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“And for the wiener,” Rhett adds, and the room erupts in laughter again. I feel my shoulders ease away from my ears ever so slightly.
I look at Milly, who’s wrangled the little girl off Beau’s lap and now holds her on her hip, glass of whiskey in her free hand. With a smile, Milly mouths, “You’re doing great.”
I know, deep in my bones, Milly is the right person.
I also know I was born into the wrong family.
“Cheers, y’all,” I manage, clearing the tightness that randomly appeared in my throat just now. “Thank you for having me.”
I didn’t think this would be painful. But I didn’t think it’d be fun either.
I never thought family was fun. Not since Mom passed, anyway. This is a nice change of pace.
A much-needed reminder to focus on what could be rather than what is.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Milly
“Damn,” Beau says, blinking down at his glass.
Nate looks at him. “Damn good or damn bad?”
“Good. Really, really good,” Emma replies. “There’s this note of marzipan that’s just—wow.”
“We aged this one in Andalusian sherry casks, so those nutty notes are definitely going to come through. I think the sweetness really rounds out the flavor profile—smooths what could’ve turned out to be some pretty rough edges.”
Samuel holds up his glass, examining the color before bringing the whiskey under his nose and giving it a good sniff. “Definitely pick up on that sweetness. Fire too, but not enough to call it ‘sunset.’ It’s more complex than that.”
“More elegant,” Beau says, sniffing his own glass.
Nate ducks his head, lips twisted in a small, proud smile. “Thanks.”
I stare at Nate, rolling the whiskey around in my mouth as I devour his cuteness with my eyes. I love it when he talks craft. Especially when he’s talking craft with my family. We’re all craftspeople at heart. Beau crafted the vision of Blue Mountain Farm Resort, Samuel crafts food, Hank crafts a guest experience that rivals the best hotels in the world, and Rhett crafts a stellar family life that’s shocked us all in the most delightful way.
My brothers all have this identical look on their faces as they continue to sip. It’s a thoughtful expression, eyes serious, foreheads creased.
It’s a look of appreciation, masters admiring another’s work.
It makes my heart soar.
Only on my second sip can I focus on the whiskey itself instead of everyone’s reactions to it. The stuff is beyond delicious. It’s a revelation. Just unique enough to stand out, but not so different that it’s weird or off-putting. I get a hit of that almond he talked about right off the bat, followed by a baked-good sweetness that’s tempered by a cinnamon-tinged bite of heat. I taste applewood smoke. Alcohol. Cold winter nights curled up by a fire. There’s a subtlety to it, a beauty that’s got Nathaniel Kingsley written all over it. This is liquor to be savored, same as Nate savors his Sunday mornings and his long, meandering drives.
So I savor it. I don’t rush to finish it, and I don’t rush to use the slight buzz it gives me to brainstorm a color scheme or calligraphy style to match. I just stand beside the man who made the whiskey I’m drinking and soak up the moment. The weight of Maisie on my hip. The way Nate’s shoulders shake as he laughs when she asks for her own glass of whiskey.
The bubble of happiness that fills my chest to brimming.
“C’mon,” Beau says gruffly, tipping his chin at Nate. “Let’s see if you’re as good at stoking a fire as you are at distilling one.”
Yup, now that happiness is spilling over.
“Thank you,” I mouth to my brother.
He holds up his empty glass as if to say, the guy who made this just might be all right.
I half expect Nate to come running back inside the house with a hunting knife stuck between his shoulder blades. But he doesn’t return covered in blood. Instead, he walks through the door smelling like a wood fire, wearing a smile on his face and carrying a tray of shucked, roasted oysters in his hand.
“Blink if you’re in distress,” I murmur, not quite sure what to make of this.
His eyes twinkle. “They didn’t talk to me, but they didn’t kill me either. And I did a damn good job of keeping that fire stoked.”
“They didn’t talk to you?” I ask, giving Beau a death stare as he steps into the kitchen behind Nate. “That’s rude.”
“We had work to do,” Samuel says, coming in behind Beau, grunting as he sets down another tray of oysters on the counter. “To be fair, I didn’t talk to Beau that much either.”
“He’s right,” Beau says. “These things require a lot of babysitting, especially when you’re steaming them over an open fire. Which, to be fair, Nate did keep going.”
“See?” Nate says. “A compliment!”
