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"Darcy Woodburn."
"Well, Darcy, are you ready to sample my signature whisky?"
"Yes, please. I'm chuffed to taste it."
"Excellent." He offers her the glass, holding onto the rim until she has it firmly in her grasp. "Take a sip and be prepared to feel the warmth and succulent flavor suffuse your senses."
He has gotten so damn good at pleasing customers.
Darcy lifts the glass to her lips, closes her eyes, and takes a sip. For a moment, she simply slides her tongue over her lips, back and forth, again and again. Then her eyes fly open, and she lays a hand on her chest. "My goodness, this is bloody fantastic."
She drinks the remainder of the glass until it's gone.
And the rest of the crowd clamors to be the next to experience Thane Black Label.
Just wait till they taste the other two single malts. Thane will be the rock star of the whisky world for sure.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Thane
Never could I have imagined that a dozen people would rush to taste my black label whisky, or that they would be this excited to try the other two varieties. Rebecca is a marketing genius. I need to give her a massive pay rise and fuck her as soon as possible.
The love of my life corrals the crowd to keep everything in order as we move down the aisle to the area where my newest whiskies reside. I discuss them in chronological order.
I rest my arm on the cask while holding a bottle of the second variety I had ever created. "This, lasses and gents, is a newer single malt that offers a lavish array of scents and flavors. You will love this, I guarantee it."
Rebecca had suggested I employ "the art of the lull." By that she meant that I should occasionally pause to give everyone a chance to digest what I've said.
Now that I've given this lot a wee lull, I continue with my speech. "This unique single-malt Scotch is known as Sensual Secret, a Highland whisky with kick and sweetness and spicy seasonings. Who would like to step up and be the first to taste this one?"
Aye, the idea to name it Sensual Secret had come from me. But Rebecca agreed it was appropriate. She had never objected to that phrase, only to using the Gaelic version---for the whisky. She loves my mother tongue.
Later, I'll show her precisely what my tongue can do.
An older gentleman approaches me. "I'll go first."
"Excellent. What is your name?"
"Roger Standish."
"All right, Roger, it's time for your tasting." I open the bottle and pour a dram, then hold the glass up near his nose. "Now, my American friend, close your eyes and allow all the sensuous flavors to rush through you."
The gent takes the glass and lifts it to his lips, unleashing the flavors into his mouth. He licks his lips. Sniffs. Takes another sip.
And then it hits him.
His lips curve into a satisfied smile, and he opens his eyes in a leisurely manner. "Damn, that's good stuff. I've never tasted anything like it."
"Can you describe the flavors?"
"Sure." He takes another sip. "Kind of sweet, but not too sweet, and a little smoky too. Do I taste fruit?" He closes his eyes and drinks the last bit of whisky in his glass. Then he looks at me. "Could that be nutmeg and vanilla? I want to say honey too, but there's another flavor in there that's got me stumped."
"Wild Highland heather."
"Really? I never would've guessed." He hands the glass back to me. "I assumed this was just hype, the stuff about how incredible the whisky is. But it's the honest-to-goodness truth." Roger spins round and tells the crowd, "This whisky is amazing!"
Cheers erupt.
