A Shot With You (Bourbon Brothers) Page 2

“On and off? What do you do when you’re off?”

  “Well…I went to college”—for almost two whole semesters—“and I like to travel.” At least, she would like to see the world, if she didn’t have to stay here and help Papa.

  “Where do you travel? Who goes with you?”

  Was she going to ask if she wore boxers or briefs, too? Not relevant, but she did like to personalize the tour, even if she had to stretch the truth about where she’d been into where she wanted to have been. “Everywhere I can. And mostly alone. I want to write a book about my travels on every continent on Earth.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.” Okay, maybe not that personal. “Now, ma’am, if you’ll just take your seat, we can get started.”

  The old lady stomped off, shaking her head. “She’s a four out of ten on my suitability scale,” she called back to the hot guy.

  For his part, the hot guy gave her an embarrassed glance and shook his head before he looked away and helped his friend to sit next to him.

  And her afternoon tour was underway.

  Chapter Two

  “My name ees Lesa Ruiz.” Her accent was heavy, but understandable. “My papa, Carlos, his seester Tia Rita, and my cousin Raoul and I would like to welcome you to our tequileria. Pequeño Zarigüeya has been in our family for four generations.”

  So she was not only a tour guide, she was the owner’s daughter. No wonder she was so enthusiastic. He should talk to her and find out more about Pequeño Zarigüeya. Getting close to her wouldn’t be a major hardship, he mused, watching her work the crowd with her quick wit and sparkling smile, as long as he kept his head about him and didn’t let her distract him from his primary purpose—to increase Blue Mountain Bourbon’s profits.

  “What’s a peeking zeriquaya?” Edna asked. “Some kind of lizard?”

  Lesa Ruiz lit up the already bright room with her smile. “Pequeño Zarigüeya means ‘little opossum.’ The story goes that when my great-great-grandfather started making tequila here many years ago, there was a family of opossum living in the rafters of the room where we stored the agave. They would steal them occasionally, and supposedly he found the whole family drunk from an agave that had begun to ferment before it was even cooked and mashed.”

  “Well, that’s just cute, now, isn’t it?” Some big guy on the other side of the room commented.

  Asshole.

  Lesa ignored him and went on. “I want to know where are your homes,” she told the assembled group. “Let’s start over here.”

  The big man in the floral shirt told her that he was a dentist and his group was from Houston, Texas. There was an older couple from Florida, and another from Nebraska, both retired. Several couples were from Canada.

  There was Edna, from Florida.

  “I’m Brandon Morgan, from Crockett County, Kentucky.”

  “What ees your job in Kentucky?” Lesa asked.

  “Marketing.”

  She tilted her head. “You buy the groceries?”

  Huh? “Well, sometimes, when my mom can’t take my grandma.”

  She smiled at him, then spoke slowly, to make him understand. “But what is your job.”

  “Marketing.”

  “You buy groceries for your family? That is your job?”

  Oh. Marketing. She thought—

  The giant flower-covered dentist guffawed, and Brandon thought about headbutting him.

  Instead, he smiled, and said, “Yes. And I work at our family’s business.”

  “What do you do for your family’s business?” She was determined to get to the bottom of his life, wasn’t she? Brandon felt absurdly pleased that she was so interested.

  “I oversee advertising and broker sales contracts with distributors.”

  “Oh!” She threw her head back, the music of her laughter ringing a chime in Brandon. “You’re in marketing.”

  “Well, yes. For my company, and occasionally for my family.”

  Their eyes met, and for one long second, Brandon forgot every rule he’d made about not getting involved with anyone in the booze business ever again.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Edna hissed. “She’s not your type.”

  The moment broken, Lesa returned her attention to the group. “Let me tell you a little bit about tequila.”

  Brandon found himself captivated, not only by Lesa, but by her presentation of the history of tequila production. Her clever stories—and the beguiling smiles she sent his way— almost made him want to drink the stuff. Almost.

  Some of what she said was information he already knew. Just as all bourbons are whiskey, but not all whiskies are bourbons, all tequilas are mescal—distilled from a fermented agave plant— but not all mescals are tequila. And just as bourbon had to be at least 51% corn, tequila had to be at least 51% agave.

  But there was other information that he’d never heard, or never paid much attention to, because he didn’t like tequila. After all, his family made the best bourbon in Kentucky. Though if he were to follow through on his plans, he should probably be willing to find out more.

  As everyone filed from the room toward the production facilities, she shared stories of ancient Aztecs and Spanish conquerors, family businesses and family feuds. Brandon appreciated that this wasn’t a canned introduction, like in so many other tours he’d been on—from distilleries to Disney—though he knew this one would end in a gift shop, just like the Small World ride. His family was working on building a similar end to the Blue Mountain tour, so he got it.

  He was almost distracted enough by her stories to miss the signs that Pequeño Zarigüeya was a struggling enterprise. It wasn’t the worn equipment—it all appeared to be in good working order in spite of the age of some of the machines. It was more the discrepancies in inventory. Too many empty bottles, not enough full barrels of aging product. An advertising campaign that was horribly outdated. Things like that. The little possum needed a new direction.

  The guide obviously not only knew her stuff, but she believed in it. It was too bad she wasn’t passionate about bourbon. Blue Mountain could use someone like her.

  Someone who, as Edna had so generously pointed out, wasn’t his type. She was bubbly and outgoing and interested in travel. He was solid, occasionally introverted, and a dedicated homebody.

  The group was led back across a nice little courtyard with a fountain and a couple of benches.

  “Couldn’t you just live here forever?” sighed Edna, looking up at a colorful bird perched on the wall surrounding the courtyard.

  “Naw. I’m a Kentucky boy through and through.”

  The dentist turned with a smirk. “Seriously? What’s so great about the Bluegrass?”

  Everyone was looking at him. Brandon already didn’t like Dr. Smug for laughing at Lesa’s misunderstanding of his job. But he was a grown-up, and wouldn’t challenge him to a duel. He would take the high road. Besides, he was a lousy shot.

  “If you’ve never been there, Kentucky’s the most beautiful state in the world. We’ve got rolling hills with miles of white fences and thoroughbred racehorses, and other parts have mountains and valleys with rock formations you wouldn’t believe. Some of the best lakes for boating and fishing you can imagine. Oh. And forests for camping and hunting and hiking. There are miles and miles of limestone caves made by underground rivers. And last but not least, the best damned bourbon in the universe, which is made by my family, at the Blue Mountain Distillery.”

  The crowd had grown silent, staring at him. Lesa had her head tilted to the side, eyes wide.

  Okay, maybe that was a little too much. “So anyway, that’s where I’m from.”

  “If Kentucky’s so damned fabulous, what are you doing on this cruise?” someone muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  He scratched his chin. “I needed a quiet stateroom to get some work done.”

  …

  After seeing the kilns where the agave was roasted before fermenting, the stills where the alcohol was
boiled away from the mash, the warehouse where liquor was aged, and the bottling facility, Brandon was more interested in tequila than he thought he would ever be. And an idea he’d had before he’d come on this trip was starting to take on a life of its own. He was going to have to have a conversation with Señorita Ruiz.

  “And now we have come to the most popular part of the visit…the samples!”

  The crowd cheered and rushed for the tasting room. Unlike the first time they’d been in this room, everyone settled down immediately, waiting for Lesa to start her spiel about the different types of tequila her company produced.

  A young man, who Lesa had introduced earlier as her cousin, began passing out small wooden trays, each with five tiny shot glasses. Each little plastic cup held a splash of liquid, ranging in color from clear to pale gold to amber.

  When the kid got to Brandon, he almost waved the tray away. He looked up to see Lesa watching him with suspicion. What had he done? He’d asked a few questions on the tour, but nothing that would make her think he was going to spit in her booze. In the end, he thanked his server and took the tray.

  Edna immediately picked up the darkest liquor on her own tray and threw it back, smacking her lips with gusto. “Damn. That’s some fine shit,” she said, pounding her chest.

  “I think you’re supposed to wait until she talks about each type, so you can appreciate the flavors,” Brandon whispered.

  “Hah. I’m not drinking it for the taste.” She picked up the next cup. “I’m working up my courage to go talk to that guy over there.” She indicated an older gentleman sitting with a plump, smiling woman about the same age. Brandon thought they were the couple who was also from Florida.

  “Edna, I think he’s married to the lady he’s holding hands with.”

  “Eh, no biggie.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “She told me in the bathroom that she’s got a heart condition. I’ll make friends with him now, and he’ll be single by the time I get back to Alberta and put my house up for sale.”

  Brandon was left speechless, but was saved from having to respond by Lesa, who cleared her throat and announced, “Okay. Now that everyone’s been served, we can begin. I want you to pick up the medium colored tequila, and bring it to your nose.” She held up her own cup. “This is Pequeño Zarigüeya Gold, which is our most popular tequila for margaritas.”

  Brandon dutifully sniffed each cup, and worked to appreciate the flavor notes that she described. It really didn’t smell as horrible as his memory would have him believe. He was actually able to appreciate the sweet herbal aroma, but he still slid each cup to Edna instead of drinking it himself.

  He didn’t need to drink it, though, to have ideas—it was the aging process that was of greatest interest to Brandon. There were some definite implications for both Blue Mountain Bourbon and Pequeño Zarigüeya Distilling, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “You have just tasted our Reposado Especial—Special Reserve,” Lesa announced after the next sample, and with a dramatic pause, added, “The liquor we only share with our premium tour guests. Aged in French oak barrels for at least three years, it is our finest tequila. This last tequila is our least expensive. It has more of a bite, but I saved it for last because I wanted you to see how different—and yet how similar—it is to our Special Reserve.”

  She’d been strolling through the crowd as she spoke, but hadn’t paused. This time she did. Standing right in front of Brandon, she looked down at him and put a hand on her hip. Her curvy, luscious hip. Staring straight at Brandon, she pointed at the clear liquid remaining in front of him and said, “Now taste.”

  She had totally noticed that he wasn’t drinking.

  Ah, hell.

  …

  Brandon from Kentucky wasn’t drinking her tequila, and Lesa really wanted him to like it. She wanted everyone to like it, of course, but for some reason, it was important that he appreciate what she had to offer. In terms of tequila, of course. The way he met her eyes when he smiled had nothing at all to do with it.

  Maybe it was because Mr. Sexy was not only a liquor snob, he was another distiller. Was he here to look down his nose at her? She discarded that idea. He was too cute and friendly. Although…maybe he was here to rescue Pequeño Zarigüeya and just didn’t know it yet? She had to get him to drink.

  “Ahm not much of a tequila drinker,” he drawled.

  “Well, y’all should give it a try.”

  The eye-contact-smile thing happened again. “Are y’all makin’ fun of the way I talk?”

  “Ahm tryin’ to,” she told him.

  “Ahm not sure you’re going to get any awards from the Southern Accent Society of America, but there’s hope. Y’all should probably spend some time immersed in the culture before you try out for the team.”

  She giggled, but didn’t offer to immerse herself in his culture, as much as the thought appealed to her.

  He sure seemed to believe his travel-guide hype. This guy genuinely loved his home. Listening to him made her consider a visit to Kentucky on her “Places to go as soon as I get a chance” tour.

  She’d never considered Middle America somewhere interesting. But here was this guy…this…love child of a moonshiner and a Derby horse owner, and she was starting to think…stuff…about Mr. Booze Snob.

  She didn’t find him as snooty as she’d expected. He’d asked questions on the tour, but they’d been insightful and challenging in an interesting way. He hadn’t been know-it-allish about liquor, and the only time he’d answered a question addressed to her was when someone asked about whiskey, which she knew little about.

  Lesa had read travel articles about places all over the world, and sampled potent potables from Bordeaux, France, to Kamchatka, Russia. But not Kentucky, and not bourbon. The Scotch whiskey she’d tried hadn’t done much for her, and she couldn’t imagine that scotch’s younger brother from America could taste any better.

  The travel jones had been strong lately. Maybe her attraction to this Brandon was transference: wanderlust subverted to man-lust. No time for that, though. She had to help Papa get Pequeño Zarigüeya on its feet so she could go live her life elsewhere.

  “Ahm a-waitin’,” she reminded him, drawing a laugh from those sitting nearby.

  He hesitated. Took a deep sniff of the tequila. Shrugged, raised his cup to her, and let half the liquid inside slip over his bottom lip. His eyes narrowed in consideration. He tilted his head back and forth, still tasting. Then finally, a swallow. “Huh. That didn’t suck.”

  She laughed.

  He smiled ruefully, one chunk of light brown hair flopping over his forehead in a disarmingly attractive manner. “Sorry. Bad experience with tequila in college. I’ve been avoiding it ever since.”

  “Well then, you must have been drinking bad tequila.”

  He nodded, tipped the rest of the liquor into his fine mouth and said, “I might have to agree with you.”

  “Well, I’m glad to have changed your opinion.” What’s your opinion of me? She wouldn’t ask that, of course. She was just another tour guide on a rich bourbon boy’s cruise itinerary. He was just another tourist. Except he wasn’t. No other visitor in recent—in any—memory gave her funny feelings in her tummy.

  “Excuse me. Are we done here?” It was one of the big drinkers, a giant, red-faced man with a hot pink Tommy Bahama shirt over a pair of black-and-white checkered board shorts.

  “Oh!” She turned away from Distraction Man. She’d completely forgotten her job. “Yes. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming to visit us here and to enjoy our fine tequila! Feel free to wander through the courtyard and visit our little store if you’re inclined. I’ll come to wish you all good-bye before your bus returns you to Puerto Vallarta.”

  Lesa turned back to see that Brandon was helping his friend Edna to her feet. She liked that he had befriended an old person that way. Unfortunately for her, it looked like he’d be occupied for the next few minutes, because Edna was wasted.

  “Hey, let me go
, Captain Hottypants.” Edna slapped at Brandon’s arm, laughing—or maybe wheezing. “Just because you gave me a bunch of drinks doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me.”

  Brandon released her like a hot tamale. She scuttled away and clamped on to a man and woman her own age. “Hey, I want to talk to you two about some future plans. Let’s go to the courtyard and find a seat.”

  And suddenly Lesa was alone with Brandon. She was the woman who never had trouble talking to anyone, from anywhere, about anything, but she was suddenly struck mute.

  She couldn’t stop looking at him long enough to think of anything to say. Those blue eyes, and the short brown hair with the funny cowlick. The almost too big nose. His lips were soft. The bottom one was the tiniest bit biteable, and the top looked firm and had a perfect divot in the middle, except for the little scar on the left side.

  The quiet that flooded the newly emptied room gathered between them.

  Rolling her eyes, she mentally slapped herself in the head. “So. You didn’t like tequila, but now you like it again. I have done my job. But if you didn’t like it in the first place, why did you come today?”

  He smiled crookedly. “To avoid death by fun.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “Never mind. I’m glad I came, because I happen to have something that just might give your next casking of Special Reserve some new life.”

  Lesa was speechless again, but not because she was in the crush zone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Except maybe you’re the answer to my prayers? “So what is your idea?”

  “You’re currently using French oak barrels for your Special Reserve, right?”

  “Yes…” At least, they had been. Before the past two years of bad weather had wrecked the agave harvest, and their barrel importer was threatening to give their contract to another company. Yet another thread in the fragile rope holding Pequeño Zarigüeya above Lesa’s head waiting to crush her hopes and dreams of escape.

  “And if your young tequila doesn’t suck, then your Special Reserve is probably okay.”

  “Well, I might go a step beyond that.”