Page 1 of Whiskey Darling
Chapter One
Nashville, Tennessee
Allie Darling
How canthis be work when I love it so much?
The liquid rests in my mouth.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Five heartbeats before I roll it around on my tongue.
Endorphins burst inside my veins. My pulse accelerates. My cheeks flush with warmth as the fluid slides down my throat. I was born for this. Genetically predisposed. Hardwired. It’s in my blood. People pay good money to see me do this. To watch me swallow.
Tonight, more women than men are in attendance. They’re enjoying the show, and that empowers me. It makes me a bit dizzy with happiness.
When the finish comes, I savor it.
Silky.
Smooth.
Warm like spiced honey.
I already knew it would be.
Eight years ago, beneath the stars of a June twilight, I discovered this surprising talent. One which could morph into an addiction if I’m not careful. If I were prone to excess, it might consume me.
But all this comes with a price, and it’s a sad commentary on my life. No time for love. Or relationships. And forget dating. This career consumes everything. I’m constantly learning. Analyzing. Dissecting.
Drops linger in the corner of my mouth, and I relish them, pretty sure if I died this very moment, I’d tiptoe into Heaven with no regrets.
Tilting my head back, I close my eyes until the nuances flood my senses.
Sheer perfection.
“Notes of maple and cocoa. A suggestion of burnt sugar. A tiny hint of spice. Well-balanced finish. Can you taste all the flavors, too? Take a moment. Really concentrate as they come through. When you swallow, you should get a finish of tart cherries.” I hold the glass so the amber-gold sample is illuminated by the bar’s lighting. “Single barrel… Four Roses.”
Silence meets my declaration as I take a sip of ginger ale.
Always clean the palette before moving on.
It was the first rule Connor Morgan taught those under his tutelage. The master distiller drilled that into recruits at Brougham Shire Whiskeys. A sentiment he applied to both women and whiskey.
“Is the barrel right?” I ask, dismissing thoughts of my former mentor.
“Girl.” Jade Beaudette shakes her head, sending jet-black curls bouncing around her shoulders. “You’ve got some powerful voodoo.” She examines the corresponding card, flashes it with a grin, and downs the remaining liquor.
As the crowd claps their hands, she taps the glass on the tabletop. It draws attention, although two girls ordering multiple shots of whiskey will do that. We’ve had the eye of nearly every guy here from the moment Mac delivered the samples.
I arch an eyebrow. “Well?”
Jade’s ebony eyes twinkle. “You always get it right on the first sip.”
A blonde takes a cautious swallow of her sample. The sash draped across her breasts proclaims her to be a maid of honor. “It’s cool you can do that. I only drink liquor mixed with something, you know?” The whiskey burns her throat. Her nose wrinkles. “There’s really a school for this?”
There is, but what I do can’t be taught. Refined, but not taught.
