Page 20 of Tennessee Trouble

“I will, ma’am.”

Another nod and she’s off, leaving us with our food. I look across the table, trying to figure out what he was gifted with. Three large sunny side up eggs sit nestled on top of homemade tortillas, swimming in some sort of sauce, with a mix of salsa and peppers decorating the edge of the plate. The aroma hits my nostrils, the slight burn from the peppers catching me off guard.

“Holy wow…” I say.

“Well, here goes…” Brewer holds up his fork, giving me a wink as he digs in.

I wait patiently, barely tasting my own tacos, anxious to know what he thinks. And just how spicy Rosario made it.

“Damn, that’s good.” Brewer shovels another massive bite into his mouth, like a man who hasn’t eaten in a week. “It’s got a kick to it, that’s for sure, but it’s not overpowering. Whatever she put in this sauce, that’s delicious. Like, I might have to lick the plate clean delicious.”

I throw my head back, unable to hold in my reaction. The laughter that bursts out of me is loud and borderline obnoxious, but so was that comment.

“If Rosario sees you do that, she may never let you leave.”

“I might just let her keep me. That is, if you haven’t already called dibs.”

Oh, well, shit. Have I called dibs? I want to say yes. I want to ask him to stay. To see if we can put him up in Mama Marguerite’s Come On Inn—the town B&B that is technically closed at the moment—or up at the resort on the outskirts of town. I want to ask if whatever business he’s up here for is going to keep him in the area for a while. To find out so much more about him. To tell him about me—about Lindee, not Luna.

I open my mouth, ready to suggest it. To throw out the idea that maybe—just maybe—that’s where the moonshine is taking us. Or hell, where it brought us. To each other.

“Morning!”

A familiar voice stops me dead in place though. The deep timbre, and frankly overbearing cadence, is one I would know anywhere. There is no escaping it. That voice belongs to Jerome Cochran, president of the Ol’ Troublemakers, the distillery’s VIP group. He’s an insufferable individual, only to be outdone in that department by his wife, Brenda, the both of them taking everything way too seriously. Especially the Ol’ Troublemakers.

I relax my body just enough to turn and look to see where he is. Thankfully, still by the entrance. If I scoot down enough in my seat, maybe he won’t see me. There isn’t anyone here to block me, other than maybe Brewer from just the right angle, and if Jerome sees me, he’s going to come over here. And there goes my secret.

Yes, the same secret I was debating letting Brewer in on. But it’s going to be very different if he finds out that I’m a Murray—and Tennessee Trouble’s master distiller—from a stranger rather than from me.

Fuck.

“Something the matter?” Brewer asks, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Someone we don’t want to talk to?”

“Kinda…” I admit, slouching down and maneuvering so he blocks me. “We’re right back to that whole everyone knows everyone thing and…”

“Say no more. As a small-town kid myself, I get it.”

My insides ease, loving that he isn’t freaked out. He doesn’t even know why I want to avoid Jerome, just that I do. And he’s all in. He gets it.

He gets me.

“In fact, let me help,” he continues.

Reaching across the table, Brewer stands just enough so he’s leaning over our food, sliding his hand behind my neck. My heart stops, the hairs on my arms standing at attention, his touch putting me on high alert. The memories of last night—his touches, his kisses—flash through my brain, sending me right back to the hideout.

My breath catches, ready for anything. Ready for him. And he’s right there. A heartbeat away.

Then he’s not.

His lips are on mine, as soft and strong as they were last night. Only now, they’re more powerful. Because I know what those lips are capable of. And that I’m never going to experience them again. That this kiss—this incredibly powerful, sinfully sweet kiss—may be the end. Or maybe the beginning.

I whimper, giving in to him, letting my tongue swipe against his bottom lip, tasting the spicy tang of whatever Rosario put in his breakfast. He’s right—there’s a kick, but not too much. Same way Brewer kisses. Enough that I feel it. That it makes me lose all sense of time and place. But it doesn’t wreck me.

Although those might be some famous last words.

Separating us, Brewer loosens his grip on me, easing back over the table. I hold my breath for another second, afraid that once I let go, it’ll be gone forever.

“Better?” he asks.