Page 4 of Tennessee Trouble

Frankly, if he looks like that, he is welcome to stare all he likes. He is also more than welcome to come introduce himself.

Unless…oh shit…

“What’s wrong with me?” I panic, spinning back, patting myself up and down trying to find the spill, stain, or rip. Whatever is making him look at me.

“What do you mean what’s wrong with you?”

“Is my ass hanging out?” I twirl, showing it to her, both hoping that she says yes so I know that’s what it is, and that she says no, so that it’s not that my ass was hanging out in public. “Is there something in my hair?”

“You look fab.”

“Then why is he staring?”

Men like that don’t stare at girls like me. Whoever this dude is…he’s a cool guy. The kind that knows when to smile and what to say to earn a laugh. Cool guys are not interested in listening to girls like me ramble on about the right chemical interactions for fermentation. A subject I tend to ramble on about a lot, considering I’m master distiller—and one-quarter owner—of Tennessee Trouble Whiskey and Distilling.

April huffs. “I repeat, you…look…fab.”

I level her with a look. April has been my best friend since we were three, and we pinky promised to always be friends, all because we were wearing the same shirt. She’s stuck by my side through everything—including getting my PhD in Organic Chemistry from the University of Tennessee, taking over the current distilling process at Tennessee Trouble, creating a new brand for the company, and my sudden part-ownership when my parents decided to retire last year.

She’s my biggest cheerleader in the entire world. While I wouldn’t trade her for anything, of course she’s going to tell me I look great.

“Lindee, I promise you. That is not a pity look. He is looking at you like you are the last cupcake at the picnic, and he is going devour you, no matter what.”

Well then…

Actually, no. That does not instill me with confidence.

“I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

“You walk over there, you introduce yourself, and then you take him for a ride.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at April. My best friend has lost the plot. There is no way I am doing that.

For a number of reasons.

Not the least of which, I have a booth to oversee. Two, actually.

As a fourth-generation distiller and Trouble native, I take great pride in our products. Literally ours. It was my great-grandfather who started the brand back in 1915 . I was raised with whiskey and moonshine in my blood, helping the man who continued on the tradition our ancestors started.

This year, we’re debuting something new. Wink & Shine. Based on my family’s original recipe, but with a modern twist. Ol’ Reverend is for the purists. Wink & Shine is for those looking for something a little different.

So there’s every reason I need to be overseeing things. To get the word out about the new shine in town. To get people to take a spirit created and geared toward women seriously. Even if this festival—like so many others—doesn’t.

On top of all that, I have no game and am better with the stills than I am with people. That’s just facts. It’s why I stick to what I know best.

Want to talk about the distilling process? Happy to. Fermenting? Let’s do this. Fun new twists on the classics and ways to bring them to market? Bring it on.

But flirting? Forget it. Not happening.

Not that there are a lot of men to flirt with in Trouble. We’re a small town in the mountains of Tennessee. A place people go to in order to escape. And drink. The only eligible men in this town are either related to me or working for me. Which makes them ineligible by default. April snapped up Rodrigo in high school, or she’d be in this boat with me.

This is why the universe gifted us vibrators.

I shake my head, returning to the moment.

“Of all the things that aren’t happening, that’s not happening the most,” I comment, giving myself another once-over, finally semiconfident that there isn’t a hole in my pants.

“You sure about that?” April asks, smirking.