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Appalachian Red. Christ, that shit. Don’t get me wrong, it’s top-notch whiskey, our bestseller, and a big piece of the heritage I’m (mostly) proud to be a part of. But Dad’s constant harping on his one stupid stroke of luck has almost made me hate the stuff. And yeah, the fact that he blew all the money we made as its value skyrocketed over the past five years doesn’t help.
“I’m the one to thank for that”—I nod at the distillery—“and you know it. But I’ve got a lot to do today, so let’s cut this short. It’s our wedding, mine and Reese’s, and we call the shots. No bullshit, and absolutely no business. Understood?”
Dad sighs, like he’s the long-suffering one. “Son, it’s about more than you and Reese. We gotta show the world the Kingsleys are back and better than ever. Like that marketing guy said—what’s his name?”
“Tiffany?”
“No, the guy she worked for.”
I screw an eye shut against the piercing beep beep beep of a truck in reverse. “Greg’s an associate at Decker & Sims. He works for Tiffany there.”
“I liked his ideas better. Like Greg said, there’s no greater marketing tool than love.”
“Actually, Tiffany was the one—”
“Everyone loves love. So let’s use yours to sell some motherfucking whiskey, eh?” He claps a hand to my shoulder and squeezes, hard. “It won’t be a big deal. We just gotta associate our name with Noble’s every chance we get. Then everyone will know we’re not some backwoods bankruptcy story, and investors will come running. So much money’ll pour in we won’t know what to do with it.”
Fuck. That.
I’ve seen this movie before, and I know how it ends.
“The money’s already pouring in,” I reply, shrugging out of his grasp. “Funny how easy you forget about last year’s capital infusion. Chris saved us, literally, and right now he’s the only investor we need to be thinking about.”
“I don’t need to tell you not to fuck things up with his daughter, right?”
I scoff, dropping my head as I shake it. Kick at the gravel. “You’re unbelievable. I’m pretty sure using my wedding as a publicity stunt for Kingsley Distilling would qualify as fucking it up. That’s not what Reese wants—”
“How do you know? She’s just as hungry for wins as her father is.”
“I know because she’s a decent human being, and people like that view weddings as celebrations, not as business opportunities.”
“I wonder what Reese thinks about the way you and Milly Beauregard looked at each other.”
What the fuck?
Something inside me snaps. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and for one terrifying second, I’m worried I really will deck Dad right here in the parking lot for all our new employees and the construction crew to witness. I can see the police report now: Danica Lewis, 36, Harvard trained chemist, visibly shaken as she relates hearing bones crack when Nathaniel (perp #1) broke Wilson’s (perp #2) face.
“You’re out of line. I know Milly from delivering our product up at Blue Mountain for some of her events. End of story. What was I supposed to do today, not look at her? She’s my fucking wedding planner.”
* * *
“If you say so,” Dad says with a mean little smile.
My heart clenches. No way Dad knows about Milly and me. Reese is the only person I’ve ever told about our affair, if you can even call it that.
Still, the fact that Dad mentioned Milly at all makes me queasy. “I do say so. The last thing I need is you talking shit about Milly Beauregard. She’s just the wedding planner.”
Dad holds up his hands, phone clasped in one of them. “Sore subject. I get it.”
His phone chimes, the screen lighting up with a notification. I squint against the late-morning sun to get a better look at what it is, but he quickly drops his hands, turning the screen away from me. But I see it in his eyes—that predatory spark I know all too well.
“Nice visit we’re having here, son, but I gotta scoot.” He puts his hand on the chrome door handle of his truck, and I hear all four doors unlock simultaneously with a neat clack. Keyless entry—fancy.
Meanwhile, the doors on my Bronco don’t even lock anymore. Not like anyone would ever want to steal the thing or the collection of cassette tapes I keep in the glove box.
“Where ya off to? You just got here.”
He opens the door and climbs inside. “Meetings.”
“What meetings?” I put my hand on the top of the door to keep him from closing it.
“You know. Meetings.”
“So help me God, if I find out you joined that online poker tournament again—”
“Christ Almighty.” Dad tries to pull the door out of my grasp. “How the hell did I get stuck with you for a son? We ain’t Boy Scouts around here, and we sure as hell ain’t snitches. Quit being a pussy, would you? Everything’s gonna be fine.”
