Page 36 of Whiskey Kisses

The wooden chair I’m in creaks under my weight as I sit back. “Yeah, I have ‘em here.”

“Did you get a chance to look them over?” he asks.

I nod, glancing at the slim stack. It’s a legal contract, detailing the particulars of every loan Dad made to Randall Doyle. In reality, each of those deals was made verbally, sealed with a handshake and a shot of whiskey. But desperate times call for desperate measures, so we had Dad’s lawyer draw up something tangible that we could bring to court if need be.

Nothing like a fake contract representing a real agreement threatening a lawsuit to light a fire underneath a guy’s ass.

“Hopefully you’ll be able to make progress today, though, and we won’t have to use it,” Lucky says.

“Yeah, but it’s good to have,” I say with a shrug. “Doyle needs to realize that this is happening one way or another.”

“I know I’ve said it before, but keep your eyes open, okay?” Lucky warns. “You know how slippery he is, and I don’t know … I feel like he’s still trying to outsmart us.” He looks meaningfully at me, tapping his phone.

My own phone vibrates, and I glance down to see a text from him.

Like trying to marry Evie off.

He was trying to freeze us out.

I clench my jaw tight at the reminder. I’m not sure if it’s the thought of Doyle trying to get one over on my family and me or if it’s because he was so quick to discard Evie, but that whole situation makes me rage. “Trust me, I know,” I reply tersely. “I’ll have Finn and Malachi with me in case he doesn’t understand who has the upper hand.”

“Smart.” Dad nods in approval. “But remember, diplomacy is just as crucial as strength in this situation. Getting physical is a last resort—threaten him with that contract if you need to. I’d like to claim the distillery without unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Don’t worry, I'll keep a level head and aim for minimal conflict,” I say dryly, and Dad snorts, giving me a look.

But Lucky’s as serious as always. “At the end of the day, it’s by any means necessary, though, okay?”

“Whatever it takes,” Dad agrees. “Now, let’s get Kenny on the line. I want to look over the contract he’s been working on.”

Doyle Whiskey’smain headquarters is located on an old estate on the outskirts of town. It’s been around since the late 1800s, and as I approach, there’s a sudden stone in my stomach. Evie might not care about whiskey, but I know she cares about this place … her family’s legacy, the traditions that’ve been upheld for generations. I know how I’d feel if someone tried to roll in and take Kelly Logistics from our family, and it’s not even half as old as this place. The difference being, Dad would never have put us in a situation like that.

As I drive down the oak-shaded road leading to the distillery, I'm welcomed by the sweet perfume of maturing whiskey hanging in the cool, morning air. The main building is reminiscent of a grand plantation, with its sprawling layout, white columns, and a wraparound porch.

Swinging into the parking lot, I find a spot up front and gather my briefcase, checking one more time that I have everything I need. Finn and Malachi pull up beside me a moment later. A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s almost ten, so Randall’s here by now. He’ll have done his morning rounds and should be back in his office.

Despite the weathered paint and creaking floorboards, the building is well-maintained. I can only imagine the hard work and dedication necessary for the upkeep of a place like this. Wooden barrels flank the walls, each housing whiskey maturing to its prime, and the air is laden with scents reminiscent of charred oak, peaches, and caramel.

A perky blonde receptionist sits just inside the foyer, looking up at me with a warm smile.

“Good morning,” she says. “How may I help you?”

“Good morning,” I reply, giving her a smile of my own. “We’re here to speak with Mr. Doyle. He should be expecting us.” This last part is not technically true, of course, but it should be. Randall should expect me, today and every day he tries to avoid the inevitable.

“Oh!” She frowns prettily at her desk, shuffling through an agenda and clicking quickly at her computer. “What’s your name?”

“Tristan Kelly.”

“One moment, please.” Picking up the phone on her desk, she makes a call, murmuring into the receiver. Seconds later, she hangs up. “Mr. Doyle will be out in just a moment.”

It doesn’t even take him a minute to come striding down the wide corridor behind the receptionist’s desk. “Tristan,” he says cordially, glancing briefly at Finn and Malachi. “What are you doing here?”

“You know why I’m here,” I reply pleasantly, nodding toward the corridor. “But let’s discuss it in your office.”

“No,” he says testily. His receptionist keeps her expression tactfully blank as she shuffles a stack of papers on her desk. “I’m busy, so if you can’t just tell me here and now, then I suggest you leave and make a proper appointment.”

Nodding, I retrieve the contract from my briefcase and step forward to hand it to him. He takes it, scowling as he scans the contents of the first page. “What is this?”

When he finally looks up at me, I sweep my hand toward the corridor once more. “Shall we?”

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