Chapter 4

Lincoln

“Not many people find fractions and chemistry sexy, but what ends up in those barrels over there is called ‘the heart’ for a reason. It’s what remains after a variation in temperatures can condense and vaporize what came from that massive container of mash and yeast.” I point to the side of the room we had just come from. Fuck, I get a semi just talking about this shit.

The photographer smiles at me, and I know just by that one look, I’ve got her undivided attention. And it has nothing to do with the way bourbon is made. But when I focus back on her colleague, a sour expression on The New York Times reporter’s face has me worried. “Mr. Foxx, that’s all well and good?—”

“Lincoln,” I interrupt and hold my hand over my chest.

His mouth forms a thin line, like he’s not interested in personal stories about how we make our brand. “Lincoln. I’ve heard all about the science behind bourbon. The math, the percentages of corn and wheats or whatever else sets a mash bill apart. There’s nothing new you’re going to tell me that I haven’t already heard from a number of other master distillers or found with a few web searches.” Turning off his phone that he’s been using as a recorder, he pockets it. “This is a feature about distilleries popping up all along the East Coast and, to be quite frank, the angle I’m working with is that great bourbon doesn’t have to be made in Kentucky.”

I take a shallow breath, because now I want to flick this guy in the face. It’s as condescending of a move as his words. I shift a glance at my older brother, who’s been standing just off to the side. There are plenty of reasons why The New York Times would be sniffing around Fiasco—we’ve been known to attract trouble. But today it’s about the heart of what my family has done for decades: bourbon. And specifically, how Foxx Bourbon does it best. Not just different from anyone else, but how the sum of it is only as incredible as its parts. Those parts are my family. It’s our legacy.

I break it down in a way that I know he’ll connect to as I tell him, “You’re right, great bourbon can be made anywhere in the US, just like great pizza can be made anywhere. Or bagels, for that matter.”

From how his brow creases, I think he knows exactly where I’m going to go with this. But I’m on a roll to make a point, so I continue.

“If you’ve grown up in the Pacific Northwest or the mountains of Colorado, you’ll probably be able to call out the pizza joints that have the best slice. You’re comparing where you’ve been.” I point my finger up with a wiggle. “But there’s a caveat. New York and New Haven, hell, even Boston, will change what anyone considers great pizza. That includes bagels that are worth a damn. You have to have tried the best in order to make a proper comparison of what the actual best might be. And maybe you’re a person who wants to boast the talent of your local city or restaurant, but if you’re going to be honest with yourself, you know that pizza, whether it’s wood-fired or hand tossed, is the best”—I tip my head to the reporter, then the photographer—“where you’re from.”

I walk farther down the line of aging barrels and grab the long copper whiskey thief. Dipping it into the opened barrel, I pull out a serving to taste. “Just like our bourbon.” I pass two glasses, each with a small sample, to both the reporter and photographer. As I tip my glass up to the light, I admire the deeper tones of this special reserve. I noticed when they showed up that he had a handful of gold caramel wrappers he tossed in the trash, which might mean he prefers that easier sweet finish of a double barrel. I won’t be condescending and tell him to let it coat his tongue before swallowing, but if he does, it’ll taste as rich as the caramel that made those candies. “It’s the water. And more than anything, it’s the chemistry of what bourbon does inside those barrels in Kentucky that makes Kentucky-made bourbon the best.”

“Not just Foxx Bourbon?”

I love dancing around this question. I smile at him. “Everyone has a different palate. Most people, if they’ve had a bottle of ours, will want more. To try more and experience the versatility.” I sip down what’s in my glass and savor it for just a moment. We make great fucking bourbon. I know that, and he knows that, but I can be pragmatic. “There’s a lot of old blood in bourbon—there are plenty of brands not too far from here who like to talk about how they were here long before Foxx Bourbon. But they’re operating with old beliefs and struggle to change with new consumers and connoisseurs.” I shift a glance at Ace, because he likes to play it safe, just like those old brands. But we’re only as great as the next evolution of our brand. When I shift back to Murray, I make sure he can quote me as I answer his question directly. “But we’ve grown, evolved, yet still, Foxx Bourbon is the best.”

I wink at the photographer just as she takes the rest of her shot.

“In Kentucky,” he clarifies, pulling his phone out of his pocket again and tapping away at the screen.

“Kentucky makes the best bourbon. And Foxx makes the best in Kentucky,” I say pointedly, just as the photographer takes my picture.

Again, I glance back to where Ace stands. The amusement he’s trying to bite back has my mouth kicking up on the side. He was anxious about where this conversation would go, but what my big brother forgets sometimes is that I can handle it. I might not have the same approach to business as he does, but we always have the same goals: protect the family and build the brand. And in that order.

“Would you mind if we take some photos of this space?” the reporter asks, still typing on his phone.

“Not at all.” My gaze shifts to the photographer, her long dark hair pushed to one side as her camera bag drapes on the other. I take in how she leans against the wall, changing position to gain the right shot. She studies the camera screen after a succession of shutters, and I catalog the sexy way she confidently moves around the space.

I’m just arrogant enough to know that if I talked her up a little more and asked about her profession, it would be easy to ask her for a drink tonight. Getting a woman’s attention has never been the problem. The issue is keeping mine. I chase thankless moments with strangers, finding pockets of pleasure where I can while trying to remember myself as someone other than a father. Or a husband. Or widower.

“Do places around Fiasco stock any other bourbons besides Foxx?”

I smile at the way she asks me that question quietly as she moves closer. Her camera clicks away, focusing on the bourbon barrels stacked along the back of the space.

“There’s plenty of bourbon brands on shelves. Some have more specialty bottles.”

Murray clears his throat, trying to get my attention back.

I think it’s a good time to seal up this article, so I start moving toward some of our oldest bottles. “How about I break out a few of my favorite years and we do a proper tasting?”

Two hours later, I’ve learned that Murray Ackroyd had spent a total of twenty-four hours as a police officer in New York City before he listened to his gut and decided to quit. A fact I wouldn’t have known had my brother, Grant, not been at the cooperage late today. Toasted barrels are still part of Grant’s end-of-week workload. He may have delivered some of the best, most sought-after bourbon we sold this past year, but my brother still enjoys his routines. Finishing the week in the cooperage with the rest of the crew is part of it.

“Hey, cowboy,” Laney shouts as she walks by with their dog, Julep.

Grant turns to her with a full-blown smile. “Be right there, honey.” He shakes the reporter’s hand. “My boss is ready to call it a night,” he says, signaling towards Laney.

Murray lets out a laugh and nods. “Pleasure, Grant.”

With a clap on my shoulder, my brother says, “I’m going to hang out with my little flowers tonight, right? They wanted to spend some time with Julep, so maybe I’ll bring her along with me. Lily told Laney that she needs to learn how to be a dog mom.”

“I don’t want to know what the hell that means.” I shake my head with a smile, slinging my hands into my back pockets. My girls like to take on projects—building a bird sanctuary, selling wildflowers on the side of the road, and the last one was creating an inventory of friendship bracelets for every person who lived in Fiasco. But if I listen to my gut here, something tells me that they’re going to want to open the discussion of getting a dog again. “Whatever you want is fine with me. Come over around 7 p.m.”

I don’t have specific plans, just that I need a night out. My family’s great about offering to take the girls here and there. It gives me a chance to do something on my own, which is practically impossible as a single parent.

I glance over at the photographer again. She’s exactly my type—beautiful, easy, and eager. It’s the only type of interaction I want—surface level. Take a night to flirt, fuck around, and then get back to my life.

“Most write-ups or social posts I’ve seen have assumed that your Cowboy Edition was a nod to the hardworking men in this country, but I think I just discovered the real reason behind that one,” Murray says with a small smile.

If anyone was going to charm them, if it wasn’t me, it would be my sister-in-law, Laney. “Isn’t it usually a woman who ends up being behind the best things? I’ve got two little ones at home who bring out just about the best there is in me.”

Nodding fondly, he smiles in agreement. “If I can convince my editor to adjust the tone of this article, then a fact checker will follow up shortly before we go to print.” He folds his arms over his slender chest. “It usually takes a lot for me to be convinced, Lincoln. But I appreciate the history. The stories that fuel the reasons why.” Tilting his head toward the mash bins, he adds, “Even more than the science behind what you’re doing here.”

I know a favor or request is coming just by his body language alone.

“Your brother, Grant, used to be Fiasco PD” he says as I wait for the question. “He wouldn’t happen to have someone still on the force who I could talk to about all the chaos happening on the Tennessee and Kentucky border, would he?”

It isn’t the kind of conversation you bring up on a whim. It’s clear Murray has an ulterior motive. A small piece of Fiasco ran along the southeastern border of Kentucky, hugging the Tennessee state line nice and tight.

“There’s been a lot of commotion along that line lately. Reports of horses missing and then their remains being found dispersed,” he says, pocketing his phone again. “Real disturbing stuff. Especially in horse country.”

And while I am protective of our small town, I steer away from things that don’t have anything to do with me or Foxx Bourbon. This is one of those things.

“I grew up in Fiasco, Murray. Everyone knows everyone. And there’s plenty of gossip that travels about who left an unhappy marriage or went missing. You might want to try Teasers for some information. You’ll get a helluva lot more out of that crew than you will the Fiasco PD. My brother, especially.” Grant wouldn’t talk to this guy, not a fucking chance.

“Fair enough,” he says, holding up his hands with a laugh.

The photographer smiles to herself, overhearing the conversation.

“There’s a speakeasy in town, Midnight Proof. They have some of the best Foxx bourbon on hand. It also happens to be my best friend’s place. Interested?” My invitation is meant for whomever wants to join me.

“I’m on deadline,” Murray declines. “But thank you for your time, Lincoln.” He shakes my hand and starts requesting specific shots from the photographer.

She nods at his directive and then starts clicking away. I watch as she smiles at the screen of her camera just before she glances back my way. And in that look, I know I read the entire thing right. Beautiful, easy, eager, and, most importantly, only here for the night.