Then the orchards opened up around me, and I forgot to care about the road. Apple trees stretched in every direction, gnarled and twisted with age, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed red and gold in the afternoon light. The air changed as I drove deeper—sweeter, richer, full of that particular autumn smell even though it was still the height of summer. Someone had been caring for these trees for a long time. Generations, probably. You could see it in the way they grew, pruned and shaped by knowing hands.
The orchards gave way to a clearing, and I got my first look at the place.
A weathered wooden barn dominated the space, clearly the main distillery building, with copper pipes visible through the open doors catching the sunlight. Next to it sat a smaller structure—a shop or tasting room—with a hand-painted sign that read FONTENOT SPIRITS in faded red letters. Beyond that, a farmhouse with a wraparound porch, laundry on a line, smoke curling from a chimney despite the heat.
Someone lived here, worked here. Alone, by the looks of it.
I parked near the shop and cut the engine, sitting for a moment in the sudden silence. Without the truck's rattling, I could hear other things—birds in the orchards, the distant hum of machinery from the barn, the creak of the farmhouse's porch swing in the breeze.
I could smell things too.
Apples from the orchards, obviously. Woodsmoke. The warm caramel sweetness of alcohol being made. But underneath that, something else. Sharp and potent—moonshine, I realized.The real stuff, not the watered-down version you bought in stores. Beneath that, cedar and leather and something distinctly masculine.
Alpha.
My nose twitched involuntarily, pulling in more of the scent. Strong. Healthy. And tinged with something I couldn't quite identify—loneliness, maybe, or hunger held on a tight leash. The kind of scent that came from being alone too long.
Interesting.
I climbed out of the truck, gravel crunching under my sandals, and stretched muscles that had gone stiff during the drive. The air was thick here, heavy with all those competing smells, and I took a moment just to breathe it in. To catalog it. To let my instincts have their say before I told them to shut up.
The shop door stood open, a rusty cowbell hanging above it. I pushed through, and the bell clanged loud enough to wake the dead.
"Hello?" My voice echoed off walls lined with shelves. Bottles everywhere—moonshine in mason jars, amber brandy in proper glass, something clear and dangerous-looking in ceramic jugs. A wooden counter dominated the back of the room, an old-fashioned cash register gathering dust on top. "Anyone here?"
No answer.
I waited a beat, then two. The silence pressed in, thick and patient. Someone was here—I could smell him, could practically feel the weight of his attention—but he wasn't showing himself.
Alright then. If that's how we're playing it.
I wandered deeper into the shop, letting my fingers trail along the shelves. The bottles were arranged by type, then by year, handwritten labels in neat script that had faded with time. Some of these were decades old—I found jars from the 1970s, the 1960s, even a few that looked like they might be pre-war.
I picked up a bottle of moonshine labeled 1987 and held it up to the light. The liquid inside was perfectly clear, with just the faintest golden tint.
"Can I help you?" The voice came from directly behind me—deep and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. Close enough that I should have heard him approach. Close enough that Ihadn't.
I didn't jump. Refused to give him that satisfaction.
Instead, I turned slowly, still holding the jar of moonshine, and got my first look at Harper Fontenot.
Oh.
He was enormous. That was the first thing my brain managed to process—he filled the doorway to the back room like he'd been built specifically to block it. Broad shoulders that strained the seams of his worn flannel shirt. Chest like a barrel, arms like tree trunks, hands that looked capable of crushing stone. He had to be at least six-four, maybe more, and every inch of him was solid muscle earned through years of hard work.
His face was harder to read. Dark hair cropped short, shot through with silver at the temples despite features that couldn't be much past thirty-five. Strong jaw, clean-shaven, the kind of face that would look severe if it ever smiled. And his eyes?—
Dark brown, so dark they were almost black in the dim light of the shop. Fixed on me with an intensity that bordered on uncomfortable. Like he was trying to memorize me. Like he couldn't look away even if he wanted to.
His scent hit me full force now that he was this close. Moonshine—raw and sharp and potent—layered with cedar smoke and something darker underneath. Musk and want and years of loneliness, all wrapped up in one massive, silent package.Alpha, my hindbrain supplied, somewhat unnecessarily.Strong. Alone. Hungry.
I told my hindbrain to mind its own business.
"Sneaking up on people seems like a bad business practice." I set the moonshine back on the shelf with a gentle clink and turned to face him fully, one hip cocked against the counter. "What if I'd dropped this? 1987 was probably a good year."
He didn't smile. Didn't move. Just stood there, filling up space, watching me with those dark, dark eyes.
"You didn't drop it." His voice was even rougher up close, like he didn't use it often. Like each word had to fight its way out of his throat. His massive hands hung at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.
