Jana ordered a few bourbon balls upon CiCi’s advice, received her food, and went to find a table for them as CiCi placed her order for a salad. CiCi had meant what she’d said to Walker: she didn’t want to get too full at lunch and not enjoy dinner at the Old Talbott Tavern. Although she knew she’d enjoy that outing because of the company and not the food.
Jana chose a table in the front window of the diner. CiCi suspected the choice was calculated; it allowed Jana to see what was going on inside the diner as well as outside and to be seen (with CiCi) from both locations.
When CiCi arrived at the table with only a salad, a small piece of bread, and a bottle of water, Jana looked surprised.
“That’s all you’re eating? With all those great choices they have here?” she asked.
“Been eating too much pie at The Windmill lately,” CiCi said, expecting Jana to ask what she meant.
Indeed, Jana did ask about The Windmill, and CiCi filled her in on the establishment’s claim to fame, namely, lots of excellent pie. “If you get tired of the food at the distillery café, The Windmill isn’t far away.”
The women began to eat and fell into a silence for a few minutes. CiCi felt uncomfortable but sensed that she wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as Jana.
“So,” CiCi said, deciding to break the stillness. If she was going to play along with this little charade, she was at least going to get some decent conversation and gossip out of the deal. “Been seated on a jury yet?”
“Oh, no, not yet,” Jana said. “Although I had to report once this week. I didn’t get chosen.”
“Jury duty’s not too bad,” CiCi advised her. “But be aware that the criminal cases are more interesting than the civil ones, not that you’ll really have the power to pick.”
“How long have you been the clerk?” Jana asked and picked up her sandwich, poised to take a large bite.
CiCi gave Jana a brief background on how she came to be the clerk. “It’s a good job in a small town,” she concluded.
“And those can be hard to come by,” Jana remarked and then nattered on nervously about her new job. Walker’s name came up repeatedly as Jana described her plans to learn more about Old Garnet and to get Walker involved in publicity for the brand.
“I’m sure you’ll get him to help with those ideas at the distillery,” CiCi began. “He’s been great to work with on the BourbonDaze committee. He probably got roped into it by Hannah and Bo since he’s the master distiller, but he’s had a great attitude. It’s been wonderful working with him.”
“That’s the Walker I know,” Jana agreed. “Always pleasant, always happy to help, always a gentleman.”
The women exchanged an uneasy look, and CiCi bit her tongue to not ask the question that was on the tip of it. Instead, Jana herself brought it up.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“You… you do?”
“You’re wondering right now why Walker and I broke up, right? How I couldn’t get along with such a nice guy?” she asked, tilting her head
CiCi blinked in shock and words failed her.
Jana sighed. “Since I invited you to lunch, I suppose I should’ve expected this to come up. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“No, no,” insisted CiCi, strangely feeling sorry for Jana. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”
Jana put down her sandwich and looked directly at CiCi. “No, let me try to clear the air. I need to. I’m part of this community now, and I’m trying to fit in, and I want to be honest about my past. So I’ll say this: we fought, but no third person was involved. We reconciled a couple of times, but it didn’t work out and we divorced. Sad, simple, true story. And that story isn’t going to get another ending,” Jana concluded.
In light of Jana’s heaping of praise on her ex-husband, the comment surprised CiCi. “You… you mean you don’t want to get back together with him?” CiCi stammered, knowing her question was insolent and awkward, but it was the only thing she could think to say.
She saw Jana shudder, like a chill had passed over her. “That’s not going to happen.”
And you didn’t answer my question, Jana Pogue.
There was no vehement denial of her interest in him, the hell no, as her mother used to say. Instead, there was an acknowledgment by the ex that she didn’t believe it was possible she could win back her former husband.
That was a lot different than saying she wasn’t interested in him anymore.
CiCi had feared that was the case, but at least now she understood what she was facing.
If Jana knew she’d given away too much, she didn’t act like it. For the remainder of the meal, the women were either quiet or talked about dull things like the weather or the various problems the courthouse had endured during the past week. They finished the meal and parted on the street outside the deli with Jana effusively thanking CiCi for her time.
CiCi was most pleased with the confrontation with Jana—and there was no doubt in her mind that it had been a confrontation, simply dressed up as a friendly lunch. Jana had wanted to size up the competition and came away realizing that she was dealing with a formidable personality. And while CiCi would have preferred to have Jana as a friend, she knew that was impossible.
Because Jana wanted her husband back.
* * *
By the time the late afternoon arrived, CiCi had only made one decision regarding her attire for the evening.
She had resolved to wear underwear and not go commando.
She wanted the feeling of wearing something around her nether regions, even if only a thong to cover her lady bits. Her most delicate thong, a barely there, lacy pink scrap of a thing, was recovered from the depths of her underwear drawer, and she slipped into it. CiCi stood in only that bit of clothing before her closet after taking a shower, pondering her choices. How to pull off sexy and classy and easily removable? She wasn’t certain whether the date would progress to a point where clothes would need to be discarded, but she nonetheless was going to be prepared for such a happy possibility.
Her choice was a simple black sheath dress, sleeveless, which hit at the knee. It was classy and elegant and had the added benefit of hiding anything she might spill on herself since she could be a bit of a klutz. And she expected to be a little nervous that evening—the night of her first “big date” with Walker. It was silly to feel that way, she knew—especially after what had passed between them in the evidence vault. Maybe she wasn’t so much nervous as excited.
Because CiCi had admitted to herself during the course of the day that she was falling hard for Walker Cain.
He was hot, handsome, sweet, and reliable. He’d gotten to know her slowly and respectfully over the past several months. He wanted her and had easily whipped her into a toe-curling orgasm—in the courthouse basement, of all places! She felt giddy at the prospect of what else he could do to her given the chance. And there were several things she wanted to do to him. She felt like he was holding a big sexual IOU on her for getting her off in the evidence vault, and she would be quite happy to have him call in his debt that night.
CiCi slipped on low-heeled black patent pumps, a pearl bracelet, and a large garnet solitaire pendant accented by a few diamonds. It looked like a piece of jewelry that belonged in Hannah’s jewelry box—or maybe Lila’s now that she was Bo’s fiancée and had that gorgeous diamond and garnet engagement ring on her finger—but the piece was all CiCi’s. Her mother had given her the pendant as a birthday present in high school; CiCi had a January birthday, and the garnet was that month’s birthstone. After checking her makeup and clothes in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door, CiCi grabbed a thin black silk cardigan sweater and went downstairs to answer the door; Walker was early.
When she opened the door, her date’s face told her everything she needed to know about how he thought she looked. But he confirmed his impression with one word.
Walker swallowed, and his jaw was slack as he stood on CiCi’s front
porch and took in the sight of her.
“Exquisite.” He took her hand and kissed it.
“Still the smooth one, aren’t you?” she said, moving away from the door to allow him to enter.
He walked into the front hallway, and she could sense his eagerness. “Are you ready?”
“Almost. I need to put on my lipstick,” she said, closing the front door behind him.
“Can’t you do that in the car?”
“Yes,” she said, and tilted her head. “But I can’t do this in the car.”
Grabbing his bright red tie, CiCi pulled him against her, planted a big kiss on his lips, and released him.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said once she’d let go. “You’re not getting away that easily.”
He captured her by the waist, bent her back, and kissed her like some kind of great lover in an old movie. CiCi clutched his shoulders to keep from falling, but Walker’s powerful arms securely held her and prevented her from tumbling onto the ground.
After a fierce kiss during which Walker’s tongue had explored the edges of her lips, he pulled CiCi back into an upright position and seemed pleased that his move had left her panting.
“That was nice,” she said through heavy breaths.
He turned to a mirror over a hall table and adjusted his tie. “More where that came from.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” She grabbed her sweater and small black clutch from the table, and they left.
As he walked her to his car, she stole a glance at his trousers and saw a distinct bulge. CiCi felt the increasing wetness between her legs and was grateful the thong was there.
It was shaping up to be a perfect evening.
13
The route to Bardstown was simple: north out of Bourbon Springs on Ashbrooke Pike, then west on the Bluegrass Parkway about twenty miles. Although they were headed west, the sun was not in their eyes since it was still so high, and abundant light filled the sky. The evening was gorgeous.
As was the woman in the seat next to him.
Walker kept stealing looks at CiCi as he drove. Her hemline had hiked up above her knees when she sat in the car, and Walker enjoyed looking at her bare legs. She was not showing any cleavage, but somehow that made the simple dress she was wearing even sexier. Because there was no need to imagine what was underneath; he’d seen her beautiful body. And if things went the way he hoped, he’d see it again before the evening was over.
Bardstown was an old home to Walker; he knew it well from working for a few distilleries there over the years. The town was most well-known for Federal Hill—also known as My Old Kentucky Home State Park—although the distilleries ran a close second in the fame department. As they drove by Federal Hill, traffic increased, and Walker remembered that The Stephen Foster Story, a musical that was performed regularly throughout the warmer months, was likely scheduled for a show that evening on the park grounds.
It was only around a mile from Federal Hill to downtown Bardstown and The Tavern, located on the roundabout facing the old Nelson County Courthouse, which now served as a tourism information center. One didn’t need to be told that the Old Talbott Tavern was old: it sported a worn façade of weathered stone in a solid, Colonial style, easily broadcasting its landmark status. It was easy to spot because of its location—not to mention the large sign on the side of the building facing the traffic circle.
Walker was fortunate to find a parking space in the tiny lot around the corner from The Tavern, and he and CiCi walked the short half block hand in hand toward the entrance. When they reached the edge of the building, CiCi laughed when she saw the displays in the windows: they had decorated with bourbon bottles.
In the first window was a large stuffed wild turkey along with a few bottles of Wild Turkey bourbon. The next window boasted a display of Old Garnet; a bottle of Bourbon Springs’ finest rested atop a box draped in a deep red satin cloth.
“I hope soon they’ll put a new bottle in that window along with regular Old Garnet,” Walker said as they stopped to admire the display. “Garnet Center Cut should be out in a few months. I can’t wait to go through the rickhouses and start choosing barrels.”
CiCi smiled, and he intuited she understood the language of bourbon, local Bourbon Springs girl that she was. He was eager to get into the bourbon warehouses on the distillery grounds and select from what some considered the choicest barrels: those in the very center of the warehouse, known as the “center cut.” It was in this location that barrels were not subjected to the extreme variations of temperature, and excellent bourbons could be produced from this sweet spot.
They stepped into The Tavern over stone steps and emerged into a large reception and gift shop area. After a brief glance at the trinkets and wares, which included books on bourbon, bourbon balls, and the typical gift shop fare of T-shirts and hats, the hostess led them into a room to the left.
In many respects, it was like they had stepped back in time nearly two hundred years.
On the wall to their right were two stone fireplaces, wrought iron pots dangling over unlit grates, and handmade brooms propped in corners. Above was a timbered ceiling, and underfoot were hardwood floors the color of the darkest toffee, smooth and shiny.
Their table was of a rough and weathered wood, and the chairs were fashioned to resemble barrels. The window next to them sported another bourbon display; the brand in this window was Maker’s Mark, made about thirty miles to the south in Loretto. The bright red wax seal on the neck of the bottle glowed in the relative dimness of the dining room and looked out of place against so much dark wood.
CiCi continued to examine the window display after the hostess had handed them menus. “What do you think about when you see other bourbons?” she asked, then turned to him. “Worried that you’re not looking at a bottle of Old Garnet instead? Worried about the competition?”
He shook his head and glanced at the display in the window. “Not at all. I think about everything that went into making that bourbon, whatever the brand. I think about the mash bill, the grains, the water, the mash, the white dog, the barrel. I think about all the choices the distiller made to create his or her product. I can see the whole process in my mind,” Walker said, and closed his eyes. “I think about all that work and care, all the time that goes into making something so wonderful and special.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I suppose you think that’s crazy.”
“Since you’re a master distiller, I’d think there was something wrong with you if you didn’t think and feel all those things.”
“Shhh,” he said, looking around. “I don’t want it known I’m a master distiller.”
“Why?”
“They’ll make a fuss, that’s why. Might want me to taste different bourbons or talk to me about my brand. Take a look around,” he said, pointing to the window displays and old framed bourbon advertisements for brands long since discontinued. “They revere bourbon in this town, as they should, considering how many distilleries are close by. But I don’t want to get caught up in that. I don’t want to be a celebrity. I just want to be out with you on a date.”
“But you can’t just take off your master distiller hat,” she whispered and scooted her chair closer to him so that her leg touched the side of his.
“No, I can’t. Wouldn’t want to do that. It’s who I am,” he said. “It’s a great job, a very special job. There’s such a history, a sense of place and time and purpose in making bourbon,” Walker insisted. “The water—all that limestone-filtered water—nothing like it anywhere on Earth except right here in the Bluegrass State,” he said and tapped a finger on the surface of the table. “And our climate with the hot-cold temperature variations throughout the year helps age the stuff better than anywhere else.”
She smiled. “It’s so nice to hear someone talk like that.”
“Like what?”
“To talk with so much passion about your work, your profession. About your craft. And about Kentucky. About home.”
/>
“Kentucky is home,” Walker said with a nod, and he knew she understood the complexity of his love for what he did and where he got to do it.
She leaned forward on the table, rested an elbow on its surface, and propped her chin on her hand as she gazed at him. “I think you must’ve been born to your work.”
He chuckled. “My mother says that all the time. Says I was born with a bag of corn in one hand and rye in the other.”
“And the stork brought the barley and the wheat?” she asked, referring to the two other grains which typically made up a bourbon mash bill.
Walker laughed as the waitress came to take their drink orders. CiCi ordered Garnet on the rocks, but Walker only ordered a glass of water since he was driving.
“It’s not like I’m being deprived, considering how much Garnet I get to taste on a regular basis,” he said when she protested.
CiCi ordered the pot roast, as did Walker after she shared Hannah’s recommendation. Before the server left, CiCi asked for another Garnet on the rocks and whether the bourbon bread pudding was available that evening.
“Yes, we have it tonight,” was the server’s answer.
“Which brand do you use to make it?” CiCi asked.
The server smiled. “We never tell. If we do, there’s always someone who’ll argue with us that we’re using the wrong kind, and that their brand—whatever it is—is the best. We actually rotate the kind we use just in case someone could actually tell.” CiCi shot Walker a glance as the server watched. “No one’s ever gotten it right by guessing,” the server added and left.
“And I’m not going to even try,” Walker said. “I’m not a magician.”
“You couldn’t tell?”
“Maybe, if they made it with Garnet. Maybe,” he allowed.
The waitress delivered CiCi’s drink and took her empty glass. CiCi took a sip and saw Walker eyeing her.
“Don’t worry. I won’t get tipsy.”
“I hope not,” he said. “We still have lots to do this evening.”
Bourbon Springs Box Set: Volume II, Books 4-6 (Bourbon Springs Box Sets Book 2) Page 12
