Page 19 of Whiskey Kisses

“I’ve been looking for something like that down here.” He nods, typing. “Can I tag along next time you go?”

I shrug, struggling to keep my emotions in check. Seeing Tristan in action on the mat would be incredible. “I guess.”

“You going tonight?”

“Sunday’s my day of rest. I might go over to Opal’s for dinner.”

“I should probably leave you to it, then.” Tristan finishes his tea and stands up. “As long as you can reassure me that Cole isn’t a threat.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What would you do if he was? Camp out on my couch?”

“Maybe.”

“Look, it’s really not that deep. Cole and I dated—and I use that term loosely—for a while in high school,” I mutter, shaking off the shame that rises whenever I think about it. “Not my finest moment.”

Tristan blinks. “High school? And he’s still obsessed with you?”

“I wouldn’t say obsessed,” I counter. “He’s just used to getting what he wants, and he acts the fool when he can’t have it.”

His bright eyes darken like cloud shadows rolling across a meadow. “Give me your phone.” He holds out his hand. “Please.”

I do, reluctantly, watching him enter his info. Then he calls himself, immediately silencing it from his end. “Now you got my number, and I got yours. I know you’re more than capable, but I’m just a call away.”

Concludingmy second appointment of the day, I drive into town with the windows down, singing along to my favorite playlist. It’s been a good day. One, it’s absolutely beautiful out, the temperature hovering in the high 70s. And two, I secured both of the accounts I set out to win today. One of my new clients was so enthused about our flavored vodkas that he ordered twice the amount we’d agreed to and then referred me to their sister location in Hilton Head. I’m hoping I can secure that account, too. I’d make a mini vacation out of it, scooping up Opal and staying for the weekend.

“Yesss,” I sing, sliding into a just-vacated parking spot outside Callista's. A mix of freshly baked bread and warm pastries drifts from the open door, beckoning me inside. Busy or not, I couldn’t ignore the allure of a free meal, and besides, Daddy did ask nicely.

I find him on the busy back patio, seated at a table beneath the shade of a giant oak. Callista’s is known for this—instead of removing the tree during the patio's construction, they cleverly integrated it into the design by building around it.

“There’s my girl,” Daddy says, rising to pull out my chair. “Hello, Evelyn.”

“Hi, Daddy.” I take my seat, wondering at his good mood. He’s been an absolute bear lately, and not the cuddly kind.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says, motioning to one of the glasses on the table. “I went ahead and ordered you a mint julep.”

“Thanks.” I take a tiny sip. It’s my favorite summer cocktail, but I don’t usually imbibe on workdays. “You said you needed to talk about something. Is everything okay?”

“More than okay.” He leans back with a smug smile, clasping his hands over his belly. “In fact, we have reason to celebrate.”

Mybelly gives an anxious somersault. “We do?”

He nods. “Looks like we won’t have to tangle with the Kellys after all, which, by the way, you should not even know about. I don’t know why Tristan included you in that mess, especially in the gauche manner he did.”

“Hm,” I say, cooling my hands by wrapping them around my drink. I don’t know why Tristan included me either, but unlike Daddy, I’mglad he did. Coming into the light is always preferable to being left in the dark.

A server stops by briefly to take our order, and then we’re alone again. Daddy leans forward, his eyes gleaming. “How would you feel about joining forces with one of Savannah’s finest families?”

He’s definitely acting bizarre. I glance at his drink, wondering if it’s his first of the day. “That depends. What do you mean?”

Reaching across the table, he takes my hand and clasps it between the two of his. It’s jarring, frankly. I don’t think Daddy’s held my hand since I was a little girl. “The Deschamps have a … shall we say vested interest in Doyle Whiskey. We have a few shared goals, and …” He rambles on and on, a word salad with little nutritional value, until my ears catch the last two words.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, my insides going cold.

Daddy purses his lips. “Isaid, you and Danny’s son are to be married.”

“Married? To Danny Deschamps’ son?” I slowly pull my hands away. “Which one?”

Why am I even asking? The thought of marryinganyof the Deschamps boys makes my stomach roil. Besides, I already know, don’t I?

---