Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I finish my donut. “Well, I’m fine. I’m all good. Nothing is different. And I’m happy you’re here.”
“So we aren’t cramping your style?” he jokes, and I laugh.
“Dad, I know you are trying to sound cool, but”—I shake my head—“you don’t.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks, and I gawk at him. “What? It’s a question.”
I don’t even answer him. Instead, I turn and walk to my mother, but I can feel his eyes on me. When I look over my shoulder, he’s standing there with his hands on his hips, trying to figure me out. “Are you done, or are you going to help?” He walks to me.
“Deflecting,” he observes, “I know that game.”
“It’s not a game. Nothing is going on, and I’m not seeing anyone.” The words feel wrong in my mouth. “At least not officially.” I want to kick my own ass when the words slip out. “Or not.” I try to take them back, but the only thing heard in the barn is my father’s laughter.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Autumn
“What do you think?” Brady stands in front of the desk, his hands on his hips, watching me. “Honest opinion, obviously.”
I bring the small glass back to my lips and take a little sip. The amber liquid hits my tongue right away, followed by the softness of the vanilla, ending with the spice at the back of the throat. But it’s a smooth transition. “I think this one is my favorite.” I put it to my lips again and take a bigger sip, feeling the same thing this time. “It’s really good.”
“I tweaked a couple of things in the recipe,” he explains, picking up his own glass and looking at it. “The color is good, not too dark, just light enough.” Then he brings it to his lips and tastes his drink. “It’s good.”
“It is,” I agree. “We should serve it tonight.”
“Dad hasn’t tried it yet. He always tries it before anyone.”
My father hasn’t been in the distillery for the past two weeks. He came in once, but he wasn’t feeling so hot, so he went home. Even so, we spend most lunches together with me at his house. He’s getting a touch weaker, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. I try not to notice it, not wanting to think of what the outcome can mean. “Then I suggest you take a bottle over to him and let him try it out. Because I’m serving that tonight.”
“You know you aren’t the boss around here.” He tries not to smile.
“Yeah.” I set the glass down and put my elbows on the armrest of the chair, before folding my hands. “Says who?” I tilt my head, pretending to look around. “Who is going to tell me otherwise?”
“There is no use in arguing with you.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey we were trying. “I’m going to see Dad.”
“Good decision.” I grin. “I would have done the same.”
He turns to walk out of the room, stopping to look back. “I don’t know if I told you this lately”—his voice gets softer—“but I’m happy you’re here.”
I swallow down the lump formed in my throat with his declaration. “I don’t know if I told you this lately, but I’m happy I’m here also.” He nods at me as I blink furiously to make sure the sting of the tears that are threatening to come don’t.
“Be back soon!” he shouts as he walks out.
“I shall be waiting with bated breath.” I chuckle to myself before opening the email and seeing a couple of new ones come in from some of the hotels around town. Last week, I went to visit them and pitched the idea of a distillery tour for their guests. We would do small tours of ten people, and they would get ten percent back on all sales. It was no skin off their back to put our flyer out with all the others, and in return, they would make money if people came. The tour would also include a tasting menu, which would hopefully sell some bottles at the same time. They each confirm that a group of ten is coming in next Wednesday, so I make sure I get up and write it on the board. I also brace because it’s not something I mentioned to Brady yet, which should be fun since he’ll be giving the tours.
The day goes by so fast that I don’t even notice it’s almost dinnertime until Brady comes in and puts a plate with a burger and fries on my desk. “Eat,” he orders, “then get your ass out there.” He motions with his head. “We’ve already got a couple of tables.”
The chef, who is a cooking student and is doing this for free just to get his feet wet, started today. We are doing a special two-for-one for everyone who comes in from four until seven, but are keeping the kitchen open until the max of nine, depending on how busy it is, hoping to get some of the diner customers. We have started on a small menu for the first couple of weeks to see how things go. The last thing I need is to go in the red even more. “We might have to hire someone soon,” I say, and he raises his eyebrows. “I said soon, I didn’t say tomorrow.”