Page 2 of The Distiller's Darling

“I’ll get you the information, but I don’t think it’s available here yet,” his mother replied impatiently. “Can we get back to the real issue here?”

“What issue?”

“Your sister.”

“I’m an issue? Gee, thanks, Mom,” Naomi said.

“Darling girl, you’ve been an issue all your life and you’re proud of it,” her mother said, fondness mixing with exasperation in her voice. “Noah Bradstone aside, are you ever going to settle down?”

“I’m totally settled!” Naomi protested. “I have a mortgage!” She’d bought a cute craftsman bungalow in River Hill a few years ago, having decided she needed a home base instead of constantly traveling back and forth between studio and gallery residencies. She still spent a lot of time away from home, but at least she had one. Every time she pulled into the driveway, she felt like an honest-to-goodness grownup. And the studio space she’d converted the attic into was gorgeous. Her art had definitely improved since then, and the galleries she routinely worked with seemed to agree—she’d already had to fend off one owner tonight. He was set on buying a sculpture she’d intended to auction off, but his offer hadn’t been good enough to keep her from moving on to the hors d’oeuvres table.

Her mother sniffed. “A tiny house in that ridiculous tourist town.”

“River Hill isn’t a tourist town. It’s just not San Francisco.”

“Mom can’t imagine anybody not wanting to live here,” Jacob said, gesturing wide to indicate all the glitz and glamour surrounding them. “If you leave the city, you might see the outdoors and breathe air that doesn’t smell like cars and piss. Can’t have that.”

His wife elbowed him. “Hush.”

“If you’d ever actually visit River Hill, you’d like it, Mom,” Naomi said. “Jacob and Tanya have been.”

“There’s a really good restaurant there,” Tanya said supportively. “Right in the town square.”

Her mother shuddered theatrically. “Any town small enough to have a square is too small for me.”

It would certainly be too small for the both of them, Naomi thought. Heck, the seven square miles that made up San Francisco had been too small, which was one of the many reasons she’d made her home a couple of hours away in the first place. It was the exact right distance to keep her family at bay.

“And if you’re not going to marry Noah, how are you going to meet somebody all the way out there?” Her mother was still talking, unfortunately.

“Can we not argue about me meeting somebody in the middle of the Founders’ Ball, please?”

“Why not? I thought it was an annual tradition.” Her brother grinned.

“Shut up, Jacob,” Naomi and her mother snapped in unison.

“Ah, there’s the other annual tradition,” her father said, and Tanya giggled.

“I hear you like our whiskey,” a new voice interjected. Deep and smooth, it sounded rather like Jacob always said whiskey tasted.

Naomi turned, and found her mouth suddenly dry. The most delicious man she’d ever seen was standing next to her, holding three glasses of whiskey in one huge hand. He was nearly the same height she was in her black, strappy, four-inch heels, which made him shorter than her father and brother. Solidly built, he filled out his tux to perfection. Some attempt had been made to tame the brown beard that rose above the snowy white points of his shirt, but nothing could disguise the laugh lines carved deep around his eyes. A few freckles were visible beneath his light tan, and his hair had been artfully mussed. The muscles in his broad shoulders shifted, and she glanced down at the drinks he was offering them. Somehow, his palm managed to cradle the bases of all three glasses while his fingers balanced between their edges, holding them safely. She stared blankly at his hand, feeling a tiny zinging sensation down her spine that led straight to curiosity: what would those hands feel like on her?

Naomi managed to drag her eyes back up to his face, which didn’t help much, because his warm blue eyes were on her, too. She wondered if he was thinking the same wickedly delicious thoughts.

“I don’t like whiskey,” she blurted, and his eyes crinkled in an easy smile.

Passing two glasses to her father and brother, the man held onto the third. “Is that so?”

She shrugged, attempting to recapture her usual cool. “Sorry, never have.”

“It would be an acquired taste,” he said, raising the glass to his nose with an easy swirl before inhaling. “But I came out of the womb reaching for a dram.” His Irish accent was obvious now, and she found herself wanting to hear him talk more.

Jacob snorted. “An acquired taste. Sounds like you, sis.”

“Are you done?” she snapped, feeling heat rising in her cheeks—and elsewhere.

Her silk dress—which put the ’little’ in little black dress—didn’t leave much to the imagination, and if she didn’t quickly bring her body’s reactions under control, the sexy stranger trying to ply her with booze was going to know exactly how she responded to him. She could feel her nipples turning into hard little points beneath the thin fabric.

Although maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, she thought, letting her gaze roam over him again as he exchanged pleasantries with her family. It had been a while since she’d come across someone who made her heart beat like a herd of wild horses running at full gallop, and this man—with his rugged good looks and Irish accent that was out of place in this posh San Francisco ballroom—certainly qualified in that regard.

Naomi didn’t spend a lot of time in society, but when she did, she felt nearly as much of a stranger as he seemed to be. She’d escaped her parents’ inner circle a long time ago, and these days she was accustomed to a much more private way of life. One that didn’t mean she had to pretend to be meek and demure and wait for men to get around to thinking about her wants and desires. She had an active sex drive, and she used it well and often, something her mother would probably be horrified to know. As far as Naomi was concerned, as long as everybody involved was a consenting adult and nobody was married, she was more than happy with the way things were.

She might be even happier if she could convince the sexy Irishman to join her for a nightcap. Provided, of course, it wasn’t whiskey.

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