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He frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Can I try it?”

He chuckles. Hands it over.

I gulp a sip and then sputter a cough. An inferno in my mouth.

Cole’s already ready with a glass of water. “Baby sips, darlin’, baby sips. White dog’s seventy percent alcohol. You ain’t John Wayne.”

I blow out a hot breath and sip the water. “I could be.” I cough again. My taste buds are on fire.

He threads a hand through his dark locks, stares at me like he doesn’t know what to think.

“You ready to try that whiskey?”

A flutter of panic in my chest. But I push it down and nod.

“This is our classic single malt.” He pours out a finger into two glasses. One for him, one for me. I lick my lips, then open my mouth and take a sip.

I let the whiskey sit on my tongue for a second before I swallow it down. As I do, I find only one word rolls through my head: safe.

It’s a moment of crystal clear clarity. I’m okay. Nothing happened to me. Something tells me nothing will as long as Cole’s around.

I exhale, breathing out fire. When I lift my eyes, Cole’s assertive gaze is on my throat, my face. His nearness is nearly unbearable, a needy warmth gathering between my thighs.

Whiskey tasting feels a lot like foreplay, and to be honest, I’m enjoying it.

“Well?”

I close my eyes, tasting the sweet caramel and vanilla notes. “Mmm. Delicious.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“No lie.” I cock a brow. “At least not about your whiskey.”

Satisfied with my answer, he shoots down his whiskey. I stare unabashedly at the bob of his Adam’s apple, the hardness of his angular jaw, the gleam in those dark blue eyes.

I wish I knew what he tastes like after that first sip of whiskey.

Cole uncorks the next bottle and pours. “This is our rye.”

I trace the foiled logo on the bottle with my fingertips. “Why’s it named Copper Run Ranch?”

“There are tunnels,” he says, “like the ones you saw last night on Main Street. All over this town. But we have ’em on the ranch too. Old mining town. During Prohibition, it’s how the bars would run the liquor to whoever wanted it. Hence, Copper Run.”

Awed, I cast my gaze around, feeling like I’m living in a reckless and lawless time of cowboys and bootleggers. “Where do the tunnels lead?”

“All over the ranch and distillery. Some I’m sure we don’t even know about. But the tunnels to the east are blocked by Bellowing Peak.”

I swirl the liquid in my glass. This one’s darker and smells like spice. I sip, letting the whiskey linger on my tongue. “I like the rye, but I like the classic the best.” I wrinkle my nose, thinking of the best way to describe it. “It has more punch.”

He looks down at his glass. “That’s my favorite too.”

I hop off the stool, inching closer to him. When I press a palm to the hardness of his chest, his breath hitches. “Can I see the inside of one of your barrels?”

Pride lights his dark gaze. He pulls a barrel from the side, his back muscles flexing, and lifts the lid. “We just finished charring this.”

My heels echo through the space as I circle the barrel. The craftsmanship is impeccable. Smooth and finished with care, with love. It’s easy to see why Weston Whiskey is a powerhouse in the whiskey world. I run a hand over the brand emblazoned on the side of the barrel. A mark of ownership. Of dominance.