Page 31 of The Best Man Wins

Braxton takes the pot and upends it on an empty mug. Only a drizzle of coffee comes out. Whoops. Maybe this is my fifth cup of coffee? His lips press in a thin, chastising line. I’ve been caught.

“Get dressed,” he says. “We’re going out.”

“I have a lot to do,” I protest lamely.

“This is wedding business. You’ll want to be there.” Ray’s boots clomp downstairs, and when the large man comes into the kitchen, Braxton adds, “Ray’s coming.”

“Darn straight I am,” Ray says—the cheery man is game for anything. “Where’re we going?”

“Roxanne mentioned a distillery nearby. Unless you want a PBR-sponsored wedding, I suggest we check out some of the local libations.”

A grin cracks over Ray’s mouth. “Hell, it’s eight o’clock somewhere. Lemme tell Cora that I’m leaving, and then we can roll out.”

Ray clambers up the stairs with all the grace of a bull. I squint at Braxton. “You invited Ray?”

Braxton shrugs. “He is the groom.”

But there’s a dark glint in Braxton’s eyes. He’s got something brewing up there in that perfectly groomed head of his, I know it.

“What’ve you got up your sleeves?” I ask.

“You tell me.” He rolls up his sleeves and holds up his bare forearms. Despite myself, I shudder. Braxton grips the back of my chair, sinks down, and the heat of his breath hits my ear, “You should’ve slept. Get your game face on.”

He stands and steps away. I sigh and finish off my coffee. Soldier’s fuel.

Let’s do this.

14

Susie

About halfway to the distillery, the caffeine kicks in and I feel my senses sharpen. The pea-soup thick haze around my vision clears, and I find myself taking mental note of every bird that zips past our car. Braxton has taken the wheel, Ray shotgun, and I’m stuffed in the back with one of Ray’s best friends and groomsmen, the noble Sheriff Carson Colburn, a thick-shouldered man with an even thicker mustache. When I point out the birds, Colburn names them without missing a beat: the tuxedoed top of the Carolina chickadee, the red-bodied Carolina wren, and the mousy brown-headed nuthatch.

“We’re here,” Braxton announces as he shifts the truck into park.

Muddy Waters Distillery is built inside of a wooden barn with two twin copper vats standing like guards at the entrance. There’s a goat tied to one of the vats, and it chews lazily on the last patch of green grass underneath it.

“Howdy!” A woman waves to us from the door, wide smile stretched across her face. She wears a cowgirl hat and Muddy Waters Distillery shirt with the bottom tied in a knot underneath her breasts, never mind the chill in the air. “Which one of you is the man of the hour?”

Ray lifts his hand as we walk over. “Right here!”

“Whoo-ee! They always take the good ones off the market, don’t they?” She flings her arms around Ray and hugs him before giving Colburn the same treatment. “My name’s Alice. I’ll be giving y’all the tour of our little distillery here.”

“Braxton.” Braxton keeps the bouncy hostess at arm’s length and extends a hand instead. “We spoke over the phone.”

“Good to put the face to the voice—c’mon inside! Warm yourself up on our whiskey.”

She guides us inside and I hold back to walk beside Braxton. There is that devious look in his eyes again. “Let me guess—did you request the bustiest tour guide?” I ask under my breath.

“Had to get the boys thirsty,” Braxton comments.

I roll my eyes.

Alice leads us through the Muddy Waters merchandise—hats, shirts, mugs—and lines us up in front of a polished tasting bar. Bottles of whiskey and moonshine are stacked on the back wall next to the images of Carolina pride—race cars and fly-fishing and pictures of men with long grey beards that extend down to their belts. As Alice enthralls her captive audience with the history of each barrel, I step to the side and pore through my emails on my phone. The reception is crystal clear out here, and I seize my opportunity to send out a couple of time-sensitive emails, one to the baker and the other to the dress designer.

“Phone down. Mouth open.” I lift my eyes. Braxton stands in front of me, holding two tiny tasting glasses.

“I can’t,” I tell him. “I’m on duty.”

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