Page 14 of Whiskey Darling
It’s only been six weeks.
Six. Fucking. Weeks.
Allie captures my attention until I find myself doing two things simultaneously.
Avoiding her and obsessing over her.
When her company must be endured, I inevitably mutate into a hulking mass of complete rudeness. I don’t speak directly to her unless necessary. I mumble. A lot. Beneath my breath and aloud. Shuffle papers. Take phone calls. Draw others needlessly into our conversations so we are never,everalone. It’s so bad I occasionally leave the room when she enters.
Yet…
My gaze follows her everywhere, my hunger readily apparent. Other employees watch me, and I can tell they are puzzled by my actions.
But I can’t stay away, and I can’t make myself dislike her. Far from it, I am utterly entranced.
It doesn’t help that she’s outrageously, insanely gorgeous, with her thick, blonde hair and wide, deep green eyes. Her lush mouth is the stuff of erotic dreams, and that body, sweet Jesus, all five-feet-three-inches of her curvy form is delicious.
Her wit, sense of humor, and the intelligent confidence she displays as we prepare for the International Whiskey Competition and a smaller but prestigious local craft exposition are impressive. It’s surprising how much we are alike. We’re both driven and detail-oriented. Striving for perfection. Working non-stop to see our goals to fruition, checking lists off as we go along. We’ve butted heads a few times on things ranging from budget to advertisements and the timing of the campaigns. But all her ideas and suggestions are spot on. And the people on her team? Except for a few grumbles, they agree with my decision of placing her in charge.
Sawyer, that smug asshole, constantly reminds me of the boundaries we’ve placed on ourselves. Restrictions are necessary for our profession, where alcohol and rash decisions could mean professional suicide. Intimate, personal interactions between owners and staff are prohibited. No dating. No hookups. No relationships.
Although it tests those boundaries, Sawyer has taken Allie to dinner a couple of times. I refused his invitation to join them. I can’t take the risk that I would find a way to be alone with her.
“You’re absolutely right, Rush, about the restrictions,” I say when he mentions that Allie and I should get together, that we should discuss strategy for the upcoming craft exposition. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was pushing me into some kind of date with her. “Weallstick to those rules. Don’t forget them because I sure as hell won’t.”
I’m not sure where Allie falls into the Devil’s Gold hierarchy. She’s not management, and she’s not part of the normal staff. Yeah, she’s off-limits for me and Sawyer; fair game for anyone else.
Which means a few guys here have asked her out. She politely refused them.
Still, I consider firing them, simply for having the balls to want her as much as I do.
I don’t dare venture anywhere near the cottage Allie is staying in on my estate. Until the afternoon I nearly crushed her fingers, I’ve avoided interaction with her during non-working hours. Hell, she hasn’t seen the inside of my house, nor have I offered her a ride to the distillery or the offices. A sleek company car takes care of that.
I leave my house long before she does during the workweek, and I arrive home late each night. I watch her in the mornings from my office window, sliding from the backseat of the sedan, always smiling up at my driver, Frankie.
It drives me insane with jealousy. I want her smiling at me. Just for me. How insane is that?
She has no clue all the things I want to do with her. But sometimes, when she catches me watching her, I see a glimmer in those green eyes. I suspect she knows my dirty thoughts.
And God. All I can think about since our encounter by the pool is how soft she was in my arms. How amazing she smelled. How I wanted to kiss her until her sweet moans filled my ears.
I’ve limited our contact following the pool incident, so I’m symbolically knocked on my ass when I enter the dim recesses of the barrel room.
Allie is there, examining one of the barrels on the lowest row. Her perfect, heart shaped-bottom calls for my hands. To take control. Grip her hips. Hold her in place as I please us both.
Turn and leave. Right now, you stupid bastard.
Instead, I eat up the sight of her. Like the village idiot catching sight of a garden fairy, I can only stare.
Allie shoots upright when the click of the door announces my presence. A sheepish grin twitches the corners of her lips when she sees me. “Oh. It’s just you.”
“Darling.”
I wince. This long-term habit of calling people by their last names will be the death of me. But with three Jennas, five Marks, and seven, yes, seven Brittanys on the payroll, it was an easy solution.
“Honey,” she replies almost teasingly, as though we’re exchanging endearments.
I almost choke on my own spit. That single word raises so many possibilities.
