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)
I went to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses, and headed out back to the screened-in porch. Like everything else in the house, it had been cleaned while it sat empty, waiting for me to arrive. There was a table, along with a weather-resistant couch and two chairs.
And then…then I waited.
It was definitely less than forty-five minutes later when I heard Brody’s truck pull up. I left the porch and walked around the side of the house to signal to him where I was. It was evening, the sun just beginning to set in the distance, all bright reds and oranges, trees dancing in the light breeze. I tried to pay attention to that rather than ogling the sexy man who stepped up beside me.
“So…” Brody started.
“Isaac sent that text.”
“Oh.”
Shit. Did he sound a little dejected? “But I was okay with it.”
“I am fun to be around, so it makes sense,” Brody teased.
He was a sweet Southern boy from what I could tell, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “You’re aight,” I joked, and he laughed.
“Are we going to stand here all night, or are we going to drink? I notice you’re asking for my whiskey even though I know you have some.”
Yeah, yeah I did, but as much as I wanted to make Mitchell Creek mine, I felt weird about it since reading my dad’s journal.
“What?” Brody asked, obviously reading my expression.
“Nothing. We’re gonna drink. Let’s go.”
He nodded. I opened the screen door and signaled for him to go inside. We each flopped into a chair, facing the back of the property, where the distillery could be seen in the distance.
We watched the sunset, and Brody opened a bottle, poured two glasses. We each swallowed them down in one long gulp. It burned as it slid down my throat, and I shook my head. “Wow. That was rough. What’s this one?”
“O’Ralley’s Buckridge Deluxe Scotch. It’s got a kick to it, that’s for sure. Oh, hey, what happened to your finger?”
Damned if I didn’t feel my cheeks heat. “Nothing.”
“Aw, did my city boy hurt himself?” Brody poured two more glasses.
“Your?” I looked at him over the edge of mine, then tilted it back and swallowed again.
He gave me this aw-shucks look, and I couldn’t help wondering how someone could look so innocent yet mischievous and full of trouble at the same time. “Is my country boy embarrassed?”
“Did you hit your thumb with a hammer or something?” he asked playfully, but the shock must have shown on my face because he practically shouted, “Oh my God! You did! How in the hell?”
“No comment, and drink your fucking whiskey, lightweight. I’m ready for another.”
I should have known right then and there that I was in trouble. Hell, I probably did, but I’d been known to ignore warning signs a time or ten before.
So we sat there and drank.
A lot.
Evening turned to night. I flipped the switch to turn the light and ceiling fan on, and we drank some more. We talked about stupid shit—his brothers, fishing, this one time he got caught screwing this girl in her barn, and her daddy (his word not mine) chased him naked across the lawn with a shotgun.
“I thought that shit only happened in the movies,” I said, my brain feeling fuzzy and light.
“You’re obviously not a country boy if you think that.” He gave me this playful half grin, and shit, my dick stirred.
“What’d Big Daddy do?”
Brody winked. “Told me not to get caught next time.”
We laughed as he poured us each another glass. This one we nursed more slowly.
“You’re a college boy, huh?”
“Yeah, San Francisco State. It’s where I met Isaac. You?”
“I went to college for a semester in Atlanta. Figured I’d give it a try, see what that was all about. City living, university life, along with some life stuff, but found it wasn’t my thing. I was eager to get back home and to work. Other than that, what I’ve seen of the world has been work-related. Conventions and meetings with distributors. But nothing’s ever inspired me to leave this place. It’s home…where my blood and heart is, ya know?”
The truth was, I didn’t really. “Maybe? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m drunk as shit. I grew up in the Bay Area. I liked it, thought I was happy, but I never felt tied to it like you do to Buckridge. That’s probably part of the reason it was so easy for me to come here…I think. I mean, I didn’t want to leave my family, the adoptive one. I love them, but I didn’t feel a tie to the place, and then I felt guilty about wanting to leave, but I was always curious, ya know? About where I came from—and what in the fuck? Did you slip something in my drink? It’s like I can’t stop my fucking mouth from moving. I keep telling it to, but it won’t listen.”