Page 13 of Whiskey Darling
Wednesday afternoonI’m in the breakroom pouring a cup of coffee. My report is almost ready; I’ve been double-checking some of the details.
Skipping lunch for the past three days, I’ve studied the distillery’s previous marketing strategies and visited local establishments not currently carrying Devil’s Gold Whiskey.
I’ve not made contact with anyone in these establishments. Just did some quiet recon, getting a feel for what’s popular with the crowd. Devil’s Gold should be the top-notch whiskey choice everywhere it’s offered, so I’m doing my research.
Today, my eyelids droop from the pace I’ve set. A pick-me-up is needed.
The breakroom is gorgeous, as one might expect in this beautiful building with its exposed brick walls. Expensive, plush leather sofas grouped in intimate settings are angled so green hills and sweeping forested valleys remain visible no matter where you sit. Coffee tables cleverly crafted from slats of old whiskey barrels are a cozy touch. Three oversized farm tables made of walnut with multiple matching chairs are placed in the dining area.
Honestly, the entire space resembles a high-end condo more than it does a breakroom.
I absently stir cream into a mug of coffee—real mugs here, not Styrofoam cups—thinking I should return to my desk for my journal. There are items on my list I can tick off, but instead, I lean a hip against the granite countertop. The break from my office walls is nice, giving me a chance to stretch my legs.
The door swishes as one of my fellow team members enters.
“Hey, Allie. Whatcha doing in here all alone?”
Apprehension steels my spine, bringing me upright. Michael Lassiter is becoming a nuisance. He’s asked me out several times, ignoring my repeated refusals. I get the value of persistence, but it’s annoying.
“Needed a cup of joe to slay the mid-afternoon drowsies,” I quip, sidling away from the kitchen area. Maybe he’s here for a snack. Maybe he hasn’t come looking for me.
Moving to one of the sofa groupings, I stand at the windows, gazing at the distant mountains. If I ignore him, he should get the hint I’m not interested in a conversation.
No such luck. Plopping down on a sofa, his feet hit the coffee table’s surface with a dull thud. I don’t budge, although I feel his eyes raking up and down my backside.
“You must enjoy your job here.”
Glancing at him over my shoulder, I’m tempted to roll my eyes when I see how he’s sprawled. His arms stretch across the sofa’s back as though he’s some sort of king.
“I do,” I agree. “It’s a great place to work.”And I can’t stop thinking about how hot my boss is.
Michael stares at me for a long moment before he gets back up. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s standing so close it makes me shudder.
“I could help you like it a lot more.” His voice is low. “Whatever you and Flynn are doing, we could be doing, too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you? Don’t you think we know what you and the boss do? This ice-queen vibe of yours is driving all of us guys crazy.” His hand suddenly trails down my arm. Cold. Unwanted. “How many shots of whiskey will loosen you up, Allie? I bet you fuck like a wild-cat once you get started. Flynn shouldn’t be the only lucky bastard around here, you know. Some of us want in on that action.”
I freeze at the brazen, ugly words. I can’t react. I can’t even move away from his breath hitting my ear.
Not at first, anyway. It’s mere seconds before righteous fury washes over me. Spinning around, I intentionally spill my coffee down his leg.
Lucky for him, the cream I added knocked the temperature down a notch. If only it was hot enough to burn his dick off.
“What the hell?”Michael scrambles back, frantically peeling his slacks away from his skin.
Trembling with revulsion, I pin him with a glare.
“You disgusting pig. Don’t speak to me again unless it’s work-related. I’ll report you to HR if anything other than a polite ‘hello’ crosses your lips,” I snarl, although my voice is shaky. “And if you ever dare lay your hands on me, I’ll do more than just scald you with coffee.”
I stalk out of the breakroom without a backward glance, ignoring whatever he mutters beneath his breath.
It’s not compliments, that’s for sure.
* * *
Flynn
