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)
“Will you keep it down?”
He glanced around, whispering, “How long do you really think you can keep this up without Big Daddy knowing? You’ve pissed everyone off, but Walker and Mel are still covering for you every night.”
I got up in his face. “Maybe you’re right, Dwain. Maybe I just don’t give a shit about this family anymore.” I felt like such a goddamn coward, because my voice cracked even saying the words, but I held firm. “Maybe I should just go tell Big Daddy now. Let him know his son’s getting boned by that no-good Mitchell.” I pretended to start toward Big Daddy’s room when Dwain set his hand on my chest, stopping me.
I pushed back, glaring at him with contempt.
“You think I don’t know you well enough to know when you’re bluffing?” He eyed me suspiciously. “You think you’re the only one in this family who has problems?”
“No. I’m just pissed that you all seem to believe that’s what I think.”
“Brody, you need—”
“No,” I interrupted, so fast that he froze with his mouth still open. “You don’t know what I need, Dwain. Good night.”
He pursed his lips, and I whirled around and did my best not to stomp down the hall.
He’s not spoiling my amazing night.
But that wouldn’t have been the first time I’d lied to myself, I guessed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cohen
No matter how many ways I dissected it, I continued to come to the same conclusion.
I was fucked.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Brody or wanting to be with him. We had so much fun together, just talking or working, and yeah, obviously fucking, but it was the fact that I liked the other stuff as much as the orgasms that told me I was screwed.
I’d spent the last few days thinking about our date and the way we laughed together, oh, and the fact that we couldn’t leave the house as a couple and his dad wanted to kill me. I was fairly certain if it were possible, I too would be challenged to a duel the way our ancestors did. Considering I didn’t know shit about guns, Big Daddy would kill me, and then Brody would be heartbroken, and I would have done the one thing I really didn’t want to do: come between Brody and his family.
That was my main concern. The O’Ralleys were all so different from any family I’d ever known. Brody had already sacrificed so much for them, and they still didn’t understand or appreciate it. If Big Daddy found out about us, I would be the wedge that made him feel even more separated from the people he loved most in the world.
It got to the point where I was seriously considering halting all plans to open Mitchell Creek. I didn’t need to own a distillery. I had options. The O’Ralleys didn’t, and maybe that would somehow endear me to the grumpy old man so I didn’t, you know, tear his family apart the way our families had been hurting each other for generations.
I grabbed my dad’s journal off his desk. With a sigh, I stood, stretched, and made my way out of the house, heading for the distillery.
Isaac was gone again. He was up to something, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. All I knew was it had to be important because Isaac and I didn’t keep secrets from each other.
I made my way across the dense, green property that seemed to glow under the sunlight. I tugged the keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door. The air smelled like a mixture of corn, rye, barley, and wheat. I thought maybe it was engrained into the wood after a hundred years’ fermentation, and turning from grain to whiskey.
I went to the newly renovated tasting room and sat at one of the tables. It really did look good. Isaac and I had gone back and forth over the decor, deciding on furniture that was all made from logs and gave a true rural feel, but also with a modern flair. We wanted to stand out, not be the same old brand everyone was used to.
I opened the journal. There was something comforting about reading my dad’s words and seeing his handwriting.
Still, I couldn’t make myself read it. I’d gone over it a hundred times since I’d been home—shit, home? When had I started thinking of Buckridge as home? But yeah, I’d been through it a hundred times since Byron gave it to me.
My eyes scanned the pages, but it wasn’t holding my attention, so I tucked it under my arm and walked around the distillery—my distillery.
My family had been planning to start one with Brody’s…then the feud, the missing recipe, the duel, and a hundred years of drama. I somehow felt both part of it and distanced from it. These walls hadn’t been built with clean money, but Dad had done his part to fix that. Still, it felt like I could do more.