Page 40 of Tennessee Trouble

“Yeah…” I clear my throat, trying to concentrate. “No one knows that I’ve been messing around trying to come up with something. I might know my chemical bonds and what goes into making a great base, but…a master mixologist I’m not.”

Brandt takes two large steps into me, erasing all the space left between us. Carefully, he wraps his hand around the base of the beaker, brushing his fingers against mine. The hairs on my arm stand on edge, the electricity crackling around us.

“May I?”

I nod, letting him take the beaker from me. Raising it to his mouth, he takes a sip, and I watch as the liquid moves over his lips, the muscles on this throat contracting.

Fuck me, I’ve never wanted to be a beaker more than I do right now.

Wordlessly, I take the beaker from him, following his lead and taking a sip. The sweet, tangy flavor hits my lips, follow by the punch from the moonshine. The mix is good, but still somehow falls flat. There isn’t enough oomph to it. What the missing ingredient is, however, is still a mystery.

“See, something is still missing.”

Brandt takes the beaker from me and places it on the table. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing along the skin, hypnotizing me.

“I like it. Almost as much as I like this.”

Sliding his hand from my jaw to the nape of my neck, he leans in, pulling me into him and kissing me.

Butterflies spread through my chest, leaving me feeling as light as air. The sweet taste of my failed cocktail lingers on his lips, but is overpowered by his spicy taste. I lean in, wanting more of it. More of him. Like an addict searching for another hit. I’m floating on air, overtaken by whatever spell he has me under.

A spell that makes the air thicken and the need for him to be even closer grow with each second. With each swipe of his tongue against mine, I give in, letting myself get lost in this. If I never surface, I’ll be just fine.

“Hey, Lind! Have you seen—oh, shit!”

Fuck!

I let go of Brandt, half pushing him off me, half leaping back so fast I’m surprised neither of us end up with whiplash. Time speeds up, and I frantically try to straighten myself out, not sure where to look or what to do.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Rory stammers, backing up into the doorframe and nearly knocking over a set of glassware. “I’ll…I’ll find one of the other guys.”

Heat blasts my face, my embarrassment doing a salsa dance around the room. Whoops…not what I wanted my employees to see.

“That…that was Rory MacDougal, our chief distillation specialist. He’s Scottish, and even though he’s never actually been to Scotland, he likes to tell us all about how whiskey is actually a Scottish creation and the Irish stole it,” I start to ramble, unsure what else to say. “He also plays the bagpipes and⁠—”

Brandt cuts me off with a kiss, stealing whatever wild tangents of useless information my brain was starting to summon up.

“Perfect…” he mutters, slowly releasing me.

Ohhhhhhhh…

“Lindee…” he whispers, pressing his lips to my forehead. My heart soars, wanting nothing more than to curl into him. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

I giggle. “Working.”

“Can I steal you away instead?”

And now I’m flying.

“How about I steal you?” I counter. “Show you some things you’ve never even dreamed of?”

I waggle my eyebrows, leaning into the unintended naughtiness in my question.

“It’s a date.”

12

BRANDT