Page 63 of Bourbon and Secrets

“A drink would be good,” I say as my body settles into the leather seat. “Have anything other than bourbon?”

The right side of his mouth kicks up and that charming dimple divots low on his cheek, just barely noticeable beneath his facial scruff. “I know you didn’t just say that to me.”

Chapter 22

Lincoln

“It still smells so good here,”she says, tilting her head back, eyes closed as we walk toward the distillery. “There has never been any other place where the air smells like cinnamon, sugar, and bread had the most delicious time together.”

I swallow, my mouth watering at the way she describes it. It’s a reminder of how special it is here. “It’s the sugars breaking down in whatever mash bill we’re pushing. Fermentation causes that bread-like smell and then you add in the wind from whichever season we’re in and that’s Fiasco.” I smile as I flip the metal key to the left, unlocking and pushing through the double oak doors. “Everyone says that it lingers more in the humidity of summer, but I think it’s stronger, more distinct, in the cold.”

The motion lights illuminate the tasting bar and ignite the gas-powered sconces peppered along the walls of the entryway. A nice little feature that Ace labeled as “extra,” but right now, I’m happy I ignored that opinion.

“I have questions,” I say as I link her fingers into mine.

“I know.”

The tasting bar is made from American white oak, the same that’s used in our barrels. It’s stained dark to keep the warm aesthetic. I love trailing my hand along the top of it—a random habit I have to do every time I’m here.

She looks around like she’s taking inventory. Cataloging every detail. I always feel a sense of pride run through me knowing that I’ve built and nurtured this place. That it’s as much home as it is work. I never thought I’d feel that way about anything else, and then I became a dad.

“There’s only bourbon back there...” she says, watching as I study what’s displayed and then pull a few bottles from shelves. “Is it against the rules to tell Lincoln Foxx that I don’t love bourbon?” She scrunches her nose and finishes it with a smile.

I wrap my fingers around two Glencairns, the small glasses we use specifically for tasting, and put them in front of her. “Bourbon has plenty of rules. In order to call it bourbon, it needs to follow them.”

Plucking a bottle from the middle shelf, I give it a quick pour. I tip the glass back, letting the alcohol burn along my tongue. A palate starter.

As she rests her elbows on the bar, she says, “Outside of making bourbon, I think rules can be dangerous.”

I lean toward her and take a second to really look, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I’ve looked at her in so many different lights and lenses. “Almost as dangerous as secrets.”

She smiles as her eyes search mine. “But you and I tend to have some of those, don’t we?”

I don’t answer right away, instead I let the look we share linger for just a few beats longer. Pouring a splash of the reserve in one glass and the specialty blend in the other, I lean close to her and lift the glass, studying it in the warm lighting. “I think wehave less from each other than from other people.” It’s true, but it’s the first time either of us has acknowledged that.

“This bourbon is the one that I look forward to having. It was a fluke accident—a mash bill gone wrong. It’s still 51% corn, but the wheat and rye had been botched. It had almost broken the rules.” I take a sip before I tell her exactly what makes this one special. “I had been distracted and the lavender that had been hanging in my workstation from Lark fell into my test batch. But I figured, why not? Let's try it. That week had been the worst of my life. I had found out my wife wasn’t—” I cut myself off. “I had just been blackmailed by a woman in a cornfield. I figured, fuck it, let’s see what comes of this.”

She holds hers up as well, mimicking my move. “So this is basically my fault.”

“Which means you can’t hate it now,” I say with a smirk as I tilt it to my nose to scent the notes. This one is a higher proof—harsher and stronger, but it’ll make the rest feel easy. “What should we toast to? Punches and pepper spray?”

With an unexpected chuckle, she studies the color, swirling the bourbon in her glass. “To bourbon and secrets.”

“To bourbon and secrets,” I repeat and clink her glass. “You’re going to take a small sip, just letting it coat your mouth. And your tongue.”

When she really smiles, that beauty mark moves a little higher, her eyes squint, and lips tilt up and out in a way that makes you want to mirror it. She tips the glass back, and then squeezes her eyes shut as she swallows. “Yup, still just tastes like burning.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, but coming from her, it’s cute.

I move down the length of the bar, my fingers skimming across the bottles that have built up our brand—Grant’s Cowboy Edition Bourbon, Griz’s 1910, and Prohibition Special Reserves.And while both Ace and I produce the bulk of our most sought-after Straight Rye and Single Barrel Bourbon, we don’t have a blend that is distinctly ours. This bottle I pull down, however, with the black Foxx logo embossed across it, is one of my favorites, for no other reason than it was bottled the first year that I started here as a master distiller.

Faye leans forward, the pink dress draping just low enough that her tits look fucking edible. “Eyes up here, Foxx.” She smiles, her fingertips grazing the rim of the glass. “You didn’t have glasses before I left.”

I remove the stopper from the bottle. “It was a present for my 38th birthday—my eyes went to shit. Everything was a little blurry. And, as it turns out, Christmas lights aren’t supposed to look like sparklers. But really, the joke is on people without astigmatism.”

She barks out a laugh. “Does everybody know that the charming, single-dad Foxx brother is also kind of a nerd?” She holds her hand out in front of her. “And I don’t say nerd as a negative. I think exceptionally smart people are highly underappreciated. Nerds got a bad rap in the 80s and never came back from it.” Eyes widening, she sucks in an excited gasp. “Have you ever heard of nerdlesque.”

I can’t help but narrow my eyes on her. “There’s no way that’s a real thing. And were you even alive in the 80s?”

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