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She tilted her beer back and watched him. “Speaking from experience?”
“Hell yes. Opening and running a distillery is a full-time job and then some. Wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t hated the alternative.”
“Investment banking wasn’t your thing? I’m shocked.”
He gave a rueful smile. “Translation: Sam Compton didn’t have what it takes to succeed in the real world.”
Riley shifted in her seat to study him, and he resisted the urge to squirm. “Why do you do that? Scratch that. I know why you do that. Your mom has filled your head with crap about how you’re not a good guy. But why do you believe it?”
Shit. Shit. He had not meant to take them down this path of conversation. What had happened to the good old days when she would respond to his slipups with a joke and let it go? Why now was she deciding to push?
Maybe because he’d had his tongue down her throat, his hands on her breasts. Maybe because he’d accidentally opened the door just the tiniest bit and now was paying the price.
“Can we not talk about that?” he asked, forcing a smile.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he forged ahead again. “We were talking about you. And how you’re lucky to have found a career path that suits you.”
Her smile dimmed just slightly. “You mean because I write about sex.”
Emma’s cryptic words hovered in the back of his mind. She’s not what you think.
“I’m not sure that’s what I meant at all,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “I just meant it’s clear that you’re right where you belong.”
“And you’re not?”
Leave it alone, Riley. But he wasn’t being fair. He should have known that his longing to be her friend would be reciprocal. He should have known that wanting her to confide in him would likely be a two-way street.
“ROON is everything to me,” he said, finally opting for the direct, honest approach.
Something sad flitted across her face, but her smile never slipped. “Doesn’t look that way to me.”
It was too close to something his mother might say, and his shoulders automatically tensed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that everyone who’s tasted your whisky thinks it’s up there with the best they’ve had, and yet hardly anyone has tasted it.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I’m tweaking it.”
“Bullshit. You’re hiding.”
He wanted to slam the wall down. To get up and leave before she could go there. But she already had. And oddly, he didn’t want the wall down. Not with Riley.
“I want to get it right,” he said, meeting her eyes. I have to get it right.
Her fingers found his forearm, just briefly, and although the touch was far more sisterly than the darkest part of him wanted, it calmed him.
“You don’t have anything to prove, Sam. Not to us McKennas anyway.”
He knew she was right.
He also knew that he wasn’t a McKenna. He was always aware of that. He was a Compton, and Co
mptons didn’t do success easily.
“You wanna get out of here?” he heard himself ask. “There’s a hole-in-the-wall whisky bar over on Tenth.”
She gave a little shrug. “Sure. But no more copping a feel like you did out on the field.”
“I know not to what you refer,” he said, standing to pull back her chair, a little surprised that she’d mentioned it.
