out of the oven and spread with butter from the
plantation’s own cows, and over that Irish orange marmalade or
blackberry jam from the cellar. The orange juice was just-squeezed,
the pineapple just off the tree and bursting with flavor. The coffee
tasted like what would happen if you caffeinated Heaven.
“One more bite,” I promised
myself, and moaned in ecstasy as the piece of pineapple burst between
my teeth.
And of course that was the exact moment
that Hunter came in. When I was moaning like a porn star.
The universe hates me so, so much.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s
one way to enjoy breakfast.”
I raised my cloth napkin, pretending to
wipe my mouth but mostly attempting to cover up a blush that was
actively trying to make my face burst into flames.
It definitely didn’t help that he
was wearing a tight T-shirt that clung to his sweaty, rugged frame
like it couldn’t bear to let go. Not that I could blame it.
“Yes. Um. You’ve been
working?” I asked, desperate to change the topic.
“Time and tide and distillery
malfunctions wait for no man,” he said. “I’ve been
up for hours. I was just going to grab a coffee and hit the sack for
a quick nap, but I could give you a tour first if you want.”
Is it a tour of your bedroom? I
thought but managed not to say out loud. “No thank you,”
I said instead. “I’ll make my own way. I wouldn’t
want to inconvenience you.”
Because if I took that tour right now,
with him looking the way he did, I was definitely going to
inconvenience the pants right off him.
“It’s no inconvenience,”
he insisted. “In fact, I—” Then his eyes widened.
“Oh dear. You’ve just saved me. I was supposed to join a
conference call in fifteen minutes.” He bit his lip in a way
that made me think several thoughts not even remotely fit for print.
“You’re certain you’ll be all right on your own?”
“I think I’ll survive the
wilds of your library,” I assured him.
He hurried off with a grateful smile.
It was a relief, because I would definitely have jumped him if we’d
spent any longer together. And I couldn’t risk my job for that.
Even though it would be so very nearly
worth it.
#
After resisting the temptation that was
Hunter in a tight t-shirt, I followed Martha’s map to the
estate library, where I planned to spend the rest of the day. The
building it was housed in was about half the size of the manor house,
which is to say, about twice the size of any public library I’d
ever been in. It was all wood paneling and lush carpets and
wall-to-wall bookshelves that would have made the Beauty and the
Beast movie drool in envy.
Thankfully, those bookshelves were full
of the kind of primary sources I’d been unable to track down
back in Washington, D.C., and I was able to spend hours poring over
old journals, record books, and newspaper clippings in search of the
most fascinating historical tidbits about the company. Those
first-hand sources, including the diary of its founder, Hunter Knox’s
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather and
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, poor immigrants from
Scotland who wanted a better life. They’d come to the United
States where they’d worked hard to earn the capital to leave
their employers and strike out on their own. Learning from both their
roots and the rich bourbon culture of the South, they had worked
together as equal partners to create a flavorful bourbon whose
popularity swept the nation and went overseas, becoming so popular in
Britain that both ancestors were very nearly knighted.
I thought about Hunter as a knight.
Hunter, sweaty, in chain mail, valiantly rescuing me from a dragon.
He’d unchain me from the rock where I’d been offered in
sacrifice, his hands gentle as he stroked my chafed, raw skin—or
maybe he’d leave me chained, those soft lips lifting in a
wicked smirk as he bent to press them to the sensitive skin of my
neck, his hand trailing up my
plantation’s own cows, and over that Irish orange marmalade or
blackberry jam from the cellar. The orange juice was just-squeezed,
the pineapple just off the tree and bursting with flavor. The coffee
tasted like what would happen if you caffeinated Heaven.
“One more bite,” I promised
myself, and moaned in ecstasy as the piece of pineapple burst between
my teeth.
And of course that was the exact moment
that Hunter came in. When I was moaning like a porn star.
The universe hates me so, so much.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s
one way to enjoy breakfast.”
I raised my cloth napkin, pretending to
wipe my mouth but mostly attempting to cover up a blush that was
actively trying to make my face burst into flames.
It definitely didn’t help that he
was wearing a tight T-shirt that clung to his sweaty, rugged frame
like it couldn’t bear to let go. Not that I could blame it.
“Yes. Um. You’ve been
working?” I asked, desperate to change the topic.
“Time and tide and distillery
malfunctions wait for no man,” he said. “I’ve been
up for hours. I was just going to grab a coffee and hit the sack for
a quick nap, but I could give you a tour first if you want.”
Is it a tour of your bedroom? I
thought but managed not to say out loud. “No thank you,”
I said instead. “I’ll make my own way. I wouldn’t
want to inconvenience you.”
Because if I took that tour right now,
with him looking the way he did, I was definitely going to
inconvenience the pants right off him.
“It’s no inconvenience,”
he insisted. “In fact, I—” Then his eyes widened.
“Oh dear. You’ve just saved me. I was supposed to join a
conference call in fifteen minutes.” He bit his lip in a way
that made me think several thoughts not even remotely fit for print.
“You’re certain you’ll be all right on your own?”
“I think I’ll survive the
wilds of your library,” I assured him.
He hurried off with a grateful smile.
It was a relief, because I would definitely have jumped him if we’d
spent any longer together. And I couldn’t risk my job for that.
Even though it would be so very nearly
worth it.
#
After resisting the temptation that was
Hunter in a tight t-shirt, I followed Martha’s map to the
estate library, where I planned to spend the rest of the day. The
building it was housed in was about half the size of the manor house,
which is to say, about twice the size of any public library I’d
ever been in. It was all wood paneling and lush carpets and
wall-to-wall bookshelves that would have made the Beauty and the
Beast movie drool in envy.
Thankfully, those bookshelves were full
of the kind of primary sources I’d been unable to track down
back in Washington, D.C., and I was able to spend hours poring over
old journals, record books, and newspaper clippings in search of the
most fascinating historical tidbits about the company. Those
first-hand sources, including the diary of its founder, Hunter Knox’s
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather and
great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, poor immigrants from
Scotland who wanted a better life. They’d come to the United
States where they’d worked hard to earn the capital to leave
their employers and strike out on their own. Learning from both their
roots and the rich bourbon culture of the South, they had worked
together as equal partners to create a flavorful bourbon whose
popularity swept the nation and went overseas, becoming so popular in
Britain that both ancestors were very nearly knighted.
I thought about Hunter as a knight.
Hunter, sweaty, in chain mail, valiantly rescuing me from a dragon.
He’d unchain me from the rock where I’d been offered in
sacrifice, his hands gentle as he stroked my chafed, raw skin—or
maybe he’d leave me chained, those soft lips lifting in a
wicked smirk as he bent to press them to the sensitive skin of my
neck, his hand trailing up my
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