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For no reason whatsoever, insects with needle-like wings took flight in my chest, scraping through my lungs and heart. I forced a smile and nodded, reaching for a cup to pour him a drink—ice, Honey, mixer, garnish of orange peel.

Cam took a sip, and his eyes widened. “Wow.”

He handed it to his mother, who tipped it to her mouth. “Well, that is divine.”

She set the plastic cup in Shep’s hand. He eyed it a moment, then swallowed the remaining liquid. He made no outward gestures of approval, but he hummed deep in his chest. “This’ll do.”

Ivy and I traded thrilled glances. With soft goodbyes, the Shepherds drifted away, but not before I snuck a glance at Cam. Our eyes met, and he winked. “Have fun, Honeycutt.”

As the expo began, people moseyed to our table without judgment, tasting the wares and commenting favorably on both the sign and the drink. A few workers from the distillery that had started #WhiskeyWomenDontDrinkHenley came by to passive-aggressively taunt us. Ivy shooed them away with a rather dangerous half-smile I wished I could emulate.

We chatted with whiskey connoisseurs, bar owners, purchasers from restaurants, and other craft distillers. Ivy personally took the number of a tall, muscular man who was considering starting his own distillery.

“To help him, you understand,” she said with a glint in her eye.

“Is that your type?” I whispered. “Muscles?”

She raised a perfect blond eyebrow. “Isn’t that everyone’s type?”

My face turned to flames. “Oh, I⁠—”

“Or is it the bookish type you go for? Quiet and polite?”

My gaze shot to Katrina, who was helping a woman with tasters. “What?”

Ivy leaned close. “Just a guess, darlin’. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking.” I absolutely was.

She eyed me skeptically, then smiled at a couple approaching the table.

At the halfway mark, some commotion caused a stir in the next room—shouts and gasps and general ruckus. The people testing our wares looked that way. Ivy rose to her tiptoes trying to see over the crowd.

A woman rushed by, and the man I’d been speaking with flagged her. “What’s going on?”

“Carley Gentry is here!” the woman shouted, already halfway to the next room.

“Who’s Carley Gentry?” I whispered to my comrades.

Ivy and Katrina looked at me like I was stupid.

“She’s a huge country star,” Katrina said.

“Oh.” Like Ivy, I bounced on my tiptoes to see the doorway. “What’s she doing here?”

Ivy shrugged. “Maybe she likes whiskey.”

“I heard she’s opening a bar in Nashville,” Katrina said.

Eyes wide, I sucked in a gasp. My hand flew up to Ivy’s arm, squeezing too tight. “Maybe she likes whiskey.”

“I just said that, darlin’. Please release your death grip.”

I let her go. “What if she likes our whiskey?”

Ivy’s green eyes went electric. “Oh, that’s some dangerous wishin’ there, Shay Honeycutt.”

Right then, the commotion reached our room, and the doorway filled with a wall of security guards, followed by a small, blond woman whose hair was bigger than her entire body, and an entourage of pretty people. She smiled at her fans and snapped a few pictures with them, but finally laughed and called out, “Come on, ladies and gents. Let me try some whiskey, yeah?”