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Chapter One
Stuart
I switched off my phone, ignoring the missed calls, emails, and notifications, and allowed myself to have a moment, cocooned in cigar smoke, with a tumbler of single malt whisky.
My good friend George had opened a cigar bar, The Gatsby Lounge, three months ago. The place was perfect for wooing; either customers or a date. Baby blue velvet chairs, gold finishes on the geometric chandeliers and intimate booths with stunning views over the River Thames and the twinkling lights of London created an ambience of success and sex. Here, you appreciated a good drink and cigar with good friends or seduced a beautiful woman.
Tonight, the only wooing I was doing was for business. The success of my family’s distillery was riding on how well I impressed a hotel rep with a special whisky of mine.
“Stuart! All right?”
George greeted me with a huge grin and outstretched arms. We’d met on the first day of our intensive MBA program in London and been pals ever since.
“Good to see ye!” I put my drink down and pulled him in for a hug, clapping his back. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: quitting financial management suits ye. Setting up your bar in Marylebone was the best idea you’ve had.”
“We’ve had, you mean,” George grimaced, looking around. “Don’t ask me about plumbing issues in a heritage building, though. Or what plumbers charge. It’s extortionate.”
“Silent partners don’t ask questions. Well, not too many. Besides, I’ve had my fair share of heritage building issues and pipes.”
“That you have,” George grinned. “So, how’s the second still repairs coming along?”
I groaned. “Boiler issues, even with new parts. And the old man is riding my arse about it every day.”
George grabbed me by the shoulder, making me look him in the eye. “You’ll be fine, Stu. You’ll wow the rep with your whisky tonight. I know it.”
We both turned in the direction of a loud whoop, where a group of suits were toasting to one person in their party. “And, when you convert your former colleagues and rivals to loyal customers, it means making bank by the end of the month. You’ll get your first dividend soon.”
He nodded at my glass.
“We’ll talk business later. I’m more interested in sampling your work-in-progress tonight. You having the twenty-five-year single malt right now?”
“Aye, I am. And -,” I handed George a paper bag with two cleanskin bottles inside. “My pride and joy. One for the rep and one for later when we’re done.” I glanced at my watch. “The hotel rep should be here very soon for the tasting.”
George waved to one of the barmen. “The rep will love it, man. I’ve no doubt.”
“Fuck, I hope so.” I took a steadying breath. “If they’re impressed, our whisky will be stocked in twenty-seven of their UK and European hotels.”
“You’ll smash it. You’re the Beast!”
I grunted at the nickname from my professional rugby days, which had followed me through to my MBA studies.
“Remember to bloody well smile, Stuart,” George sighed. “Or the Beast will scare them off. Look, I gotta help serve. When you’re done, let’s get a booth and shoot the shit over some nice Cubans I’ve been saving for when you came to visit. I’ll even impress you with the figures for our first three months of trading.”
I nodded, managing a smile to show him I knew how. As George threaded his way through the packed crowd, snatches of conversations wafted around me over the background music. A group moved away from the bar with their drinks, and that’s when I saw her.
She sat on a high stool, legs crossed, her focus entirely on the drink in front of her, allowing the bouquet to open as she swirled the liquor in the glass. Her navy-blue dress was cut low over the swell of her breasts and the hemline rode up her thighs. Her hair was the colour of whisky; the perfect blend between blonde and brunette, just like my family’s single malt.
She was a mere four or five steps away, eyes on the whisky bottle before her - Gallanach. Our brand. George said something to her, and her red lips quirked up at the corners of her mouth.
I gripped my glass hard, realising other men around the lounge were checking her out and liking what they saw.
I blinked rapidly. Was this jealousy? I snorted at the absurd thought and sipped my drink, as a good-looking guy approached her. Everything about him screamed ‘works in finance’; custom tailored suit, Italian shoes, £300 pound haircut and a tie that cost even more. He’d just come from the group who’d been toasting their buddy earlier. He ran a hand down his tie and leaned into her space with a leer.
“Evening, love. What are you drinking?”
She took her time savouring the liquor on her tongue. I was spellbound watching her swallow and then licking her lips.
“Whisky. This one is like sitting on a beach around a bonfire at sunset, as the waves crash on the shore.”
