Page 107 of Whiskey Kisses

“You did what you had to do,” he says, like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking about.

“And I’d do it again.”

“I know you would.” A slow smile, a real one this time, spreads over his face. “Is it fucked-up that I love that about you?”

“Probably.”

Standing up, he leans over and kisses me, the first real kiss we’ve shared in days. “Then I’m fucked-up.”

“We both are.” I grab the collar of his shirt when he begins to straighten up, pulling him back down for another kiss. “I think therapy would be a good idea,” I say as we drift apart. “For both of us.”

28.Tristan

Epilogue

“Happy anniversary, T,” my brother says, lifting his glass. “May you and Evie live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”

I thank him with a smile as we clink our glasses. Lucky downs his whiskey like a shot, eyes flaring as the flavor registers. “Damn,” he says, picking up the bottle of Golden Stag. “You weren’t lying.”

“It’s nice, right?” I lick the sweet residue of vintage Doyle’s off my lips. It’s thick, almost syrupy like a liqueur or a dessert wine, with notes of toffee, tobacco and oak.

“So nice I’m having another one,” he quips, refilling his glass.

“You better savor that shit,” I tell him, but I polish mine off, too. “There are only a few bottles of it left in the world.”

After bringing all three hundred and forty-eight bottles of Doyle’s Golden Stag Limited Batch out of the cellar and storing them in a designated room at the distillery, Evie and I got serious with our research. We knew the stuff was valuable, but we needed to figure out justhowvaluable. Between the files from Randall’s office and Pax’s online sleuthing, we calculated that the special edition whiskies were over a hundred years old. They’d been aged in Ireland, in oak casks, for almost thirty years before being bottled and shipped to America, where they hung out in Myrtle’s cellar for anothereightdecades.

Extreme-aged whiskies like this are incredibly rare, especially when they’re this old. When news of Golden Stag first went public, Doyle became a household name in the luxury beverage universe. Evie and I gave interviews and made appearances at galas and collector’s events. As of today, about a third of the bottles have been sold to collectors around the world. We’ve auctioned off a few for charity and donated one to Savannah’s historical society to display at a museum. We held a private tasting for the employees of Doyle’s distillery over the summer, and Evie later gave a bottle to Maribelle. That impressed me, because while they’re civil to each other these days, they’ll never be close.

“And to think, you wanted Mom to invest in abrewery,” Lucky says with a smirk. “Feel free to gift me a bottle of this for my anniversary, okay?”

“Like you even have to ask.”

“Your tournament is on Tuesday the fifth, right?” He grabs his phone. “At four?”

“Yeah, at the Boston Convention Center,” I reply. “You bringing Liam?”

Nodding, he types something into his phone. “He’s been talking about it since the last one.”

I was cleared to compete three months ago, but I’m easing into it, sticking to local exhibitions and BJJ tournaments. I miss the rush of MMA fights, and I train in the ring every day, but I’m still rusty. I find myself holding back when I shouldn’t be, not quite trusting my instincts, and that’s no good when there’s a fist or a foot flying at my face.

I’m not worried about it, though. I can see the progress I’ve made, and I know I’ll get back to where I used to be. For now, it’s enough to be back at Callaghan’s, training and teaching classes, and competing in jiu jitsu tournies like the one next month. I’ve tried to get Evie to give competing a shot, but she’s happy rolling at Callaghan’s or Phoenix Rising in Savannah.

Dad, Donovan and Uncle Keegan walk by on their way out to the garden, heads bent, voices low. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen that trio plotting and planning, I’d be a zillionaire. “Tristan,” Dad calls suddenly, his eyes finding mine. “Evie’s looking for you.”

Pouring myself another finger of whiskey, to sip this time, I clap Lucky’sshoulder and wander off to find my wife. We’re at my parents’ country house in Winchester for a month or two so Evie can enjoy what she calls “for real autumn.”

We’re also celebrating one year of marriage with an “intimate” cocktail party thrown by my mother, who’s channeled all of her pent-up feelings at missing our wedding into an over-the-top Sloane Kelly production. The patio and garden are full of round tables dressed in white linen and flowers. There’s a catered buffet as well as charcuterie boards around every corner, because apparently, it’s not a party if there isn’t cheese everywhere. The wine is flowing, the jazz band is jazzing, and there’s a fancy cupcake tower that I’ve seen Liam visit at least four times.

I step out onto the patio, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke tinged with weed—I told Timmy to do that shit downwind, dammit—and peruse the crowd of well-wishers, looking for the redhead in white. I consider texting her, but then I see her. She’s with Opal and Bria by the archway in the garden, the corners of her lips turned up in a contented smile. She’s holding a cocktail as she sways to the music, as luminous as a beam of moonlight in that long, white dress. It’s a simple, sexy design with satiny fabric molding to her curves and delicate straps crisscrossing her back. Every time I look at her, I just want to touch her, to slip that dress right off and ruin her with my mouth.

She must feel the weight of my stare because she glances over and stares right back. Man, the anticipation of what I’m going to do to that woman later feels almost as good as the deed itself. A hearty guffaw from the nearest table pulls me from my porny musings. Grampa Con’s deep in storytelling mode, his accent ripening the tipsier he gets.

I take another sip of whiskey, letting its rich taste settle on my tongue before putting it down and making my way over to Evie. Her smile grows the closer I get, and she hands her glass to Opal before coming to meet me. “You called?” I ask, pulling her into my arms as the jazz band launches into Ella Fitzgerald’s “Let’s Do It.”

“I did,” she says with a laugh. “The photographer wanted to get a few pictures before the sun went down.”

“Of course, he did,” I say, resting my hands on the small of her back. She looks like a fairy queen with her glowing skin and her hair wavy and wild, just the way I like it. “I love you in this dress.”

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