Page 35 of Whiskey Kisses

It’s late, and I’ve been reading up on the Deschamps family, courtesy of a file Lucky sent earlier, for hours.

Picking up my phone, I see several pictures, also from Lucky. Curious, I click one. It’s grainy and hard to see, but it’s a picture of two people, a guy and a girl, outside what looks to be the distillery’s secondary warehouse on West Saint Julian Street. The next shows them in a car together, and in the third, they’re kissing.

Frowning in concentration, I enlarge the image, trying to identify the couple. The guy’s wearing a hoodie, so I can’t see his face, but after a moment I realize the girl is Maribelle Doyle-Spencer.Well, well, well. I don’t know who the guy is, but I doubt it’s her husband.

Another text comes through from Lucky.

Did you know this?

Nope.

You might want to trail her, see if her movements lead to anything.

Sounds good.

Sent you another email. Check it out.

Giving him a thumbs up,I navigate back to my inbox and open a new message from Lucky titled “Silent Distillery.”

Found something interesting. In the ‘40s, the Doyles had two distilleries—the one in Savannah and a smaller, older one in Cork. Older one closed down (lack of management?) and was left abandoned for years (look up “silent distilleries”). When the family went to sell it, they found leftover product and shipped it to Savannah. If all of this is true, and that whiskey is still around/in good condition, it would be in high demand. As in legendary. People go apeshit for this stuff, so it would sell for a mint.

I’m thinking either Randall knows about it and has already sold off the leftover stock or he knows about it and is sitting on it for some reason. Or, and this is unlikely since it belonged to his father, he doesn’t know about it at all.

Pax’s still doing some digging, but if this stuff exists, it’s a game changer.

I sit back, shutting the laptop. Maribelle is cheating on her husband and also there might be mythical whiskey from a secret distillery in Ireland. Taking over Doyle’s is proving to be way more intriguing and dramatic than I expected.

“Go away.”Evie swats at me from her cocoon of blankets. She’s covered up to her eyes, but the shape of her curves rise like luscious hills and valleys. I admire them for a minute, kinda wishing she’d reconsider that no-sex rule, before resuming my wake-up call.

“What happened to being an early riser?” I demand, tugging her sheets down just enough to see her face.

She glares up at me, her morning hair a wild nest of red. “That was when I was employed.”

“Jobs are boring.” I pet Poppy, who leaves Evie’s side to arch into my hand. Such a cutie. “Anyway, I think you’ll feel better if you come for a run with me.”

“No thanks.” She pulls the comforter up over her head, ending the conversation.

I’d love to mess with her some more, but I have a busy day, so I head to the beach for my morning run. Then it’s back to the house for a session with my punching bag in the garage. Clean up, quick breakfast. By quarter to nine the laptop is on the table, ready for my call, and I’mmaking coffee. I can’t survive without it, although I almost always mix regular with decaf because caffeine plays off my meds and too much of it makes me uncomfortably jittery. And I’m already kind of jittery, full of nervous, pent-up energy despite my run. For one thing, it’s fucking noisy around here. Malachi’s TV blares from the other room while a prop plane flies by overhead—in circles, apparently, so maybe it’s advertising. As if that wasn’t enough, someone on our street’s doing yard work, too, alternating between a lawn mower and a weed whacker. It was quiet the day the realtor showed me this place, but now I wish that I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Like in the ring, about to fight.

I’m sliding into reminiscing about the good old days when, ever punctual, Dad dials in at nine on the dot. I connect the video call, smiling a little when I see Lucky sitting beside him. Looks like they’re in Dad’s office. Lucky smirks at me through the digital divide.

“’Sup, Boston?” I ask, giving a cheesy salute.

“’Sup,Savannah? Look at that beard,” he razzes, taking a sip of his own coffee. “And that tan. You working hard or hardly working?”

Chuckling, I run my hand over my beard which is, admittedly, a little longer than usual. Lucky raises his eyebrows, and I just know he’s dying to hear how the Evie situation is going. We haven’t talked much about the “wedding” since it went down, as I refuse to discuss it.

Because there’s nothing to discuss. I saved Evie, and I locked in our chances of getting the distillery. End of story.

Turning my attention to my father, I offer a grin. “Hey, Dad. How’re you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks.” He winks, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. “Found some new mountain biking trails out by Breakheart Reservation, so that’s been fun. I’ve been trying to get your mom to go with me but she’d rather I did yoga with her.”

I shake my head, snorting at the thought. “I bet.” I don’t blame her, though. Dad completed another round of specialized treatments for a heart condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy not too long ago, so we’re all a little hyper-vigilant when it comes to his health.

"So, how’re we looking for today’s negotiations with Doyle?" he asks, gaze sharpening as he gets down to business. “You got the documents I FedExed you, right?”

---