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My skin prickled as my mother’s words replayed in my head. If you go in thinking you’ve got nothing to lose, then you’ve already lost.
I’d worn my best dress, my contacts, and dolled up my makeup, but I needed to get my head in the game. Stretching my mouth into a charming smile, I said, “I’m here to meet Ivy Hayes.”
“Oh, right. She said she was expecting someone. Just a moment.”
She picked up the phone, and I glanced away. A sign at the stairs read, “Distillery Tours 2nd Floor. Sugar Lounge 3rd Floor.’
They gave paid tours of their distillery? How big was this brand?
Once the woman hung up the phone, I turned toward her. “So how many states does Henley distribute to?”
“All of Dixie,” she said, then continued as if reading from a script. “Henley is one of the oldest family-owned distilleries in the state of Georgia, with distribution lines reaching to all states south of the Mason-Dixon line.”
I nodded slowly, appraising the place with fresh eyes. “Impressive.”
“Yes, Mr. Shepherd puts a lot of effort into the brand.”
My gaze snapped to her. “Shepherd senior?”
A sugar-tinged Georgia drawl cut through the room before she could answer, paired with heels clicking down the stairs. “Shay Honeycutt, as I live and breathe!”
I whirled. Ivy Hayes smiled brightly as she reached the bottom step, looking like a blond version of Jessica Rabbit. Her skin was flawless, her curves exquisite inside a bottle-green dress, and her makeup was so subtle I couldn’t be sure she was actually wearing any. Except, of course, she was. Ivy had that natural look down, but a cleverness hid behind her striking green eyes. This was a woman in the camp of Audra Honeycutt—Your face is your business card and intelligence your currency.
I met Ivy halfway, reflexively going in for a hug. “Wow. It’s been a long time.”
After our embrace, she held me at arm’s length, grinning. “It’s so good to see you. Gah, you’re just as pretty as I remember. How’s your mama?”
“Oh, she’s fine. What about yours?”
She threw her head back and laughed once. “Oh, she’s finer than a frog’s hair split four ways.” She lowered her voice as if imparting a secret before adding, “And plum full of Botox besides.”
A startled giggle bubbled inside me, and Ivy took a moment to stare at my face. Heat crept across my cheeks.
“Shay Honeycutt,” she said again. “The Shay Honeycutt. He’s gonna lose his ever-loving mind.”
My stomach swooped. “He?”
Ignoring me, Ivy slid an arm around my shoulders. “Come upstairs. I want to show you the place.”
Bewildered by my apparent notoriety, I stumbled along beside her. She towered over me, especially in those magnificent black heels, clacking on the wooden floor.
At the stairs, she waved a hand at the copper contraption. “That’s the still.”
Through a door to the right, a tour was just beginning. The group of people congregated in a smaller room with a TV screen, but Ivy marched me past them as the tour guide rambled on about the history of bourbon in America.
“Blah, blah,” Ivy whispered. “Corn, rye, barley, yeast. What else is important?”
Through another door, we came across four large vats.
“These are the fermenters.”
The scent of sour bread exchanged with a sweeter cereal smell as we walked through the room.
“Each one’s got a mash at a different age,” Ivy explained. “It’s why they smell different.”
At the end of that room, she took me through another door which opened to a small elevator. She pressed the UP button. “We get our barrels from a cooperage for now, but hope to make our own soon.”
We boarded the elevator and rocketed to the top floor. When it opened, I almost gasped. Three steps took us across a wooden walkway that looked over an enormous drop to the ground floor, with only a railing separating me from death. Around the periphery of the room sat hundreds of oak barrels.
