Page 11 of Tennessee Trouble

“Yeah. Milo and I both interned at some of the local microbreweries in Fort Collins, and that’s where the ideas for our first brews came from. Then, from there, it took on a life of its own.”

I nod, understanding that on so many levels. Brewer gives me a knowing smile, making my heart skip. More than that, it makes me want to confide in him. Tell him who I really am, and share with him all the things that I know only another distiller will get.

Instead, I change the subject again. “We’re here.”

“Where’s here?”

My smirk takes over, and I let go of his hand, grabbing my flashlight from the center console and popping out of the Jeep. Brewer follows, both of us carefully stepping along the well-worn path that leads up to the small one-room cabin.

“Grab some of that wood, will you?” I point to the small pile by the door as I twist the key in the padlock, opening the front door.

Walking inside, I immediately head for the fireplace, feeling for the box of matches I know is on the mantel. I find it, striking one and lighting the candle right next to where the box was, shedding some light on the situation. The small glow does little in the dark, single room, but it’s enough to help Brewer know where to go.

“What is this place?” he asks, dumping the wood in the fireplace.

“An old family secret,” I reply, giving him a wink I’m not sure he can see.

Grabbing another match, I throw it on the newly placed wood, hoping it will catch. Sure enough, luck is on my side tonight, a small flame appearing thanks to a few leaves left on the logs, spreading to the rest of the pile.

The firelight brings more into view, although there isn’t much in here to start. The fireplace takes up most of the room, leaving just enough space for an old, rickety table and one chair, plus a single bed. The bed is newer—I replaced the rusty metal frame that had been in here a few years ago when I started to use this as my own personal space.

The space isn’t really built for two people, but we make it work. I have zero complaints about having to stand close to this man.

Taking Brewer’s hand, I shuffle us toward the far wall and swing open the shutter-style back doors, revealing the view.

“Holy shit…”

“I know.”

His eyes are wide and jaw goes slack as he takes it in, stepping out onto the little porch. The town of Trouble sparkles below us, the dip of the mountain getting lost in a haze as it tapers down, before leveling off in town. If you know what to look for, you can pick out all the highlights—the main drag downtown, the train depot, church steeple, even the distillery. If you don’t, though, it’s still just as incredible. A small glittery spot in the middle of the tall trees and mist.

“Trouble might be known for whiskey and moonshine now, but it started as a mining town,” I start, my nerves taking over. “With Troublesome Creek running straight through it, Trouble Town, as it used to be called, was perfectly nestled in the Smokies for all the things the mining companies wanted in the 1800s. We were one of the first towns up here to have a railroad.”

“That’s impressive.”

It is. Our town’s history is a wild one—no denying that—but we also have a lot to be proud of.

“This hut was originally used as a hideout for miners who were looking to do a little on the side. The creek is maybe fifty yards that-a-way.” I nod to my left, toward the general region of where the creek bed is. “When we were little kids, my dad would bring us up here to pan for gold, like they did back in the day. We never really found anything though.”

“We?”

I nod, sitting down on the edge of the porch. “My siblings and me. There’s four of us.”

Brewer parks himself next to me, so close that our thighs are touching. A light, fizzy feeling zips through me and I have to bite back a giggle. There’s no hiding my giddy smile though.

“Brothers? Sisters?” he asks, his interest genuine. Like he wants to know me.

“Two sisters and a brother. Our mom likes to joke that us girls are the perfect setup for a bad joke—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar. Our brother got this dirty dishwater mix, so he doesn’t really fit, but for as different as our hair color is, we all have the same matching hazel eyes.”

“That’s fun.”

I shrug. “Some days. Others, well…” I pause. “They’re the family eyes, the same ones our great-great-grandfather had. The same ones that every generation has had since. The ones that no matter where we were, no matter what we did, let everyone in Trouble and the surrounding areas know who we were. Good luck getting away with anything because our eyes gave us away.”

“I come from a small town, so I get it. Everyone would take one look at me and be like, you look just like Patrick…”

I spit out a laugh, once again his impression feeling very accurate. As someone who has lived their life being told which member of their family they resemble, I feel that deep.

“Been there, experienced that.”