Page 4 of Sigh of Relief

Glass.

Debris.

Trash.

Fuck.

Archer mentally coached his motor functions to work again. He fetched a nearby dustpan and broom, swept up the debris, and pitched it in the corner trashcan. “If he finds out, I’ll blame you.”

“Fair enough.” When Archer turned back around, the man had moved closer, and fuck if he didn’t tower over Archer, in stature and presence, same as he had in Archer’s dreams. “Elton Moore,” he said, hand outstretched.

Archer slid his hand into Elton’s. His grip was firm, his skin smooth, the touch warm and electric, and Archer had to fight back a tremor at his fantasy come to life. He lifted his chin, meeting Elton’s gaze once more. Not a hint of recognition in those dark eyes.

He tried not to sound disappointed as he introduced himself. “Archer Scott.”

“You work here?”

“Winemaker, vineyard manager, and as of last year”—he gestured at the equipment—“distiller.”

“Maybe also don’t tell my lot that or you’ll never get rid of them.”

Archer chuckled. “We’re keeping it under wraps until the first batch is ready.” And until they finished the separate tasting room required by the county.

Elton mimed sealing his lips and throwing away the key, the gesture sexier than it had any right to be. Or maybe it was just the attention the gesture drew to Elton’s full lips. Archer had been so captivated by those eyes last time that Elton’s lips hadn’t starred in his dreams as frequently. But looking at them now, he couldn’t help wondering how they’d feel wra⁠—

Archer jerked his gaze up and his mind out of the gutter. “How did your lot all wind up here?”

“You know Under the Table in the city?”

“Of course.” The gastropub was another of Rosin Hospitality’s West Coast ventures.

“It’s become our remote office, so to speak.”

“Where’s your real office?”

“Federal Building.” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a leather wallet, flipping it open to a shiny badge on one side, FBI credentials on the other.

Archer stiffened and stepped back. Fantasy was one thing, the law another. “We have permits for everything.”

Elton laughed, his warm, throaty rumble filling the cavernous space. “Wrong agency,” he said. “That’s the ATF, though one of the guys up there at the party used to work for them.”

“Who’s he work for now?”

Elton’s smile tipped into a smirk. “All the blond assassins up there too.”

“With your colleagues, the FBI agents?” Archer said, struggling to put the impossible together.

“Who would murder me if I interfered with the production of spirits. I mean, one of them is nicknamed Whiskey, and he’s married to an Irishman.”

Whiskey.

The hottie giant. Jameson “Whiskey” Walker. Former baller turned FBI agent turned basketball coach.

Hours spent babysitting fermentation tanks translated to hours spent watching late-night sports television, and Archer recalled the special about Whiskey Walker—and the man who used to be his work partner. “He’s married to the posh redhead?”

Elton nodded. “Aidan Talley, said Irishman.”

“And you’re all based in SF?”