Page 18 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
Us. Like we're a team.The thought makes my skin itch.
"Fine," I concede, because she's right and fighting it is just prolonging the inevitable. "Let's get this over with."
The smile that breaks across her face is like the sun coming out after a storm. "Really?"
I nod, already regretting it but unable to take it back.
"That would be great," she says, then glances toward the door. "I think I may have created a bit of a scene out there."
"A bit?" I raise an eyebrow. "The entire second shift is probably placing bets on whether I'm going to quit or you're going to stab me with one of those candy canes you're always sucking on."
A laugh bursts from her, genuine and warm. "I don't stab people with candy canes. I'm strictly a verbal jouster." She tilts her head, studying me. "Did you just make a joke, Owen McKenna?"
"Don't get used to it," I mutter, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. "The coffee's probably cold by now, but we might as well use it."
As she settles into the chair, I'm acutely aware of Nash passing by my office window, giving me a knowing smirk. I glare at him until he turns away.
"Everyone's staring," Lettie whispers, noticing the exchange.
"They've never seen me heated with a woman before," I reply without thinking.
"Never?" She sounds surprised.
"Not here." I straighten some papers on my desk, needing something to do with my hands. "I've only been back in Eden Ridge about a month."
"Back?" She settles into her chair, smoothing her red dress. "You lived here before?"
I freeze, realizing I've said too much. The last thing I want to do is get into my history with this town.
"A long time ago," I say shortly, picking up a folder. "So, the festival."
She watches me for a moment, like she wants to push, but then nods and pulls out her tablet. "Yes, the festival. We have a lot to cover."
For the next couple of hours, I listen as she outlines her plans for Hunter Distillery's involvement. The woman is thorough, I'll give her that. She's thought of everything from custom cocktails featuring our small-batch bourbon to branded gift baskets for the VIP tent.
"And the centerpiece will be the whiskey tasting booth," she explains, showing me a mockup on her tablet. "We'll create a rustic, cabin-like structure. Imagine wooden beams, Edison bulbs strung overhead, barrels for tables..."
Despite myself, I'm impressed. "You've put a lot of thought into this."
"It's my job," she says simply. "And I'm good at it."
There's no arrogance in the statement, just quiet confidence. It's refreshing.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten anything. I glance at the box of cookies she brought, still sitting untouched on my desk.
"You should try one," she says, following my gaze. "Miss Dorothy at Sweet Pines makes the best snowman cookies in three counties."
"Not quite true," I correct automatically. "Ivy Jones bakes better cookies in Nash's kitchen."
Her eyes light up. "Really? We'll have to put them to the test. I love a good Christmas cookie competition."
I reach for a cookie, breaking off a piece. It's good—buttery with a hint of almond. "Not bad," I admit.
She beams, like I've just paid her the highest compliment. "And your coffee? Though it's probably cold by now."
I take a sip of the lukewarm liquid. It's sweet, with hints of toffee and chocolate. Not my usual black coffee, but not terrible.
"It's fine," I say, which is apparently enough to make her smile widen.
