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She twists toward the tasting room, her beautiful face as cool as can be.

I can’t tell if she’s bluffing or not, but the satisfaction I get from watching his smug smile fade can’t be measured.

Hale stares at us, and despite his hat, a thin sheen of sweat drips down his temple.

“You heard her.” I cross my arms, a smirk of a smile tilting my lips. “Think everything’s in order here. Now get the fuck off my property.”

Face darkening, Hale sweeps his beady gaze around the distillery and ranch grounds.

I bristle as his eyes move to Bellowing Peak. The copper tunnels that lie below. That house, the truck, and the guns lined up and ready to go at a single word.

“You fucking Westons,” Hale snarls, gaze drifting to the hillside that used to be in his family before my father bought it up. “You take our land. You take our whiskey. I look forward to the day someone takes something from you.”

“That a threat, Rogan?”

“No threat. It’s a promise.” His eyes sweep the ranch. “Enjoy it while you have it, Weston.”

Hale strides away, barking a short order at Craddock to get in his cruiser.

When the vehicles vanish down the road, Delilah breathes out, her sigh a soft exclamation beside me.

“You okay, darlin’?”

“That man has ice inside his veins.” She glares down the road.

I chuckle. She’s shrewd. Smart. Unforgiving.

“Yeah. He does.” My hand falls to the small of her back, turning her into me. “Tell me you have that permit.”

Fight flashes in her eyes and she smiles. “I do. I read up on all the rules the day Ezra put me in charge of the party.”

“Fuckin’ lucky.” I shake my head. Whether she knows it or not, she saved all our asses.

“Yeah.” Gaze moving to the long dirt road, one small hand drifts to her locket, cradling the gold heart in her palm. “Lucky.”

27 Delilah

The last week of June brings patrons into the tasting room at a steady clip. I watch a group of rowdy men who were shuttled here in a van grab a high-top. The population of Tempest has quadrupled during the summer, and I see now why the Westons were so desperate for a bartender.

“We need two more tastings on that high-top, and an espresso martini.” Wells, helping bartend for the day, steps around me.

“Got it.” Into a cocktail shaker I mix two ounces of Weston Whiskey and two shots of espresso. As I shake, my eyes drift, snagging on Cole, who storms into the tasting room. Those dark tattoos on his forearms flex. His dark hair is curled at the nape. I itch to run my fingers through it, then launch myself at his wide chest and hang on.

He’s an infuriatingly beautiful man, and I love it.

I bite my lip and try to focus on my task. Except it’s not easy. The man takes up too much brain space.

Cole raps the bar with his knuckles as he approaches, then steps behind it. “Delilah.”

I flush. “Mr. Weston.”

“Searching for a lighter.”

“Think there’s one behind the register.” More and more often he’s been finding an excuse to stop by the tasting room.

He cups the small of my back and leans in close. His warm, masculine scent swamps my senses. “Got plans tonight?”

With a flourish, I strain the dark liquid into a martini glass and shrug a shoulder. “Have a date.”