Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  Marty, Eli, and PJ worked alongside me without saying a word that day. They didn’t even joke around with each other, sensing the mood I was in, the somberness that settled over the entire distillery.

  The Scooter family and the board always glorified this day. The morning announcements asked for a moment of silence for the only employee to ever perish at Scooter Whiskey. They praised the safety plans they’d had in place, attributing the fact that there weren’t more deaths because of that plan they’d had in place. They praised the firemen, too, that they arrived so “quickly.” Then, they would read off my father’s accomplishments like a grocery list, have that one minute of silence, and then everything was back to normal.

  Even though Logan was across the distillery preparing for his first tour when that morning announcement came, and even though Mikey was in the welcome center, getting the gift shop ready to open, I still felt them in that moment those announcements were read. I felt their hearts squeezing in pain the same way mine did, felt their anger, their hostility toward the company that paid their bills, that our grandfather had helped build, that we both loved and cherished but were also bound to in some sick, sadistic way.

  I thought of them, of our family, all day long as I kept my head down, focusing on the task at hand. I built more barrels than my daily quota called for, but I didn’t care. As long as I was busy, I was okay. I just needed to get through the day.

  I just needed to survive.

  It was well after lunch when Patrick Scooter swung through the doors that led to the barrel raising warehouse. I hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t stopped working until I felt a number of eyes on me. I looked up at Marty first, who warned me with a stern brow fold, like he was worried I’d do something irrational. PJ and Eli watched me, too — their eyes flicking back and forth between the door and me. When I followed their gaze and saw Patrick talking to Gus, a clipboard in his hand, dressed like he was in an office in New York City rather than a distillery in Stratford, Tennessee, I clenched my jaw.

  Patrick Scooter was a few years older than my father would have been if he were still alive. They grew up around the distillery together, almost like brothers until Patrick’s dad passed away, leaving the distillery to him.

  Everything changed then.

  I didn’t have any certified or blatant reason not to like Patrick, other than the fact that something in my gut told me he was a shit guy. Something in my gut told me he didn’t like my family.

  Something in my gut told me he had something to do with my father’s death.

  I didn’t know why, and it wasn’t ever something I’d speak out loud, but it was there, deep in my belly like an ache I’d never be rid of. And I’d learned as a young country boy that you trust that gut feeling.

  Patrick signed something on Gus’s clipboard before his eyes scanned the warehouse, finding mine after one sweep. He gave a grim smile, saying something to Gus before making his way toward me.

  I ground my teeth, lowering my head to the barrel I was raising in an effort to school my breaths and the rage I felt boiling inside me. If he knew what was best for him, he’d stay away from me today. But of course, he didn’t care. Part of me thought he actually reveled in the fact that he still had my father’s kids working for him, like somehow that meant he’d won.

  But we weren’t here for him. We were here for my father, for the legacy he built — that my grandfather built. Patrick and his family may have wanted to erase us from their history books, but my brothers and I would make sure that never happened.

  I had just shoved the last stave of wood into the barrel I was working on when I felt a clammy hand clap me on the shoulder, squeezing and staying there until I was forced to lift my head and take the orange sponges out of my ears. Patrick met me with sympathetic eyes, a sorrowful smile, like he knew my pain, spread on his face.

  “Hey, Noah. How ya hanging in today?”

  Do not punch him. Do not give him a reaction at all.

  Patrick stood there in his suit, eyes surveying his surroundings like he was well above the men working for him. And I knew he thought that to be true. He was so much like my father — tall, stout, tan — but his hair was gray, where my father never had the chance to get there, and his eyes were smaller, beady and evil, his face too long, nose too big. He looked almost like a live action Frankenstein.

  I wished I could put the bolts through his head to bring the whole look together.

  “I’m well, thanks for asking,” I responded as politely as I could. “How are you, Patrick?”

  “Oh, you know me. Just rocking and rolling through every new day,” he said, his smile showing his too-white teeth now. It slipped again in the next instant. “Although, this particular day is always a rough one on all of us.”

  I swallowed down my pride, forcing the best smile I could muster. “Indeed.”

  “He would have been proud of you, you know,” Patrick said, squeezing my shoulder where he held it. “Your father was such a close friend of mine, and my heart aches every day that he’s gone. But his boys are serving him well here at Scooter Whiskey.” His lip twitched a little. “We’re so lucky to have you.”

  Liar.

  It was all lies, all bullshit — and we both knew it. But this was the game we played. The Scooter family kept us around as to not stir up more trouble or gossip than they already had with the fire, and we stayed to avenge our father’s death, to ensure the Scooter family didn’t get what they wanted by erasing the Becker name from their history.

  I simply nodded, lips in a flat line. I reached out my hand for his, shaking it once before I put my ear plugs back in and got back to work on the barrel. Patrick stood awkwardly at my side for a moment longer before he made his rounds to the other men, then he waved goodbye to Gus through the window of his office, and he was gone.

  I tried to keep my head down, tried to breathe through the rage, tried to forget he was even there, but once he left the room, everything I’d been fighting down all day rose to the surface. I reared back, kicking the barrel I’d just built and splintering the wood everywhere. I hadn’t tied it down with the metal rings yet, and the time I’d spent putting it together went to waste with one heavy heave of my boot.

  No one tried to stop me as I continued kicking, hitting wood, equipment, whatever was near. The only thing that stopped me was when Marty placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, he nodded toward the tour group that had just walked in.

  I locked eyes with Logan, his brows bent together in an understanding sympathy, and I felt shame wash over me.

  I was his older brother, and I was acting like a child. I’d let Patrick get under my skin, and I hated it.

  The tour group was still watching me, murmuring as Logan pulled their attention back to him, listing off his usual spiel. Gus came over to join Marty and me, excusing Marty before he pulled me to the side.

  “I think you should take the rest of the day off, Noah.”

  I just nodded, yanking off my work gloves and powering toward the door that led to our little locker room. My blood was still red hot as I grabbed my shit, and then I slammed my locker closed and barreled through the back warehouse door with only one destination in mind.

  * * *

  Eric Church blared from the jukebox, and I bobbed my head, singing along a little between sips of my whiskey. I’d had way too many for it to be only eight o’clock, but it was numbing my body, and my mind, which was exactly what I needed it to do.

  “Noah, I love you, kid. But I’m cutting you off after this one,” Buck said. He was the bartender at my favorite watering hole in town — namely because it was the only watering hole in town — the neon sign outside flashing his name in a simple manner. He was also a longtime friend, and he’d saved me from my own drunk ass too many nights for me to count.

  “Alright,” I said on a nod, not willing to argue. I was getting tired anyway, and was ready for the godforsaken day to be over already. I had half a glass of whiskey left and
then I’d roll my ass home, crawl into bed, and wake up to a new day tomorrow.

  A day that wouldn’t be the anniversary of Dad’s death.

  I pulled out my wallet to pay Buck, and once my cash was on the bar, my thumb hovered over the corner of the only photo I carried with me. I pulled it out slowly, eyes scanning the younger faces of my brothers, of Mom, and of Dad. It was the year before Dad had died, when we’d taken a fishing trip to the lake, and we were all grouped together in front of one of our tents, sunburnt and smiling. Mikey was missing a front tooth, his adult one yet to replace the one that had fallen out. Logan and Jordan had their arms slung around each other, Mom standing behind Logan with her hands on his head.

  And then there was me and Dad.

  I had jumped on his back for the photo, giving him a noogie as the picture was shot. He was full-on laughing, looking up at me, and when I looked at that picture, all I felt was happiness. All I felt was indescribable joy for a family that didn’t know what hardship lay ahead, that had everything they ever wanted or needed.

  If I could go back in time, I’d go back to that exact moment and live there forever.

  “Two beers, Buck. Whatever you got that’s cold and wet,” someone said from beside me, knocking their knuckles on the bar. I was fine to ignore them, just like I’d ignored everyone else that night, but then I felt eyes on me, and I turned, meeting the gaze of Patrick’s youngest son.

  Malcolm was a scrawny kid, just a few years older than Mikey. His older sister was Logan’s age, and she was about the only Scooter that I didn’t hate — maybe because she was sort of the black sheep in their family, acting out in every way possible, down to getting her septum pierced her senior year of high school.

  I liked a girl who ruffled feathers.

  Malcolm, on the other hand, was long-faced just like his dad, with skin that somehow always looked dirty. He was scrawny, liked to wear his ball caps a little to the left like it was still the 90s, and had a knack for getting under my skin, too.

  “Well, if it isn’t the oldest Becker boy,” he spat — literally, spat, the words coming out of his mouth just as a thick wad of chewing tobacco did. He spit it into an empty Mountain Dew bottle, grinning at me with pieces still in his gums, and already, he was trying to push my buttons by calling me the oldest.

  It was Malcolm’s way of saying that he didn’t recognize Jordan as a proper part of our family, because his skin wasn’t the same color as ours and some bullshit paperwork said he wasn’t blood.

  My pulse kicked up a notch.

  “Rough day at the office?” Malcolm asked when he didn’t get a rise out of me.

  I blinked. “Fuck off, Malcolm.”

  “Ohhh,” he said, raising both hands in a mock surrender as he elbowed his buddy next to him. I didn’t know his name, but recognized him from around town. “Someone’s on their rag.”

  His eyes dropped to the photo still in my hand as he rested his elbows back on the bar.

  “Ah,” he mused. “I see. You’re crying into your whiskey over your daddy, huh?” He framed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Was it today’s date that that fire happened?” He shrugged, smiling at his buddy. “Guess I forgot.”

  Buck slid Malcolm the beers he asked for, eyeing me with a warning and a slight shake of his head. “Here are your drinks. Now go play pool or sit at a table far away from here, understand?”

  “Aw, come on, Buck,” Malcolm said. “We’re just kidding around. Noah and I go way back. We’re buds.” He clapped me on the shoulder, and every nerve came to life at his touch. “Ain’t that right, Becker?”

  “Get your hand off me.”

  “Or what?” he seethed.

  And I should have let it go. I should have slammed back my whiskey and walked out that damn door. But instead, I slammed my hand into his chest, gripping his shirt and yanking hard until his back hit the bar. He yelped a little as I stood, lowering my nose to his, steam rolling off me as I poked a finger in his face.

  “I told you to fuck off, Malcolm. You should have listened to me.”

  I reared back, ready to plow my fist into his smug smile, when Buck intervened, jumping over the bar and grabbing me from behind. He yanked me away, my fist still twisted in Malcolm’s shirt until his buddy tore it away from me, ushering Malcolm to the other side of the bar.

  He was laughing.

  I charged after him again, which only made him laugh harder as Buck caught me around the chest, spinning me around to face him.

  “Hey!” he said, voice loud and firm.

  I had no idea if he’d said anything to me before that moment. I couldn’t hear anything but that asshole’s laughter.

  “Listen to me,” he warned. “You know that pussy will call the cops and have charges pressed against you. You don’t need to spend any more nights in jail. Okay? So finish your whiskey and get the hell out of here.”

  I tried twisting out of his grip, but he held me more firmly, and my breath singed my nose with every exhale. Finally, I growled, shaking him off and reaching for my whiskey. I tilted the glass back, finishing what was left, and then plowed through the bar door just as I had the one leaving the warehouse earlier that day.

  My vision was half red, half black as I barreled through town, walking the short distance to my house that was a few blocks behind the main drug store. I stayed on Main Street until I hit that street, and as soon as I turned, I nearly ran over Ruby Grace Barnett.

  “Oof.” She gasped as I plowed over her, both of us spinning and her nearly toppling over before I caught her by the upper arms, righting her again. The paper bag she’d been carrying out of the drug store fell in the process, toilet paper and toothpaste and other miscellaneous girly shit that I didn’t recognize spilling out onto the concrete.

  “Shit,” I murmured, bending to help her retrieve it all.

  Ruby Grace bent down as much as she could in her skirt, and once everything was back in the paper bag, we both stood, an awkward, heavy silence passing between us.

  “Sorry about that,” I murmured, scratching the back of my head. Then, I turned, ready to close the distance between me and my house that was just a couple of blocks away now.

  “Wait,” she called, and I paused, forcing a breath before I turned to face her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You almost ran me over,” she said, smiling a little. “And you look like you’re ready to kill the next person who looks at you.”

  “Not far from the truth.”

  She crossed her arms over the bag, balancing it on her hip as she cocked a brow. “Want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I answered definitively. I made to turn again, but she spoke before I could.

  “Someone’s particularly moody tonight.”

  My nose flared, head aching with how tightly I gritted my teeth. I needed to get home. Now. “And someone else is particularly nosey.”

  Her face fell at that. “Noah…”

  “Look, why don’t you stop prying into my life and get back to your own? I’m sure you’ve got cake to taste or ribbons to tie or something.”

  Ruby Grace’s mouth popped open. “Why are you being so mean to me? I was just making sure you’re okay.”

  “Oh, is that right?” I asked, seething as I stepped into her space. Our chests were an inch apart, my breath hot on her nose as I looked down on her shocked expression. “You want to go back to the Black Hole, sit on my horse and rub your ass on me while we ride? Pretend like you don’t have a fiancé who would mind while I tell you all my fucking problems?”

  Her brows folded together, eyes narrowing into slits. “Fuck you, Noah Becker.”

  “I’m sure you’d like to, sweetheart. But, not tonight.” I somehow managed a smirk before I turned on my boot, shoving my hands in my pockets and picking up my pace to get back to my house.

  It was out of line. It was nowhere near what I felt about Ruby Grace, but she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and my fury nee
ded a friend to call home.

  She was the lucky winner.

  I heard a cross between a huff and a growl behind me, but I didn’t turn around to see the face of the girl I’d just insulted. I couldn’t bear to see her anger, just as I couldn’t be bothered to apologize for my own. I didn’t owe Ruby Grace anything, anyway. What did it matter if I upset her?

  I shoved it out of my head as I walked, hell bent on getting home, into a hot shower, and then into my bed.

  I’d had enough bullshit for one day.

  Chapter 7

  Ruby Grace

  That Sunday at church, I was everything I was supposed to be.

  I was dressed prim and proper, thanks to Mama picking out a gorgeous, sunshine yellow dress that hugged my waist and flared at the hips, cutting off just below my knees. It was covered with lace, and she’d paired it with a large white hat with a yellow ribbon that matched the dress, as well as white designer heels — the same ones I’d worn to the barrel tasting my first week back in town. My hair was curled and smoothed to perfection, makeup classy and well done.

  I was on time, in the third-row pew where Mama always liked to sit, and sitting like the young lady I was.

  I was smiling, shaking hands with the congregation as they chatted before taking their own seats.

  I was proudly and properly representing the Barnett name, the town of Stratford, the mayor everyone knew and loved.

  And I was happy.

  I am happy, I told myself, over and over and over.

  This is me. This is my family. This is everything I’m supposed to do and know and be on a Sunday morning.

  But right in the center of my chest there was an ache. A tight, unfamiliar pressure, like I was in a glass box sinking deeper and deeper into unmarked waters, sipping air as casually as I could and ignoring the feeling that there would soon be none left to sip.

  I felt marginally better when the congregation was fully seated, our pastor taking to the podium on stage to open service with a prayer. Soon, we’d sing and praise the Lord, witness a few baptisms, hear the message of God through our pastor, and then I’d be set free for the afternoon.