Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
He smiled. “That’s lovely.”
“Yeah, well, losing her was one of our biggest unique opportunities…” It was hard to say that without my voice quaking. “She was the kind who believed everything happens for a reason, though.”
“And you?”
“I believe sometimes things just happen, and you pick yourself up and get on with it even when that’s the hardest thing to do.”
“I agree with that.”
“Well, it’s gonna be a big challenge. You sure you’re up for it?” I pressed.
“I don’t have a fucking clue, but I’ve never been one to let a little worry—or a lot of worry—stop me.”
“Hmm…you’re hard not to like, No Good Mitchell.”
That bright smile returned. “You’re gonna have to like me since I’m gonna need some expertise from someone who knows the ropes.”
I knew he meant it, and I knew I wasn’t going to tell him no. “You’re gonna get me into trouble with the O’Ralleys.”
“Don’t you like a little trouble, O’Ralley?”
His voice and expression were filled with desire and interest, something I more than reciprocated, so I replied, “I’m gonna refuse to answer on the grounds of entrapment. But if I’m gonna help you, then you have to help me.”
“With…?”
“You’re curious about how to run a distillery. I have some things I’d say you know quite a bit about that maybe I need some assistance with…” I moved closer to him, my gaze fixed on his lips, something he must’ve noticed.
“Um…”
“Business stuff,” I spat out quickly, realizing he wasn’t getting where I was going with that. Fuck my life. “The O’Ralleys haven’t been so savvy on the business front the past few years, and I was thinking with Isaac’s and your expertise, you might be able to help the O’Ralleys out; in secret, of course.”
“Oh,” he said with a chuckle. “Fuck, yeah. I…wow…I thought you were going somewhere very different with the needing assistance with something I had expertise in.”
I moved closer to him, until our noses touched. “I figured that was already going to be an even exchange. Sounds like you’re gonna be here for a while, so I don’t mind taking my time.”
“Based on that first kiss, I didn’t take you for a guy who liked to go slow.”
“I enjoy going slow…until I’m ready to go fast.”
I smiled, and he had this wicked expression on his face, like he was all about it. He moved quickly, seizing his opportunity. I relaxed into it, cupping my hand behind his head as he moved toward me, pushing me back against the table. He was about as forceful as his mouth was wet. And so fucking warm.
I took control, shoving him back to the counter, but he rolled toward me, and I found myself back against the table. The frenzy, this tug-of-war for control, electrified me. It was even more intoxicating than the bit of whiskey I had pulsing through me.
As we pulled away from each other, our gazes shifted between our eyes and lips.
“Yeah, I think we have some serious trouble in our futures,” I teased, and we shared a laugh.
CHAPTER NINE
Cohen
The following few weeks flew by. I’d been involved in a business before, but nothing close to a distillery. While I was good with numbers and big-picture ideas, I definitely needed Brody’s help with the nitty-gritty specifics. I was shocked and pleased that he’d suggested we work together, even though it was kept on the down-low. Seemed Big Daddy really would lose his shit if he found out—and I swear I was never going to get over someone’s actual father being called that.
Porn daddy? Yes. Biological big daddies were totally new.
Isaac and I had worked day and night making plans, setting up services, figuring out what the fuck we were doing. When they could, Brody and Walker would sneak away and spend evenings with us at the house or in the distillery. I was learning that while they knew whiskey in a way I wasn’t sure I ever would, they struggled with the business and marketing aspects, but any time I tried to bring it up, Walker would interrupt the conversation and steer it back to us. Obviously, that O’Ralley brother was a little more cautious in letting us know the ins and outs of their brand.
Not that I could blame them, because apparently, I came from a whole line of criminals—well, my grandfather and great-grandfather, at least. Outside of the prohibition years, I doubted the O’Ralleys could say the same.
I shook my head, not wanting to focus on what I’d learned in the journal. It was much easier if I concentrated on what I could change—getting Mitchell Creek off the ground again, continuing what my father had tried to do, and, you know, not be a criminal.
About a week ago, I’d found the key to the locked room tucked away in a box in the attic. When I unlocked it, I’d been surprised that it was just an empty room with a desk, like maybe there had been an office there at some point. Somehow I thought it would be full of answers or proof of dubious behavior. The truth was much more boring.