“Then maybe I’ll let you buy in on this next batch.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “What are you thinking?” My interest is piqued.
“It’s small. Boutique. I’ll sell it through our hospitality arm, the one we run out of New York with Valerie Van Cleef. High end. Luxurious. Unavailable to the masses. Something people keep. Something people cherish. Something people have in their homes.”
“What return are we looking at?” I want to talk numbers. Not because I need the money. If I buy in, it isn’t about the returns. It’s about something else. Something that tethers me to this town. To my friends. To the idea that maybe I belong.
“I’m thinking fifteen to twenty percent on this one. It’s almost ready for bottling. Lacy’s done a good job of marketing it.” He nods to himself, clearly proud of his team. He should be.
“What’s it called?”
“The Builder’s Arms.” He looks at me seriously for a moment, and it registers. I stand there, stunned. He’s had this planned all along.
“I’ve had this whiskey aging in old oak barrels since we turned the first soil on the distillery over twenty years ago.” He continues, and I feel my throat tighten. “You made a comment back then. Something about the soil being black and the old oak trees on the perimeter of the land being so brown.”
“The soil so black and rich, like it’s been feeding generations, and the oak trees looked like old leather and memories. It was like the land had been holding its breath, waiting for something sacred to grow,” I whisper. The recollection is clear. Sharp. Still alive in me.
“I remember.”
“You’re still holding your breath, Griff.” Tanner’s voice is low. Like he’s handing me something fragile. “Probably about time you started to put down roots of your own and grow.”
He reaches out his hand for me to shake. A gentlemen’s deal. Letting me buy in on what will no doubt become one of his most profitable and most personal whiskeys ever made here at Whiteman’s.
I shake his hand, firm and strong. My eyes go a little glassy. I don’t know exactly when things started to feel different for me around here. But a few months ago, walking into that bakery, I think that was the first step. The first inhale. The first crack in my armor.
“Better get those pickles back to her. A hungry pregnant woman is not one you should battle with. Believe me, I know.” I huff a laugh and nod in agreement, knowing that Victoria and his little girl Amber are both probably at home, where he wants to be.
Walking out of his distillery, the night sky is clear, still. There's no wind, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. First a house, now the whiskey… Looks like my roots are already established here in Whispers. And I’m holding a jar of pickles for a woman who might be the start of something sacred.
My mind was busy the entire drive back to the bakery. Thinking about Tanner’s offer, his words, and the memories of when we started building the distillery. Of when I first arrived in Whispers. Feels like yesterday but also feels like a lifetime ago.
I slowly step up the stairs, lost in my thoughts, my body so wide I almost have to sidestep each one. I think about Savannah walking up and down these stairs every day with the baby. The trip hazards here, the baby proofing that still needs to happen. There’s a lot to consider.
“Why are you frowning?” she asks as soon as I breach the doorway.
I look up, seeing her sitting in bed with her baby book.
“I think you should come and live with me,” I say without hesitation.
Her eyes widen. “Live with you?” she confirms.
“At least for a while, just when the baby arrives…” My brain scrambles to think of a reason she might agree with. Anything other than I want you with me all the time. “The stairs, they’re not good for you or the baby.” Clearing my throat, I open the jar of pickles and grab a fork from her kitchenette.
“Not good?” She watches me with curious eyes as I walk over and sit in the chair beside her bed, passing her the opened jar.
“Tripping hazard for you now, and when the baby’s older, they might fall down them.”
“I’ll put up baby gates,” she reassures me, but it doesn’t have the desired effect.
“But how about you having to lug a baby carrier and groceries up and down. And, uh, my bed is bigger. I… have a big bath for you to enjoy after a long day, but also to make it easier to clean up the baby…” I tell her all the things that are now swirling in my mind. Where the hell is she planning on bathing the baby? Her little shower isn’t going to work.
“Where’s your head at tonight, Griff?” she asks, watching me with nothing but kindness and love.
“On you. It’s always on you,” I admit as I look over her apartment. It’s small, with no extra space, nowhere a baby can play. A baby can barely take its first steps in this small space.
Her cheeks flush at my response. She swallows audibly before asking, “Did something happen when you were out?”
“Tanner offered me to buy in,” I tell her.
