almost, but not.”
It was true, but it stung all the same. He wasn’t related by blood, but the McKennas were everything to him. This McKenna in particular. And Liam. Liam, who would really not appreciate there being less than a foot between Riley and Sam at the moment.
“Fine,” he asked. “I won’t ask if you’re okay. I’ll just go on pissing you off and making you cry.”
Her nostrils flared. “You didn’t make me cry.”
Sam felt a little jerk of surprise. He’d been joking about the crying thing. He couldn’t imagine Riley crying, much less crying because of him.
But her nostrils had flared.
You didn’t spend a decade studying someone and not know when they were lying. And just then when she’d said he didn’t make her cry?
She’d been lying.
He’d stumbled on the truth by a lucky guess, and the truth sucked.
“Talk to me, Ri,” he said, unable to stop from reaching for her hand. “I don’t get what’s going on with you tonight.”
She snorted. “Oh, it’s just tonight you don’t know? Like you know what’s going on with me the rest of the time?”
He took a deep breath. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea, yeah.”
Riley gave a little shake of her head, dislodging a strand of hair from its messy bun. His fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Just once.
Instead he shoved his hands into his back pockets. Which turned out to be damn fortuitous, because she took a step closer and the urge to reach for her was instinctive and fierce.
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” she said, her voice going husky and dangerous. “Not the real me.”
“Don’t I?” Damn it, he couldn’t think straight when she was standing so close, drowning him in her sweet and spicy scent.
“No,” she whispered, her eyes meeting his before they moved to his mouth. “But you’re about to find out.”
She pulled back just as he was leaning forward, and she was gone and walking down the steps to the subway platform without a glance back.
He closed his eyes briefly and forced himself to turn around instead of going after her and showing her exactly what happened to women who added a lit match to an already volatile relationship.
For years Sam had been bracing for the inevitable moment when he and Riley would cross that line, and while they hadn’t quite gone there, she’d strolled pretty close to that line with her sex-kitten shoes.
“Damn you, Riley,” he muttered to himself, completely alone on the peaceful Brooklyn street. “Don’t go complicating things.”
Only he was pretty sure they’d been on the road of complicated ever since he’d walked into the McKenna kitchen for the first time at nineteen and seen her sitting on that stool looking way better than any seventeen-year-old girl had any right to look.
Ten minutes later he’d looked his best friend in the eye and agreed that Riley would remain forever off-limits.
Sam just wished he’d known then that it would be the hardest damn promise of his life.
Chapter Six
Even a lifelong New Yorker could discover new things about the city. Today’s little surprise?
There were actual subway lines that didn’t serve Manhattan.
Ordinarily, that right there would have stopped Riley in her tracks. It was blasphemy. But for this particular errand, she was determined.
It took three transfers, two don’t-talk-to-me glares at weirdos, and the dodging of a rat, but here Riley was on the G train, to the middle of Nowhere, Brooklyn.
Greenpoint wasn’t exactly the city’s hot spot. Not that there was anything wrong with the neighborhood, but since it was on the northern edge of Brooklyn, one didn’t end up in Greenpoint without a reason to be in Greenpoint.
And Riley definitely had a reason.
More of a mission, actually.
Riley had been out to Sam’s only once before, and she hadn’t been invited then either. Liam had thrown a surprise party for Sam shortly after he’d purchased the warehouse, and naturally the entire McKenna family had been on the invite list. Riley’s mother had even provided the food (spaghetti, meatballs, and a side of potatoes).
While Sam had grinned and shmoozed his way through the party, Riley was pretty sure he’d been uncomfortable with the entire thing. And he sure as hell hadn’t initiated a repeat in the years since then.
For whatever reason, he didn’t like to talk about what he did up here in the middle of nowhere with his grains and all the other crap that went into whisky making.
Liam said it was because Sam was modest.
Riley thought it was something else entirely.
She just didn’t know what.
One thing she did know was that he wasn’t going to be happy to see her, but the surprise factor was a rather crucial element of her plan. If he got even a whiff of what she had planned, he’d probably bash his own face with a hammer in order to necessitate an emergency trip to the dentist.
Since it had been quite a while since she’d last been here, she relied on the map app on her phone to get her from the train platform to the warehouse where ROON Distillery was based.
Stiletto-heel boots had not been the way to go, especially given that morning’s rainstorm. She did her best to avoid the worst of the puddles as she turned right at a run-down gas station and made her way across the gravel pit that led up to the brick building into which Sam had dumped his entire livelihood.
She paused for a second, taking it all in. It was in good condition for the area, but it was hardly the slick New York City so frequently portrayed in movies. The area was rough around the edges and just a little bit lonely.
A lot like the man inside.
Taking a deep breath, she scanned the building for the best in. When she came last time, the enormous sliding garage doors had been open. They were closed now, and there wasn’t exactly a prominent front door with a welcome mat.
Every instinct was telling her to turn back. Not only did she not belong here in her designer red dress and overpriced stiletto-heel boots, but she wasn’t wanted here. She didn’t need a closed door to tell her that.
But she’d been taking the easy way out for years. It was time to take charge of her life.
It was time to take what she wanted and hope a little desperately that she didn’t get hurt in the process.
Circling the building, she found a door with chipped navy paint and gave a hearty knock.
Nothing.
She pounded harder, but there was no response.
Damn it. She’d been counting on him being here doing … well, whatever one did at a distillery.
What if he’d managed to convince Angela that he didn’t have genital warts, and what if they were together?
Riley swallowed against the bitterness of that mental image of Sam with someone else.
Her hand went to the doorknob as she weighed her options. If it was unlocked and she entered, she’d be facing Sam’s outrage over her intruding on his private space uninvited.
Then she pictured Camille’s face when Riley told her she wouldn’t be able to write the Stiletto article for the anniversary issue.
She imagined telling the world she couldn’t
write a personal article about Stiletto’s influence on her life, because the brand she’d built for herself was based on …
Nothing.
Her wrist twisted.
The door was unlocked.
Really, Sam? No alarm system?
Riley was more than a little surprised to find herself not in a musty back storeroom but in a cozy living space. A sloppily made bed was pushed over to one side, while the other held a rustic, basic kitchen.
It was tidy, if not pristine, and Riley entered the small kitchen space, glancing over her shoulder before opening the fridge.
The hazelnut coffee creamer was a dead giveaway. The man didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he’d been a sucker for hazelnut ever since Riley’s mom had introduced him to Nutella when he was twenty.
Next up was the tiny wardrobe in the corner. There was his favorite gray hoodie, an endless supply of functional button-down work shirts, and a suit she’d never seen.
A quick survey of the dresser drawers confirmed it when she spotted at least a half dozen familiar T-shirts.
Sam didn’t just stay here occasionally.
He lived here.
Riley had had no idea. She’d always assumed he still lived in the apartment building up the street from Liam in Williamsburg.
Not that it mattered where he lived, but the surprise caught her off guard all the same. She’d always been so sure she knew Sam Compton.
But she didn’t even know where he lived.
Not that he would have thought to tell her that he’d moved. He didn’t think of her at all.
Things definitely weren’t looking good for her plan, but she’d come this far. What was the worst he could say—no?
Actually, that would be pretty bad. Really bad.
Come to think of it, she’d probably have to leave the country …
Her fingers traced the steel picture frame on his dresser, recognizing it as the picture of Liam and Sam that her mom had given them both for Christmas the year before. It was an almost obnoxious display of great masculine looks. Liam with his jet-black hair and bright blue eyes so like her own, and Sam as the perfect blond foil. In some ways, Riley could probably blame her older brother for her current predicament. Had he really needed to pick the most gorgeous man on the planet as a best friend?
It probably wasn’t fashionable for a grown man to have a picture of his best friend on his dresser, but then again, Liam and Sam weren’t just friends. They were practically brothers.
She remembered when it was taken. It had been a horribly hot summer day in her parents’ backyard. Sam had just bottled his first batch of whisky, and the McKennas had insisted he bring it over for a tasting.
One of Liam’s arms was hooked awkwardly around Sam’s neck, while his other hand proudly held up the first ROON whisky bottle.
Sam’s expression was equally happy, if a bit unsure.
She remembered he’d been horribly embarrassed by the attention, which didn’t make sense. The whisky itself had been fantastic, and he’d sold out of the first batch, to friends and family, almost immediately.
But instead of being proud, he’d been … weird. Maybe Liam was right about Sam being modest.
Nah. She put the picture aside. He certainly wasn’t modest about anything else.
Riley’s eyes fell on a door in the corner. It led to a surprisingly large and well-equipped bathroom. It was clearly not from the same era as the outdated kitchen, which meant he’d prioritized upgrading a fancy showerhead over getting a fancy stove.
No surprise there. She’d seen him “help” her father grill at family dinners in the summer. His food-prep skills were maxed out opening the ketchup bottle.
Her eyes fell on the sliding barn-style door opposite the door she’d entered through. It could only lead to the distillery itself.
Which would lead to Sam and, consequently, the possibility of her dignity making the splatter of a skydiving incident gone wrong.
Riley backtracked to the bathroom to check hair and makeup. If she was about to go down in a pile of humiliated heartbreak, she might as well look her best. That, and this plan was highly contingent on Sam Compton, you know … wanting her.
She was pretty sure he did, at least on the physical level. Just how many times had she felt his eyes on her when he thought nobody was looking? And on Wednesday when he’d walked her to the subway station, he’d wanted to kiss her. She’d felt it, and now she was wondering if maybe it had always been mutual. Perhaps she’d just been too caught up in her own want to notice his. But never before had she goaded him as blatantly as she had that night. And never before had she felt his eyes burning into her back as she walked away.
He wanted her, all right.
She just hoped he wanted her enough.
Riley slid open the door as quietly as she could, relieved that it made almost no noise.
She noticed the smell first. Not a boozy, barroom-floor type of smell but a delicious grainy aroma with a hint of sweetness.
The last time she’d been in here, there’d been nothing but enormous moving boxes and a jumble of metal equipment everywhere. Now it looked like … something.
She found herself looking at several rows of wooden barrels. They were all carefully labeled with dates and check marks. She knew he’d hired several people to help with … well, whatever it was he did here, but the labels were clearly in his handwriting. She knew instinctively that these big barrels were like his babies. Someone else might help him fill them, but they were his.
What must that be like? To belong to Sam Compton?
Knock it off. Don’t get weepy about the whole business.
The warehouse was organized and rustic and oddly appealing, but there was no sign of the man. She ran her hand over the barrels as she made her way toward the other side of the massive structure until she reached a door. She remembered the space being one large open room, but he’d obviously put walls up to make this a separate room since the last time she’d been here.
Her heart skipped into overdrive when she opened the insulated door and moved into the main part of the distillery. If Sam was here, this is where he’d be.
She didn’t know which would be worse—finding that he wasn’t around or finding that he was here, but not alone.
This is what she got for not calling first, but planning ahead had never really been Riley’s style. She was more of the just-go-with-it persuasion. Except when it came to sex, of course.
Which was exactly what had gotten her into this whole freaking mess in the first place.
Her heels made a steady tap-tap against the concrete floor as she scanned for signs of movement. She wound around a table covered in what seemed to be labeling equipment, a bunch of other scary-looking pot-type things she didn’t recognize, a stack of boxes containing empty bottles, and then …
There he was.
Dressed in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and looking far better than any man had any right to look, he was crouched in front of one of the enormous copper vat-type things that lined the far wall.
She watched him for a second as he tinkered with some tool she couldn’t see, gathering her courage as she debated her best opening.
I need an itsy-bitsy little favor involving your joystick.
Nah, too simpering.
I can’t imagine doing this with anyone but you.
Too revealing.
Wanna hump?
Better …
“Hey.” Okay, not her best opening. But at least it was an opening.
Sam froze for several seconds before slowly standing and turning to face her. She’d been expecting surprise, and there was a split second of that before it turned to something far more telling.
Wariness.
“Riley,” he said, idly twirling some wrench-type thing before crossing his arms and studying her.
“Sam.”
“Is showing up unannounced considered fashionable in Manhattan?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Have
n’t gotten any complaints before.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” he said darkly. “Is your dress made out of plastic wrap?”
She glanced down at the formfitting red sheath. “It’s Trina Turk.”
“I don’t care if it’s made out of some yet undiscovered new element; it doesn’t belong in a distillery.”
Riley knew him well enough to hear the subtext. You don’t belong in the distillery.
“I haven’t been out here since you bought the property,” she said, keeping her voice easy.
He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Damn it! I knew all my party invitations got lost in the mail. Damn post office.”
Riley narrowed her eyes. “You’re cranky.”
“You’re trespassing.”
She waved this away. “I came to ask a favor,” she blurted out, going for broke.
His head tilted back slightly. “Am I going to need a drink for this?”
“Definitely. And also, maybe an attitude adjustment. This whole cranky-hermit thing you have going on …” She waggled her hand back and forth as if to say it’s only so-so.
He ignored her and moved toward the front corner of the warehouse. She followed, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw that he had had a full bar installed. “Fancy.”
“Necessary,” he said, moving behind the polished wood bar.
She plopped uninvited onto one of the barrels that doubled as bar stools.
He pulled down a couple of bottles, and she recognized one of his own labels. “Using the good stuff?”
He smiled a little. “The best.”
Huh. So definitely not modest around her. Just the rest of the world.
Riley watched as he poured an amber liquid from a ROON bottle into a shaker, followed by some sort of Italian liqueur, a couple of dashes of bitters, and some ice. Pulling a jar of cherries out of the fridge, he dropped one into each of two tumblers before deftly shaking and straining the drink into the glasses.
He handed one to her, not meeting her eyes when their fingers brushed.
She glanced at the cocktail in surprise. “A Manhattan?”
He didn’t answer her unspoken question. She could buy that he knew her favorite drink. He’d fetched her enough over the years when their social lives overlapped. But why did he have all of the ingredients on hand?
