Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
This morning, I allowed myself a moment of selfishness and regretted not going to the hotel. It had been a millennium since I’d truly been with him, and every inch of me craved that. I missed his touch. I missed everything about him, and I knew if I called for him, he’d do everything he could to get to me.
Did he know the same was true of me? If he called for me, I’d come running.
Then, without calling for him, the door to the guest room burst open and Ethan flew in, determination fixed in his intense eyes.
“This is unacceptable. Get dressed, we’re going out.”
No hello, or good morning . . . nothing.
These were orders from him, and I made sure my displeasure was clear. His expression adjusted and filled with need.
“I’m sorry I didn’t knock,” he said. “Good morning. Please, for the love of God, put on some clothes so I can take you somewhere where I can take those clothes back off.”
Yes. I scrambled out of bed, just as eager as he was, but he gave a sudden noise of satisfaction that made me pause. His gaze was on the oversized white undershirt I was wearing.
His shirt.
My voice was tight. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he said. “I thought you liked the way I look at you.”
I reached for the pair of jeans I’d discarded last night on a chair. “I do, but not when you’re being all smug about it, like you’ve just won some battle.”
“Get used to it.” His smile was infuriating and sexy. “You think you’re not in love with me? I’ll be accepting your surrender by lunchtime.”
44
OLIVIA
Ethan’s father’s pick-up truck sped across the narrow road that cut through fields that looked like they’d been corn last season. It was unseasonably warm. There’d be no chance of a white Christmas this year, although I’d been told those were rare here. Plus, no one knew how to handle snow. A light dusting, Ethan said, and the town hunkered down like it was the apocalypse.
During the twenty-minute drive, I tried to remain on the defensive from him. He was being much too cocky about all this.
The road was tiny and his dad’s truck was huge, so each time a car passed going the opposite direction, I instinctively leaned away, sure we were going to sideswipe them. But it thankfully didn’t happen.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
We’d turned off the highway a while ago and seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.
“There,” he said, pointing to a group of buildings off in the distance. It looked like in might be some sort of farm, but there weren’t any fields or silos or barns. Just rows of tall, black warehouses.
I didn’t understand until we drove past a gate and under an elegant arched sign that read Daviess County Reserve. “Is this a bourbon distillery?”
“Yeah. Have you been to one before?”
I shook my head and peered out the window, looking at the identical buildings that were five stories tall with perfect columns of windows running along their length. Only one building looked different. I assumed that was where they housed the stills and offices.
Ethan parked in the empty lot in front of it, and when we got out of the truck, I raised my eyebrows at the distinct but not unpleasant smell.
“That’s the angel’s share,” he said. “Some bourbon evaporates from the barrel while it’s being aged.” He gestured to the front doors. “Come on. Brent’s waiting for us.”
“Brent?”
“He’s a friend from high school.” He said the word high funny, the hi long and drawn-out.
“High school?” I repeated. “What’s with your voice?”
He straightened, a scowl threatening his expression. “Sometimes that happens when I come back here.”
“Holy shit, a southern accent,” I said, thrilled. Sexy.
Brent met us in the lobby, which was upscale and masculine. Bourbon barrels had been reworked into tables with dark leather chairs seated around them. A large bar for tastings was on one side of the space and the gift shop on the other, featuring glass cases containing their most exclusive bottles.
Brent was stocky, with a bushy beard and thick eyebrows. He looked pleased to see his friend, and once introductions were done, he gestured for us to follow him. He wasn’t just the distillery manager, but the head tour guide.
He took us into the back, showing us the distillation process as we gazed at vats of mash and large copper stills. He explained how the interior of the oak barrels were charred, and this was what gave bourbon its smoky flavor and caramel color. Then we were led outside, across the lawn, and into one of the rickhouses where the barrels were stored.
Even though there was no heating system, the temperature was pleasant inside, and the ‘angel’s share’ smell was stronger too. Rows upon rows of barrels were stacked in wooden racks, stretching up to the dark ceiling. The wood plank floor was simple and unvarnished, the lighting sparse. It was nothing more than caged lightbulbs hanging overhead at the end of each rack.