Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
He bends in, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His touch lingers, fingers trailing lightly down the side of her face as if memorizing every detail all over again.
Leaning closer, he kisses her in a careful melding of lips that speaks of missed moments and relief at being together.
“Hi, love,” he whispers against her mouth.
Rather than pulling away, he hovers closer, his forehead resting against hers. In a moment of quiet connection, his hand cradles her face, his thumb gently caressing her cheek. His eyes, when they meet mine, thank me for taking care of her.
“How’d it go with Monty?” I ask.
“We talked about jobs.” He moves away, taking the seat she vacated, his posture relaxed but alert.
“Jobs?”
He steals my vodka and swallows a healthy slug, his mismatched eyes on Frankie as the flavor slides over his tongue.
“Doesn’t taste right.” He pushes the glass back. “What’s missing?”
“You tell me.”
“Wild berries, wood smoke, snow…”
“The essence of the hills.” She rests her head on my shoulder.
Nodding, I kiss her brow.
I always infused something from the Arctic in my recipes. Those subtle undertones give complexity, making each sip an experience rather than just a drink.
Maybe it’s the pure snowmelt water I used, which this commercial brand could never replicate. Theirs leaves an oily residue on the tongue, probably from being rushed through mass filtration processes that prioritize quantity over quality.
“Monty brought up your vodka recipes.” He sprawls in the seat, a nerve twitching along his jaw. “Read about them in Frankie’s journal. He thinks you should open a distillery, maybe even a bar. Said he would help if you want to pursue it.”
Suspicion, protest, and a million ways to say fuck no pound through my head.
Until I think back to those long winter nights in Hoss that were filled not just with survival tasks but with dreams.
Dreams fueled by the extensive reading I did.
I always imagined turning my makeshift distillery in the cellar into something legitimate, even when I believed I would never set foot beyond those frozen hills.
Among the tattered pages in our library, I learned about the complexities of establishing a distillery, the bureaucracy of obtaining permits and licenses, and the stringent regulations governing the production and sale of alcohol.
An entire manual on the regulatory hurdles explained the need for health inspections, environmental compliance, and safety protocols. Another book covered the capital investment, market analysis, and the economic forecasts necessary for sustaining a business.
I absorbed every word, procedure, and potential stumbling block. Those books weren’t just manuals. They were windows to a world I longed to be part of. I studied them not just out of curiosity, but with fierce dedication, underlining passages, making notes in the margins.
It was theoretical knowledge, gleaned in isolation. Yet I treated it as a blueprint for a future I never dared to hope for.
Now, soaring above concrete cities on a private jet, that knowledge feels less abstract. The possibility of applying it, of navigating the red tape with Monty’s backing, transforms my lofty dreams into tangible goals.
It’s thrilling.
And overwhelming.
“A distillery would be a lot of red tape.” I glance at Frankie, seeking her input. “Why would he help with that?”
“He owns a global consulting firm.” She straightens on my lap, taking the conversation seriously. “They specialize in business development, handling everything from market analysis to regulatory compliance. Helping you set up a business is right up his alley.”
“He mentioned the challenges.” Leo drums his fingers on the table. “Zoning, health regulations, getting a liquor license…It’s a lot, but he’s willing to invest the capital and handle the legal stuff. He would be a silent partner, letting you run it and focus on the product.”
Monty’s offer is a chance to use what I know to build something worthwhile. It could give us something that’s ours, not just a shelter from threats but a real footing in this world.
But it would mean laying down roots in Sitka.
It would make us more dependent on him.
I stare at my unfinished vodka.
His offer sounds promising, but it leaves a bad aftertaste.
5
Kodiak
—
I stab a hand through my hair, my thoughts tangled as tightly as my fingers.
“It’s just an offer.” Frankie turns on my lap and cups my face. “Not a demand. You can say no.”
An itch crawls between my shoulder blades, a prickle of suspicion that won’t ease.
It’s clear Monty’s playing at something deeper, something more than mere familial support.
The clothes, the food, a place to live, and now a job. Not just any job. My dream job. He’s putting his fingers in everything, pressing a little too hard.
It’s a show of kindness, maybe, but it feels like a claim, like he’s marking territory. I know, deep down, it’s not about me at all.
It’s about her.
My jaw tightens.
He wants her back, but there’s more to it. I need to find out what before it costs us more than we can afford.