Chapter 22

Lincoln

“It still smells so good here,” she says, tilting her head back, eyes closed as we walk toward the distillery. “There has never been any other place where the air smells like cinnamon, sugar, and bread had the most delicious time together.”

I swallow, my mouth watering at the way she describes it. It’s a reminder of how special it is here. “It’s the sugars breaking down in whatever mash bill we’re pushing. Fermentation causes that bread-like smell and then you add in the wind from whichever season we’re in and that’s Fiasco.” I smile as I flip the metal key to the left, unlocking and pushing through the double oak doors. “Everyone says that it lingers more in the humidity of summer, but I think it’s stronger, more distinct, in the cold.”

The motion lights illuminate the tasting bar and ignite the gas-powered sconces peppered along the walls of the entryway. A nice little feature that Ace labeled as “extra,” but right now, I’m happy I ignored that opinion.

“I have questions,” I say as I link her fingers into mine.

“I know.”

The tasting bar is made from American white oak, the same that’s used in our barrels. It’s stained dark to keep the warm aesthetic. I love trailing my hand along the top of it—a random habit I have to do every time I’m here.

She looks around like she’s taking inventory. Cataloging every detail. I always feel a sense of pride run through me knowing that I’ve built and nurtured this place. That it’s as much home as it is work. I never thought I’d feel that way about anything else, and then I became a dad.

“There’s only bourbon back there...” she says, watching as I study what’s displayed and then pull a few bottles from shelves. “Is it against the rules to tell Lincoln Foxx that I don’t love bourbon?” She scrunches her nose and finishes it with a smile.

I wrap my fingers around two Glencairns, the small glasses we use specifically for tasting, and put them in front of her. “Bourbon has plenty of rules. In order to call it bourbon, it needs to follow them.”

Plucking a bottle from the middle shelf, I give it a quick pour. I tip the glass back, letting the alcohol burn along my tongue. A palate starter.

As she rests her elbows on the bar, she says, “Outside of making bourbon, I think rules can be dangerous.”

I lean toward her and take a second to really look, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I’ve looked at her in so many different lights and lenses. “Almost as dangerous as secrets.”

She smiles as her eyes search mine. “But you and I tend to have some of those, don’t we?”

I don’t answer right away, instead I let the look we share linger for just a few beats longer. Pouring a splash of the reserve in one glass and the specialty blend in the other, I lean close to her and lift the glass, studying it in the warm lighting. “I think we have less from each other than from other people.” It’s true, but it’s the first time either of us has acknowledged that.

“This bourbon is the one that I look forward to having. It was a fluke accident—a mash bill gone wrong. It’s still 51% corn, but the wheat and rye had been botched. It had almost broken the rules.” I take a sip before I tell her exactly what makes this one special. “I had been distracted and the lavender that had been hanging in my workstation from Lark fell into my test batch. But I figured, why not? Let's try it. That week had been the worst of my life. I had found out my wife wasn’t—” I cut myself off. “I had just been blackmailed by a woman in a cornfield. I figured, fuck it, let’s see what comes of this.”

She holds hers up as well, mimicking my move. “So this is basically my fault.”

“Which means you can’t hate it now,” I say with a smirk as I tilt it to my nose to scent the notes. This one is a higher proof—harsher and stronger, but it’ll make the rest feel easy. “What should we toast to? Punches and pepper spray?”

With an unexpected chuckle, she studies the color, swirling the bourbon in her glass. “To bourbon and secrets.”

“To bourbon and secrets,” I repeat and clink her glass. “You’re going to take a small sip, just letting it coat your mouth. And your tongue.”

When she really smiles, that beauty mark moves a little higher, her eyes squint, and lips tilt up and out in a way that makes you want to mirror it. She tips the glass back, and then squeezes her eyes shut as she swallows. “Yup, still just tastes like burning.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, but coming from her, it’s cute.

I move down the length of the bar, my fingers skimming across the bottles that have built up our brand—Grant’s Cowboy Edition Bourbon, Griz’s 1910, and Prohibition Special Reserves. And while both Ace and I produce the bulk of our most sought-after Straight Rye and Single Barrel Bourbon, we don’t have a blend that is distinctly ours. This bottle I pull down, however, with the black Foxx logo embossed across it, is one of my favorites, for no other reason than it was bottled the first year that I started here as a master distiller.

Faye leans forward, the pink dress draping just low enough that her tits look fucking edible. “Eyes up here, Foxx.” She smiles, her fingertips grazing the rim of the glass. “You didn’t have glasses before I left.”

I remove the stopper from the bottle. “It was a present for my 38th birthday—my eyes went to shit. Everything was a little blurry. And, as it turns out, Christmas lights aren’t supposed to look like sparklers. But really, the joke is on people without astigmatism.”

She barks out a laugh. “Does everybody know that the charming, single-dad Foxx brother is also kind of a nerd?” She holds her hand out in front of her. “And I don’t say nerd as a negative. I think exceptionally smart people are highly underappreciated. Nerds got a bad rap in the 80s and never came back from it.” Eyes widening, she sucks in an excited gasp. “Have you ever heard of nerdlesque.”

I can’t help but narrow my eyes on her. “There’s no way that’s a real thing. And were you even alive in the 80s?”

Pointing at me, she bites back her smile. “Not the point, Foxx. And yes, ‘nerdlesque’ is a real thing. Some of the costumes”—she purposely bites her lip—“Very delicious. And I’m only saying that I feel like you’ve allowed me to see glimpses of you that not many people have.”

I unclip my cufflinks. “Maybe that’s true.” Taking a moment to let what she just brought up linger, I fold and then roll up each sleeve. “You ready to tell me what you were doing there tonight? It looked like a different kind of performance.”

She stays quiet, and then drags her small bag across the bar top, feeling around inside of and then removes a long grayish-brown rock and places down on the bar. “I need a little courage right now,” she says, flipping it over to the side with jagged-purple gems. My chest warms as I swallow, feeling along the rough expanse of the rock that my daughter gave to her.

“They like how you talk to them.” I brush my fingers along hers.

“How do I talk to them?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

“I don’t know.” I smile and joke. “Maybe you can give me some pointers.” I watch as she stares off, smiling. “The first day they found you on the porch, they told me afterwards that you listen to them. And treat them like you want to know them. Something like that.”

“I think your girls are badasses. They have these unique interests and just say what they feel,” she says, and I smile, thinking about how fearless they are to let all of it show. “No apologies about who they are—takes some people a lifetime to do that...I think Lark is unsure about me, but I get it. I’ve been there. Needing to be wildly protective of a parent.” When she smiles at me this time, it fucking makes my knees weak.

“Is that what you did?” I ask. I know there’s more to that night in the cornfield. And after spending time with her now, Faye murdering Tullis King in cold blood never felt right. “You were being wildly protective?”

She shifts her weight on the bar stool, crossing her arms against her chest as her finger traces her tattoos.

She’s trying to decide if she can trust me. If she should tell me the details. I know more than most, obviously. It didn’t take long to figure out whose blood was splashed all over her shirt. Chatter of Tullis King disappearing hadn’t surfaced until weeks later. Maybe it was sooner, but I had been too busy managing my own nightmare to focus on anyone else's.

“There wasn’t time to process any of it. My mother was kind, and loved with her eyes and arms wide open. She’s the woman who told me to follow my instincts, find a path that would make my soul happy. And the way she loved horses...” Faye smiles fondly, but it quickly fades as she continues. “That night, my mom was scared. Shaken.” Taking a deep breath, she stares at the glass in front of her. “So I shoved away anything that looked like a moral compass and took inventory of what we would need to make him go away. If anyone was going to get away with that, it would be me. I had spent the last six years of my life learning how to read a crime scene and develop a case. Forensic science in undergrad, an internship, and then the police academy. I knew what would be looked for and scrutinized. And then a protective instinct kicked in.”

Calm, smart, strong. It’s all I can think of as she’s sharing what she went through that night.

I swipe off the tear that tracks along her cheekbone before it can splash against her beauty mark. “She wouldn’t let me call the police. She had a point. We might have had friends, but Tullis King and his brother? They have people in their pockets, on payroll. So, I made a choice. Maggie had said she was drinking more than usual lately, but my sister liked to play up the drama of situations. I should have listened and come home sooner.

“Tullis King was a condescending asshole on his best day and a demoralizing pig on his worst. By the time I came back with what I needed to move him, he was dead. My mother was practically catatonic. So I buried it. Everything.”

“And then I found you,” I say as I move around to her side of the bar.

She lets out a small, sad laugh. “Then you found me. And I panicked.”

“You thought on your feet.” I tilt my head to the side. “Blackmail was a creative choice. Quick thinking. Not sure I would have thought on my feet like that,” I say with a reassuring smile, trying to lighten the heaviness of all of it.

Her shoulders loosen, arms uncross, as she looks into my eyes, and then reaches for my shirt, rubbing the material between her fingers. “Do you forgive me? For putting you in an impossible position and?—”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I would have done the same to protect my family.” I have enough of what I need to know. She’d protected someone she loved and there wasn’t a single thing I considered wrong about that. At least some portion of the truth would be enough for now. “I have more questions.”

She leans away, creating space I don’t want between us. “I thought you might?—”

“I know there’s more to the story of why you’re back in Fiasco. That you wouldn’t kiss me like that the other night, come for me like you have, and then perch yourself on Blackstone’s lap if there hadn’t been a damn good explanation.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but I hold up the second tasting glass between us for her to try.

“When you’re ready to tell me all of them. Every last secret you have, Faye Calloway, then I’ll listen. But I don’t want just parts of your story anymore. Right now, I’d rather have a drink with a very sexy, very beautiful woman.”

Those green eyes watch me in a way that makes me feel wanted and maybe even needed.

Instead of reaching to take the glass, she tilts her chin up, parting her lips.

I dip my finger into the hand-blown glass and then paint her lips with the bourbon that drips off. Her fingers tighten against the front of my shirt as she pulls me closer, widening her legs to make room for me. Her tongue peeks out and licks away the bourbon across her lips.

“Alright, Foxx,” she says in a low and soft voice that hits me just right. “Just a drink?”

Threading my fingers into her hair, I kiss her the way I’ve wanted to since I left her on that porch swing. She hums at the first brush of our lips, and seconds later, she’s deepening the kiss like she’s been waiting for this too. The way this woman kisses, her entire body participates, and everything outside of us might still exist, but it doesn’t fucking matter. The taste of my bourbon along her tongue makes my cock so much harder that I can’t help but groan.

She smiles against my lips and then fists my shirt so tightly that I fall into her, erasing the space and any lingering hesitancy about this being exactly what I want.

I move my hands to her hips and nudge her closer to the edge of her chair. Her skirt hikes up past her thighs as they widen more for me, my fingers digging into her as a moan crawls up her throat. I can’t help but look down for a second—her body turns me on in a way that I’ve never felt.

When I move, she holds me tighter, and I’ll be honest, it feels fucking good. Needing me for longer. Wanting me closer. Demanding that I stay instead of just accepting or assuming I’ll leave. She nips at my lips as I pull back again, only this time, it’s not to smile and appreciate the way that it feels to kiss this woman.

I keep my voice low as I look into her dazed eyes, my gaze drifting lower to that puffy lower lip when I tell her to, “Open.”