Page 89 of Whiskey Kisses

“You can tell him yourself,” he says, gesturing toward the truck. “He cleared his schedule this morning to talk to you.”

“My morning’s full,” I say, stalling. I don’t know why. Cole isn’t here to chat. “I can’t meet until?—”

“You think you have a choice, you arrogant fuck?” he says with an incredulous laugh. “Get in the truck!”

“Can you guarantee safe passage?” I ask.

“Nope.” He grins, clearly enjoying this.

“There are cameras all over the premises.” I motion to the parking lot, the building behind me. “People inside, waiting for us.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that if I disappear, people will notice.” I break our gaze long enough to eye each of the men at his side. “My family will notice.”

Cole’s face remains impassive, but he hesitates. Good. Finally, he shrugs. “I can’t speak for my father, but nothing will happen to you on the way there. Now get in and stop wasting my time.”

I lean over, keeping my eyes on Cole as I whisper to Alex. “I have to go with them. Don’t do anything. Just … wait here.”

“You can’t be serious,” he mutters, his aim unwavering.

“Call Dad and Lucky. Make sure Evie’s secure,” I add quickly. Squeezing Finn’s shoulder, I holster my gun and step forward.

“Come on, now.” Cole holds out his hand. “Give me that.”

I have no choice but to obey. The second my gun is in his hands, the others converge around us. Cole shoves me into the truck while his guys hold Alex and Finn off, and then we’re moving, speeding back down the long, tree-lined drive.

I’d expected a verbal assault once Cole had me in the truck’s cab, but he doesn’t say a word, content to keep his gun on his lap, pointing my way. In fact, except for the country station playing on low volume, everyone’s got their mouth shut. It’s a relief, though I can’t help but wonder if it’s the calm before the storm. I’ve kicked this guy’s ass, married the woman he wants, and stolen the distillery his family’s interested in. And now, on top of all that, I’ve ignored Daddy Deschamps’ request for a meeting. Cole has every reason to get violent, and now he’s got me just where he wants me.

It’s hard not to let my mind drift to dark places. I’ve been on the other side of scenarios like this, and they usually don’t end pretty. Without warning, my breathing becomes shallower and more difficult, my exhales offering no relief from the tension building inside me. I shut my eyes, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.Focus. I thought I was beyond this, the panic attacks and nightmares, thought that all those months of therapy—physical, mental, and everything in between—had prepared me to go back to this life but apparently, I’m still pretty screwed up.

But falling apart is not an option, not right now. Forcing my eyes open, I stare at the road ahead, completing circuits of box breathing …breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold… over and over until my body releases its death grip on my muscles and my heartbeat mellows to a normal pace. By the time we’ve entered downtown Savannah, my mind is clear. We weave through morning traffic, finally pulling up to the rear entrance of what looks to be a business or restaurant.

The driver cuts the engine, and we climb out of the truck. I follow Cole and one of his guys past a couple of rank dumpsters and in through a black door. We’re hit by a wave of noise, fragrant, humid air and the controlled chaos of a kitchen.Mama Avanelle’s. A couple of people deep in the throes of prep work nod or wave when they see Cole,and he’s at once the charming boss-man I saw the day I met him out front, but that disappears as we climb a staircase.

We step out onto the second floor, which is comprised of private rooms, the kind people rent for business lunches or birthdays. Cole brings me to one, knocks twice, and opens the door. Then, giving me a shove, he shuts the door again, leaving me alone with three older men.

“My, my, my. Tristan Kelly.” Danny Deschamps—I assume—rises from the table and swaggers over to shake my hand. He has the build of a boxer, and what he lacks in height he makes up for in breadth and, judging by the firm grip of his handshake, strength. “It’s about time. I’ve been hearing about you since the day you rolled into town.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Deschamps,” I say, even though it’s not.

“It is nice, isn’t it? We could’ve met earlier had you come last night.” He sits, crossing one leg over the other in a figure four. He has a full head of hair, more salt than pepper, and acne scars across his broad face. Cole’s more of a pretty-boy; he must take after his mother. “I waited for half an hour. What happened?”

Dropping into a nearby chair, I stare at him long and hard, searching for truth in his dark eyes. Does he really not know? “There was a death in the family.”

“Ah.” He dips his chin, his eyes never leaving mine. “My deepest condolences.”

I nod once. “Thank you.”

“I hear you’re quite the fighter, collecting medals and title belts like candy. I was a fighter in my day, too.” He winks, squeezing his bicep. “A boxer.”

“I can tell.”

“And I hear you come from a very impressive family,” he says. “Third generation Bostonians, IRA all the way,ey?”

It’s not really any of his business, but I don’t want to be rude, so I shrug one shoulder and grace him with a coy smile. I’m fairly sure this is all just to prove he’s done his research, anyway.

Chuckling, he nods. “I can appreciate the discretion. Moving on. You’re probably wondering why I wanted to meet with you, why I went through such trouble to collect you today.”

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