Page 1

Chapter 1

Olivia

Boston

Present Day

Olivia Bennett had been on dates with men who lied about their height, men who claimed to love dogs while visibly fearing a twelve-pound terrier, and one man who’d spent forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency to her before asking whether she’d invest in his company.

She hadn’t expected the upscale whisky bar to produce a new variety of disappointment, but there he was, seated across from her beneath a row of amber bottles and a brass pendant light, explaining peat to her as if he’d personally invented bogs.

The bar had been Daniel’s idea, which should’ve been her first warning. Men who chose whisky bars for dates after learning what she did for a living tended to fall into two categories, the ones who wanted to be taught for free and the ones who wanted to prove they knew more than she did.

Daniel, in his perfectly pressed crisp white shirt, the shirtsleeves rolled exactly twice, and watch large enough to suggest he’d been timing a yacht race before he’d arrived, had opened the evening by announcing that he’d “curated” the tasting flight. Olivia had smiled, because Grandma Bennett had raised her to let a man finish building the gallows before offering him a rope.

She’d dressed with care, wanting to make a good impression, and had decided on black dress pants, a cream silk blouse, black slingback heels that added a little height to her five-foot-seven frame, and small gold hoops that caught the amber light whenever she turned her head. Her chestnut-brown hair was half up half down with a fancy braid holding it back, something her friend Amy had shown her how to do last month over ice cream and the latest Jason Statham action flick. She’d inherited her grandmother’s blue eyes and none of her patience, though people often mistook the steady way Olivia watched them for calm.

The recently opened bar was trying hard to be impressive. Leather banquettes curved beneath shelves of square-shouldered bottles, the walls were painted the deep green of a Highland hillside after the rain, and every table held a linen napkin, a little pitcher of water, and a dish of salted almonds. Behind the bar, bottles glowed amber and rose-gold under narrow lights, labels turned outward. The room smelled of polished wood, citrus peel, expensive cologne, and whisky. Good whisky, mostly. A few overly confident cask finishes. One poor Speyside in the corner that had been bullied by a sherry.

“The important thing to understand,” Daniel said, leaning across the little table with the confidence of a man who’d never once been interrupted by a woman who knew more than he did, “is that peat gives whisky its character. Without peat, you’ve got water and grain. With peat, you’ve got Scotland.”

Olivia turned the tasting glass between her fingers and watched the whisky climb the sides in a slow golden line.

Her first mistake was letting him order for her because she’d wanted to see what he would choose. The second was accepting his assurance that he knew the bar’s selection “inside and out,” which apparently meant he’d once watched a documentary narrated by a gravelly man in a kilt with a killer accent.

“Is that right?” she asked, because she was trying to be kind, and kindness, like ice in a single malt, had to be applied carefully.

“Absolutely.” He lifted his own glass, though he didn’t smell it before drinking.

“This one’s heavily peated. You should get smoke, earth, salt air. Maybe a little medicinal quality. That’s how you know it’s complex.”

She brought hers beneath her nose. The spirit offered toasted grain first, then green apple, honey, and a clean mineral note beneath the sweetness. There was smoke, yes, but it sat at the edge rather than marching through the dram with a bagpipe and a military escort. The finish thinned too quickly, and a faint bitterness at the back suggested the cask hadn’t been as good as the label implied. Olivia let the glass hover there a moment longer, not because the whisky needed more time, but because Daniel had begun smiling in anticipation of being praised and she needed a second to choose her words.

“What do you smell?” he asked.

“A little orchard fruit. Toasted grain. Honey.”

“Right, but the peat.”

“It’s restrained.”

He smiled as though she’d made a charming attempt at the answer. “Exactly. Restrained peat. That’s the technical term.”

It wasn’t. Olivia took a sip and let the whisky travel over her tongue while Daniel explained phenols, coastal maturation, and the difference between smoky and peaty with the enthusiasm of a man who’d found three facts and intended to use all of them before dessert. She listened, because her grandmother had taught her that people often revealed more when they believed they were teaching you something, and because there was always a chance a person might surprise you if given enough time.

Daniel didn’t.

He told her about a distillery he’d visited in Scotland, a distillery she’d evaluated for a private client a year ago. He described a tasting room she knew by its bottle green door and a master distiller she’d spoken with over lunch while rain battered the windows, and a sheep had pressed its face against the glass to see what they were doing. When Daniel said the best way to appreciate whisky was to avoid adding water because “real enthusiasts don’t dilute,” Olivia placed her glass carefully on the table before she did something stupid.

“What made you choose this dram in particular for me?” she asked.

He blinked. “I thought you liked whisky.”

“I do.”

“And this is a good whisky.”

“It is.” She smiled, though he seemed unable to recognize the warning in her voice. “I’m asking why this one?”