He was my first little brother, after all.
Once the entire group was inside, Logan gestured to us with a wide smile.
“These are the fine gentleman known as our barrel raisers. You might remember learning about them from the video earlier. As it mentioned, each of our barrels is crafted by hand, by just four upstanding gentlemen — Marty, Eli, Noah, and PJ.”
We all waved as Logan introduced us, and I chanced a smirk in the direction of the hottest girl in the tour. She was older, maybe mid-thirties, and looked like someone’s mom. But her tits were as perky as I imagined they were on her twenty-first birthday, and she was looking at me like a hot piece of bread after a month of being on a no-carb diet.
She returned my smile as she twirled a strand of her bright blonde hair around her finger, whispering something to the group of girls she was with before they all giggled.
Logan continued on, talking about how the four of us as a team made more than five-hundred barrels every single day before sending them down the line for charring and toasting. He explained how Scooter Whiskey is actually clear when it’s first put into our barrels, and it’s the oak and charring process that brings out the amber color and sweet flavor they’re accustomed to today.
Even though my hands worked along on autopilot, I watched my brother with a balloon of pride swelling in my chest. His hair was a sandy walnut brown, just like mine, though his curled over the edges of his ball cap and mine was cut short in a fade. He stood a few inches taller than me, which always irked me growing up, and he was lean from years of playing baseball where I was stout from years of football before I became a barrel raiser.
If you grew up as a boy in Stratford, you played at least one sport. That’s just all there was to it.
Though we had our differences, anyone who stood in the same room with us could point us out as brothers. Logan was like my best friend, but he was also like my own son. At least, that’s how I’d seen it after Dad died.
Just like there were only a handful of barrel raisers, the same was true for tour guides. They were the face of our distillery, and on top of being paid well for their knowledge and charisma, they were also tipped highly by the tourists passing through town. It was one of the most sought-after jobs, and Logan had landed it at eighteen — after Dad died, which meant he didn’t get any help getting the position.
He got the job because he was the best at it, and so I was proud of him, the same way I knew our dad would have been.
It was no surprise to our family when he landed it, given his rapt attention to detail. He’d been that way since we were kids — nothing in his room was ever out of place, he ate his food in a specific order, and he always did his homework as soon as he was out of school, exactly as it was supposed to be done, and then did his chores before he even considered playing outside.
For Logan to be comfortable, everything needed to be in order.
The poor guy had almost made it through his entire spiel when I kicked the barrel I was working on and dropped the metal ring to the floor, creating a loud commotion.
“Ah! My finger!”
I gripped my right middle finger hard, grimacing in pain as the rest of the crew flew to my side. The tourists gasped in horror, watching helplessly as I grunted and cursed, applying pressure.
“What happened?”
“Is he okay?”
“Oh God, if there’s blood, I’ll pass out.”
I had to strain against the urge to laugh at that last one, which I was almost positive came from the hot mom with the great rack.
Logan sprinted over, his face pale as he shoved PJ out of the way to get to me.
“Shit, Noah. What’d you do? Are you okay?” He thwacked PJ’s shoulder. “Go get Gus!”
“Wait!” I called, still grimacing as I held up my hand. It was in a tight fist, and with everyone’s eyes fixed on it, I slowly rolled my fingers of my free hand beside it like I was coaxing open a Jack in the Box, and I flipped my little brother off with a shit-eating grin.
The guys all laughed as my brother let out a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes before grabbing my neck in a chokehold. I shoved him off me, stealing his hat and tossing it on my own head backward as I raced toward his tour group.
“Sorry about the scare, folks,” I said, playing off the charm of the drawl I was given naturally from being born and raised in Stratford. “Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give my little brother here a hard time.”
There were still some looks of confusion aimed our way, but slowly, they all smiled as relief washed over them.
“So, you’re okay?” I heard a soft voice ask. “You’re not hurt?”
It was the mom, and I leaned against one of the machines on one arm as I crooked a smile at her.
“Only by the fact that I’ve gone my whole life without knowing you, sweetheart.”
Her friends all giggled, one of them wearing a BRIDE TO BE button that I hadn’t noticed before. The mom was still blushing as Logan ripped his hat from my head, shoving me back toward the barrel I’d abandoned.
“Alright, Casanova. Leave my group alone.”
“Just making their tour of Scooter Whiskey Distillery one they’ll never forget, little bro,” I chided, winking once more at the mom before I got back to work.
Logan was already continuing on with the next part of his tour as he walked the group out, and I held the mom’s eyes the entire way until she was out the door.
I imagined I’d find her at the only bar in town later tonight.
Marty griped at me for being stupid, as PJ and Eli gave me subtle high fives. They were all used to my pranks, especially at my brothers’ expense. When you grow up in the same town, with the same people, all working at the same place and doing the same damn job, you learn to make the most of what little fun you can slip into the everyday routine.
“Noah.”
Gus’s voice sobered me, and I dropped my cocky smirk, straightening at his call.
“My office. Now.”
He hadn’t even risen from his chair, but I knew he’d heard the commotion from the prank. My confidence in being untouchable as a Scooter employee slipped a little as I peeled off my work gloves and made my way to his office.
“Shut the door behind you,” he said without looking up.
My ears rang a little at the sudden quietness, and I let the door latch shut before taking a seat in one of the two chairs across from him.
Gus eyed me over the papers he was still running over his hands, one brow arching before he sighed and dropped the papers to his desk. “First of all, even though I appreciate you bringing some laughter into this place, don’t play around when it comes to job safety, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know Logan is your brother, and I don’t mind the occasional prank. But slicing a finger off is no laughing matter. Our founder is proof of that.”
The story of our founder passing away from a minor finger injury was one we always told to the tours that passed through. Here was this healthy man, older but not suffering from any illnesses, and in the end, it was his pride that got him. He’d cut his middle finger right where it connected at the base of his hand, but rather than telling someone, he just wrapped it up and went about his normal routine.
Infection took his life well before it was time.
“I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” He kicked back in his chair, running a hand over his bald head as his eyes fell to the paper again. “We’ve got a potential buyer here who wants one of our single-barrels. But, the situation is a little precarious.”
“How so?”
It wasn’t strange for Gus to ask me to show one of our rare barrels to potential buyers, mostly older gentleman with too much money to know what to do with it anymore. Each barrel sold for upwards of fifteen-thousand dollars, most of that money going to good ol’ Uncle Sam.
“Well, the buyer is only nineteen.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” Gus thumped a hand on the stack of papers he’d been staring at. “She’s a Barnett.”
I whistled. “Ah. So, we can’t say no.”
“We can’t say no.”
“But we also can’t let it get out, especially since Briar County is just looking for a reason to shut us down again.”
“You catch on fast.”
I nodded, scratching at the scruff on my jaw. The Barnett’s were one of the most influential families in the town, right next to the Scooters and, at one time, the Beckers. The Barnetts had a long line of mayors in their family line, and if they wanted a single-barrel of Scooter Whiskey, there was no saying no — regardless of the age.
“When’s this girl coming in?”
“She’s here now, actually. Which is why I called you in. I need you to show her the barrel, but keep it low key. Don’t do our normal tasting, just to be safe. Show her the room, give her the fluffy breakdown of what her money’s getting her, and get her out of here.”
“Are her parents going to pick up the barrel at the ceremony?”
Every year, we hosted a big ceremony — better described as a backwoods party — to announce the different barrels, their distinct notes and flavors, and their new owners. We also cracked open one of the single-barrels for the town to indulge in. It was the only barrel not sold to the highest bidder.
“Apparently, her fiancé is. He’s twenty-four, so he’s legal.”
“Why can’t he be the one to check it out, then?”
Gus pinched his brow. “I don’t know, the girl wants to give it to him as a wedding gift, I guess. She’s waiting, by the way, and I just want this taken care of. Can you handle it?”
“I’m on it.”
Without another word, Gus dismissed me, more than happy to let me do his dirty work.
I slipped into our one and only bathroom in our little share of the distillery, washing my hands and face the best I could with short notice. Not that it mattered. The kind of people who could afford to spend what I’d pay for a good car on a barrel of whiskey didn’t give a shit what I looked like when I told them about it. They only cared about the liquid gold inside.
So, I dried my face and hands, rehearsing the words I’d said to hundreds of rich men and women before this one as Gus’ sentiment rang true in my own mind.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Chapter 2
Noah
Anytime I had to go to the welcome center, I always garnered more than a few curious looks.
There were several small groups of tourists milling about the welcome center, taking pictures with our founder’s statue and reading about the transition of our bottles throughout the years as they waited for their tour slot. As I made my way through, heads turned, brows arching as they took in my appearance. It made sense, seeing as how I was always dirty, and a little smelly. My mom would argue that the reason they stopped to stare was because I was “handsome enough to make a church choir stutter in unison.”
She said I got that from my dad, too.
I still said it was the whole smelly thing.
I smiled at a pair of older women near the ticket desk who weren’t the least bit ashamed as they ogled me. Their husbands, on the other hand, glared at me like I was a bug that needed to be squashed. I just smiled at them, too, and kept my head down.
“Noah Becker,” a loud, boisterous, and familiar voice greeted as I neared the ticket desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Came to beg you for a date, of course.” I leaned over the desk casually, cocky smirk in place. “What’dya say, Lucy? Let me spin you around on the dance floor this Friday?”
She cackled, her bright eyes crinkling under her blushing cheeks. Her skin was a dark umber, but I always caught the hint of red when I flirted with Lucy. She was my mom’s age, a sweet woman who had a reputation for fattening all of us at the distillery up with her homemade sweet potato pie.
“You couldn’t handle me.”
“Oh, don’t I know it.” I tapped a knuckle on the desk, looking around the seating area. “I’m looking for the potential barrel buyer. She was supposed to be waiting up here.”
“Ah,” Lucy said, her lips poking out as she tongued her cheek. “The Barnett.”
“That bad, huh?”
Lucy nodded toward the front doors. “Too pretty for manners, I suppose. But then again, can’t really blame her, considering who her mother is.”
Lucy kept talking, but my gaze had drifted to the fiery-haired girl pacing outside. The sunlight reflected off her auburn hair like it was the red sea, her eyes shielded by sunglasses too big for her face as her all-white stilettos carried her from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. She had one arm crossed over her slim waistline, accented by the gold belt around her crisp white dress, and the other held a cell phone up to her ear. Her lips moved as fast as her feet, the swells painted the same crimson shade as her hair.
She was nineteen, dressed like she was at least thirty, with a walk that told me she didn’t take any shit.
“She stepped outside to take a phone call a few minutes ago,” Lucy said, bringing my attention back to her. “Want me to let her know you’re ready?”
“No, no,” I said quickly, my eyes traveling back to the girl. “I got it. Thanks, Lucy.”
When I pushed out into the Tennessee heat, squinting against the glare of the sun, the first thing I noticed were her legs.
I’d seen them from inside, of course, but it wasn’t until I was right up on her that I noticed the lean definition of them. They were cut by a line of muscle defining each slender calf, accented even more by the pointy-toed heels she wore. She was surprisingly tan, considering her hair color and the amount of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, and that bronze skin contrasted with her white dress in a way that made it hard not to stare. The skirt of that dress was flowy and modest, but it revealed just a little sliver of her thigh, and I had to mentally slap myself for checking out a fucking teenager.
“Mama, I don’t care if the flowers are dust pink or blush pink. That sounds like exactly the same shade to me.” She paused, turning on one heel as she reached the far end of the sidewalk.
I kept watching her legs.
“Well, I’m not Mary Anne.” Another pause. “Why don’t you just call her, then? She’d be happy to argue with you about which shade of pink is better, I’m sure.”
“Ms. Barnett?”
She stopped mid-stride, slipping her sunglasses down her nose just enough to flash her haunting, hazel eyes at me before the shades were back in place again.
“I have to go, Mama. I think the…” She hesitated, assessing my appearance. “I think the fine gentleman who will be showing me the barrel is here.”
I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest. If she thought I was going to back down from her I’m-better-than-you attitude, she was mistaken.
“Yes, I’ll come right home after. Right. Okay, okay.” She sighed, tapping her foot before she pulled the phone away from her ear. “Okay, gotta go, BYE.”
When the call was ended, she let out another long breath, pulling her shoulders back straight as if that breath had given her composure. She forced a smile in my direction, the phone slipping into her large handbag as she stepped toward me.
“Hi,” she greeted, extending her left hand. It dangled limply from her dainty wrist, a diamond ring the size of a nickel glimmering in the sunlight on her ring finger as it hung between us. “I’m Ruby Grace Barnett. Are you showing me my barrel today?”
“I am.” I took her hand in my own, her soft skin like silk in my calloused, dirty palm.
Her nose crinkled as she withdrew her hand, and she inspected it for dirt as she reached into her bag, pulling out a small tube of hand sanitizer.
“I’ve been waiting forever.” She squirted a drop of the cleaner in her hand and rubbed it together with the other. “Can we move this along?”
I sniffed, tucking my hands
in my pockets. “Of course. My apologies, ma’am.”
I started off in the direction of the warehouse that stored our single barrels, not checking to see if she was following. I heard the click-clack of her heels behind me, her steps quickening to catch up.
“Ma’am,” she repeated incredulously. “That’s what people call my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not an ounce of actual apology in my voice. “Would you prefer Miss?”
“I would,” she said, sidling up to my side. Her ankles wobbled a little when we hit the gravel road. “Is there… are we walking the entire way?”
I eyed her footwear. “We are. You going to make it?”
The truth was, we had a golf cart reserved specifically for showing our clients the single barrels. In the back of my mind, I knew I should grab it. Miss Barnett was a potential buyer. But the way Lucy had responded to my mention of her name, and the way she’d practically curled her lip at the sight of me was enough to make me conveniently forget about the cart.
Little Miss Ruby Grace could walk in those heels she loved to tap so much.
She narrowed her eyes at my assumption. “I’ll make it just fine. I’m just surprised you don’t have… options for your clients. Especially considering the price of the product I’m here to inquire about.”
The words were strange as she spoke them, holding a level of arrogance but softened by the lilt of her Tennessee twang. It was like she was still a little girl, playing dress up in her mom’s heels, trying to be older than she was.
I stopped abruptly, and Ruby Grace nearly ran into me before her heels dug into the gravel.
“I could carry you,” I offered, holding my arms out.
Her little mouth popped open, her gaze slipping over my dirty t-shirt. Even though she was eyeing me like a mud puddle she had to maneuver around, I noted the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks, the bob of her throat as she swallowed.
“I don’t need you to carry me, sir.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “What is your name, anyway?”
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