Page 36 of Tennessee Trouble

LINDEE

I am not drunk.

I’ll admit to feeling better than I did earlier, although that’s not exactly a high bar.

But I am not drunk.

Mostly because I got cut off after just one. Sure, it was a massive margarita—bigger than the normal extra-large size on the menu—but both April and Rosario refused to give me any more after that one. Nonetheless, it was enough to make a lot of the anger subside.

Errrr…not subside, but take a backseat. Help me get him out of my mind. There are more important things going on in my life. I didn’t want to be involved in this silly little spat to begin with. The only reason I attended the meeting was out of some misguided solidarity with my sister. That’ll teach me.

Most of my afternoon was spent at Taco ’Bout Trouble, ignoring any and all hints of responsibility. While that felt good while I was there, in the middle of it, now that I’m heading back to the distillery, guilt starts to gnaw at me. I left my team high and dry today. They are all wonderful, capable distillers, but that doesn’t mean I should ditch them. Or all the work that comes along with being the boss.

Work that I’m starting to feel like can wait until tomorrow.

I’m already this far behind, so what’s a few more hours of ignoring it? Nothing, that’s what. Decision made—to the distill-lab I go.

Keeping my head down, I slip inside the back door of the production area, hoping I won’t be seen by one of the night workers. We run a smaller crew on second and third shift than we do on first, but we’re still a twenty-four hour, seven days a week operation. Fermenting doesn’t follow a forty-hour work week. Meaning that at any point in time, there is someone here, doing something.

Not in the distill-lab though. That’s my own personal corner of the world. The small room started out as an office for the production manager when this wing was built in the 1970s. Except, every production manager we’ve ever had prefers to be out with the stills instead of behind a desk. It sat empty, other than housing miscellaneous junk from over the years, until my father discovered my love of the process. So, like any good Dad, he set me up in here, with my personal chemistry set, leaving me to experiment and create to my heart’s desire.

Little did he know it would lead to Wink & Shine.

Off in the distance, I hear a chair scrape against the concrete floor, startling me out of my thoughts. I throw a look over my shoulder, trying to figure out who’s there, but I don’t see anyone. Nothing but quietly running copper stills filling, the distinct smell of their mix filling the air.

Great, now I’m hearing things…

I shake it off, chalking it up to stress combined with day drinking combined with already distracted thoughts. That’s enough to make anyone a little off-kilter. Which is the whole reason I’m here. I need to get myself back on-kilter.

Time in the lab will do just that.

Turning the corner, I let out a sigh, ready to face the challenge I know awaits me in there. One I’ve been trying to figure out for days.

Something isn’t right though.

I stop, mid-step, my brain doing a backflip, right along with my pulse.

The light is on.

I didn’t leave it on. I know I didn’t. I absolutely, without a doubt, turned it off when I left last night. And I haven’t been in there since. Time in the lab might have been on today’s docket, but it didn’t happen before I had to rush off to the Southern Brothers meeting. And it certainly didn’t happen after.

Stop it, Lindee… It’s Rory, or one of the other guys. Who else would be in the lab?

I wait, as if somehow I’m going to answer myself with some contradictory answer. I know better. It has to be Rory. He must have misplaced his pH meter again. I really should invest in a couple of extras to be housed in random places around here. That way he can stop stealing mine.

Letting out a long breath, I force myself to relax and come up with something clever to say to Rory. Something that will make him laugh as he’s caught red-handed.

“I swear, you’re more absent-minded than Miss Mabel. We could tie it to your dick and⁠—”

Oh, shit…

I freeze, my words catching in my throat, suddenly as heavy and unwieldy as a wad of cotton.

“What are you gonna tie to my dick?”

Deep brown eyes shimmer in the low light, that disarming smile growing larger by the second. I swear, that thing could melt the panties right off the ice queen. The retort fries my brain, leaving me with only one thing to say.

“Brandt Rawlins…”