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That bothers the shit out of me too.

I toss down a stave and curse, annoyed by the direction of my thoughts. The direction my boots are taking. Toward her.

I make my way into the tasting room. It’s packed, conversation at a loud buzz.

Delilah stands behind the bar with Warren. Hunger thrums throughout my body.

The black Weston Whiskey Distillery T-shirt fits snugly across her breasts. Her long honey-blond hair fans out around her slender shoulders like a golden halo.

Frankly, it’s obvious why there’s a fucking line out the door of the tasting room.

She’s gorgeous.

“Like this?” Delilah shakes a cocktail mixer and expertly pours out our signature Espresso Whiskey martini into a coupe glass.

She does this cute little thing where she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth as she pours with exceeding carefulness. I hate myself for noticing. I hate that I like it.

Warren pulls a bottle and fills a guest’s glass. “Perfect.” He looks at me. “Come to supervise?”

“How’s she doing?”

“A natural.”

Delilah gives me a flirty little grin. “Pisses you off, don’t it, cowboy?”

It does. She’s only been here a week, and Delilah looks like a pro. She moves quickly, naturally, doesn’t get frazzled. Best of all, she’s good with the customers. Chatting them up, making them feel welcome. She’s warm, attentive, funny. A sunshine femme fatale. They love her already.

Which means she needs to go.

My groin tightens as she slips around me. She smells like a goddamn love potion; her plump breasts and tight round ass have me gripping the edge of the bar to control myself.

Warren dodges Delilah, using his height to grab a bottle of our rye. “Ah, hell, honey, he’s pissed off about everything.”

She smirks. “Well, I have been told I’m rather unmanageable.”

The conspiratorial chuckle they share makes me want to put a fist through the wall.

“Not that one,” Warren says as Delilah goes to pour the rye first. “Go from right to left. Start with the unpeated whiskeys and work your way toward the more heavily peated. It goes our classic, then single malt, then rye, then the one from our Montana Cask collection.” She nods as he helps her arrange Glencairn glasses in the slotted flight board. “Remember, everyone who takes a tour gets a flight included with their ticket. If they want anything else, start a tab.”

It’s a gut punch when I spot the flash of the silk garter on her thigh, high above the hem of her blue jean skirt. “Fucking unreal,” I mutter.

“Taste?” Warren pours a shot and offers it to Delilah.

I frown when she takes a step back. “I’ve tasted it,” she says with a wobbly smile.

My eyes narrow. She’s lying. I don’t know what to make of this strange girl who refuses to drink our whiskey. I’ve seen her put away a glass of wine, so I know she drinks.

Warren pushes the flight board toward her and gives her a nod. “Take this to table two.”

“Got it.” And then she’s off to deliver the flight to a guest at a high-top.

Warren watches her go, eyebrow arched.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, stepping in front of the bar to ruin the sight of Delilah’s departing ass.

He takes the shot he poured Delilah. “Why? You put a claim in on that?”

“She’s not a gold mine.”