Page 25 of Bourbon and Proof

“I couldn’t give a shit who she flirts with,” I say sarcastically. “Don’t make this about something else when I’m asking you what they were doing here. I couldn’t find you or either of them after that, which means you’re keeping something from me—the last time that happened, our fucking rickhouse burned down.”

“You know exactly what burned it down. Don’t go blaming it on me. You’re the one who was so eager to collect a favor.” He’s quiet for a few beats before he says, “I’ve been in Fiasco most of my life. Been thinking about that a lot lately.” Getting up from the counter, he moves slowly. The next decade’s coming closer, and I can tell he feels it in his bones. “One of those eggs-in-a-hole for me?” He points at the six I’ve got cooking.

I nod, but stay quiet, letting him take his time to finish that statement. Griz is always more forthcoming when you give him space to run his mouth. I flip the bread just as the egg white turns opaque and leave it for just a moment without breaking or overcooking the yolk.

“You and your brothers are doing what needs to be done. Have been for a while now. I thought it was time I start letting ourfriendsknow that.”

I plate the eggs, sprinkle the salt and pepper, dole out three shakes of hot sauce on top of each, and then slide his plate in front of him.

He looks at me pointedly. “Favors I might owe, our book of contacts, all of that will fall to you.”

Trying to work through his reasoning, I dive into my breakfast. I cut into the center with my fork, allowing the deep golden yolk to run into the bread. It’s our weekend morning breakfast. Every week, for as long as I can remember.

Everything he’s saying is true. I’ve been the lead on most things here, and I’m taking the lead on getting Fiasco out of the hole that was dug for it. But Griz always likes to have his handsin things. He can never turn away from knowing everything about everyone. “Why?” I ask before I even realize it.

“It’s time. That’s all. It was only right to tell them in person. I knew her father and Julian’s long before you ever came into the picture.” He takes the last bite of his breakfast. “Plenty of people—media, law enforcement, locals—are paying attention to the comings and goings since the Finch & King scandal. But during wedding festivities”—he smirks with a shrug of his shoulders—“there are plenty of out-of-towners who come to events like that. No one would bat an eye at who’s coming through.”

He waits for my acknowledgement, and I give him a nod. It makes me uneasy, how cavalier he’s being, but it wasn’t a bad call; it was strategic having them there that night. Griz might be the easy-going flirt to the rest of the world—the patriarch who plans female-dominated book clubs and can carry on an easy conversation with a stranger—but he’s methodical. Smart. And intentional with everything he does.

The front door opens, and a loud argument about the Boston Rebels hockey team filters down the hall.

“McCabe isn’t getting any younger,” Lincoln says, just as they come into view.

“It’s a bullshit move. They shouldn’t have even considered trading him,” Grant says.

I shift a glance at Griz, who looks barely bothered by the two of them dropping in. I don’t care if they come over, but they rarely show up without texting our group chat first.

“So nice of you to join us,” Griz says, wiping the yolk with what was left of his toast.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, pouring more beans into the espresso machine. Apparently, I’m making more coffee. We often have chats about marketing and distillery happenings, or argue about blends and barrels, but I hadn’t planned on that today.

“Griz said he wanted to talk about the Ditch the Derby event that Laney has been planning?” Lincoln says, opening the fridge. “I think it’s the most promising way to snag two waves of people during Derby weekend and bring them down to Fiasco. We’ve got locals who want something else to do that day. They’ve enjoyed The Oaks?—”

Griz holds up his hand, signaling for Lincoln to take a breath. I glance at Grant, both of us knowing that Griz isn’t interested in talking about Ditch the Derby. There’s something else, and in my gut, I knew it was coming.

I watch the way our grandfather takes his time before he chooses his next words, and it has my pulse jumping higher. I never know what the old man is going to say, but right now, it feels like something big.

“You three boys...” He clears his throat and glances at each of us. “Men. You haven’t been boys for a long time.”

Lincoln looks my way, sensing the same tone that I am, I’m sure.

I sit up taller, almost bracing for what he’s about to say.

“I’ve decided I’m going to officially retire.”

What?!I’m instantly relieved, and then immediately skeptical. I almost laugh out an exhale. I was holding my breath, waiting to hear he was fucking dying. It would’ve made sense with some of these arrangements he’s been making. Even though I’m not delusional to the reality that he’s getting up there in age, retirement is a word that’s almost perplexing when it comes to my grandfather.

Lincoln puffs out his cheeks, blowing out air. “Griz, how is that different from what you are now?” The relief in his tone is obvious too. I think we were all bracing for impact.

Griz looks down at his hands that are doing a helluva job at wringing the napkin in front of him.He’s nervous.Oh shit. When he raises his attention, he looks me in the eye, inhales,and then says, “Foxx Bourbon will be evenly split between my married grandsons.”

It’s like I’ve been thrown into an ice bath, yet my body is instantly running hot. Nostrils flaring, I keep my focus on my grandfather. “Whatthe fuckare you doing, old man?” I ask, my tone eerily quiet.

Grant smiles out of the corner of my eye. He heard it. There isn’t a single funny thing about those words.

“You’re planning to keep quiet about decisions regarding bourbon.” Lincoln barks a laugh. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He clearly didn’t hear the part about “married” grandsons.

“Don’t do this, Griz,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not sure what point you’re making.”

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