Page 8 of Bourbon and Proof

Today, he’s all bluegrass Kentucky. A horseman and not a bourbon boy. The Wranglers that hug his thick thighs are their own version of an assault weapon. His black T-shirt has theFoxx Bourbonlogo stitched along the sleeve in black embroidery, making the gray that runs along the sides of his otherwise dark, almost black hair stand out a little more. I teased him often about being old, but the truth is, Ace Foxx is just like his bourbon: better with some age. And damn, do I drink him in every once in a while.If only I literally could.

“Where’s your bag?” he asks, moving toward the door.

I lean back, peeking from the doorway of my bedroom. With a smile, I tease, “This your way of telling me you want to have a sleepover, Ace?”

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, stopping all movement. Imayhave pushed him too far with that one. His jaw is clenched, like he’s holding back from saying something like,Cut that shitout, Hadley.But instead, he stares at me, meeting my eyes first, and then up to my hair. The quiet that’s settled around us is nothing short of uncomfortable now. Maybe he’s not in the mood to dish it back today.

“My gear is in my trunk already,” I say, lifting my chin toward the door. When he still doesn’t say anything, my cheeks flush hot.

This is one of those times when something feels different. Like I’m not the only one wondering if the attraction and pull is mutual, if it would ever tip over between us. There are times when he looks at me like this, and I want to physically push him and scream, to beg him to tell me what the hell he wants.

“Ace—”

But he cuts me off. “I’ll be downstairs. You have five minutes or I’m leaving.”

I swallow the feeling of rejection, telling myself again to get over it when it comes to him, and then hustle to wash my face and brush my teeth.

When I waltz outside ten minutes later, sure enough, the asshole left without me.

“You must’ve really pissed him off today.” The low Kentucky drawl of Griz Foxx rings out to my left. His thick white mustache matches his full head of hair, sideburns cut tight against his weathered skin. It isn’t surprising that the Foxx brothers are so damn good looking. Not when they had genes like this. Most couldn’t guess Griz’s age; the man still moves, jokes, and drinks as if he’s the same age as his oldest grandson.

“And it’s not even 7:00 a.m. yet,” I say with a laugh as I walk closer. “Did he leave you here, too?”

He nods. “Did his charming mood have anything to do with Chief Hawkins coming out your front door?” he asks, leaning against my car with his arms crossed over his chest.

I give him a kiss on the cheek as he takes my shoes and makeup bag from my hands. “Griz, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He gives me ayeah, rightlift of his eyebrows. “Said he’d meet us at the river. Figured he either had something happen at the distillery or you got under his skin again.” He raises his hand, waving at Skip from the bait and tackle truck. Griz is never too busy to say hello to people. The two old timers exchange a few niceties about where the fish are biting lately, and then he and I make our way out to the river.

Griz smiles with his eyes closed as he casually leans back into the plush leather seats of my 1969 Mustang. “Can I tell you something without you speeding up any higher?”

“That doesn’t really feel like the start of a good conversation, Griz,” I tell him with a chuckle.

“I’m going to say the thing that everyone says you’re not supposed to say.” He looks ahead at the familiar road leading to one of the few secret places still left in this town. “I thought I’d be dancing at your wedding long before I was ever going to dance again at one for Lincoln or Grant. I’m happy seeing them happy, don’t get me wrong, but I thought you would have sorted things out by now.”

My throat is suddenly dry. His disappointment at the fact that I’m not married hits my chest in a way I wouldn’t have expected. Griz is the only person—well, maybe not the only person—but one of the most important opinions that matters to me. He’s been the voice of reason for most of my adult life. The patriarch to a family I wanted to be a part of and who folded me in without batting an eye.

“Griz, you, of all people, should know that getting married is just an agreement to love someone. Feels like paperwork for promises that can be made without it. I don’t know if I want to make a business deal out of my feelings.” But even as I say it, Ihate it. I’ve been leaning into this single and powerful persona for so long, that it’s started to feel like a lie. I hate that women are painted into these corners, that you have to be one versus the other. A part of me craves to prove it all wrong.

“That’s not how I meant it, kiddo,” he says more quietly as we pull down the dirt and gravel road. “I just thought that you—” he cuts himself off, making my eyebrows pinch. Redirecting the conversation, he says, “You are as much mine as the rest of my boys. Maybe not by blood, but by everything else that matters. Loving someone isn’t a weakness. You can be exactly the woman you are—strong, smart, sassy as all get-out, and still give in to it.”

I glance over at him as he stares out the window at said boys, seemingly unfazed by the words that just affected me deeply. Lincoln’s smiling and yelling something to Grant, who simply nods with a twitch of his lip. In the distance stands Ace. The oldest who always seems to be a little bit farther away than the rest—watchful and protective. I sit taller in my seat, pushing my shoulders back and readying to mask the affection I can’t seem to shake for that man.

“Maybe I just haven’t met the right person yet,” I add with some attitude.

Griz lets out a soft grunt, like he heard the punchline to an unspoken joke. “Maybe so. But I see plenty of what goes on around here—more than most. Have for a long time.”

The truth is, I want to be loved out loud. Choosing to marry a person is just about as loud as it got. That seems like something I could only witness, not participate in. I watched Lincoln find it with Faye. I witnessed Laney arrive as a stranger and pull Grant out of despair.

Love has transpired around me in intensely epic ways, which means I have to believe in it. I just stomped it out of my own reality. For years, my father ingrained in my mind that marriage for our family was a business deal. Then one day, he quitpushing it. I somehow earned the freedom to find it and chose myself instead of looking for happiness with anyone else. The world tells you to be kind, then to be selfish, then to share it with someone. To have mind-blowing sex, then to find your best friend. To depend on yourself, but to lean on others. Truthfully, it’s exhausting—all the convoluted hypocritical messages that, in my mid-thirties, are altogether paralyzing.

“Griz,” I exhale, giving him a lazy smile. “Life is complicated right now. I can’t think about folding someone into my mess.” It’s an excuse, but a good one at that.

He nods to himself, knowing those words quite simply mean to back off.

I cut the engine and look out at the three Foxx brothers wading out in waist and thigh-high waters, casting their lines. From this angle, they all look like the boys I knew growing up. The bourbon boys who fueled gossip the same way these flies and feathers lured fish.

There’s something poetic about watching them in the morning light. Affection for people who only cared to see the best in you can quickly turn a person into something entirely new. I would always be grateful to them for that.

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