Defiant Queen

by Meghan March

  “We get several deliveries a week of grain, and malted and unmalted barley, and we use special conveyers to transport it from the silos to the wet mill.”

  “Isn’t that more normal for a brewing operation than a distilling operation?” I ask, mainly because I’ve been toying with the idea myself. But when I brought it up to my father last year, he dismissed it immediately.

  “We’re all about efficiency, and we find that works much better.”

  I walk to the edge of the platform, leaning over the railing to study the mill more closely. “I appreciate efficiency as well, but my father . . .” I trail off and find Deegan nodding as I glance back at him.

  “Sometimes when you take the reins, you have to quit listening to what the older generation has to say. When the only answer they give you is because it’s tradition, I’m of the opinion that technology probably has a better solution.”

  I’ve gone against my father’s opinions several times, the first time with the massive bank loan and remodel. Changing the guts of the operation—other than switching to organic grain—is something I’ve never considered. But, apparently, I should.

  Deegan moves to the next stage of the process. “I’m sure you recognize mash when you see it and smell it.”

  I inhale the familiar scent and ask a few questions about their temperature and timing, and Deegan is surprisingly open with his answers.

  “I don’t need to explain to you that the liquid is separated so we can send the wort into the fermenters, and the spent grain is used for animal feed.”

  I smile. “Yeah, I do have the basics down.”

  “More than, I’m sure.”

  As we move along the tour, talking about fermenting and the advantages of using both stainless and wooden casks, Mount stays a half step behind me, silent the entire time.

  He’s either bored out of his mind . . . or he’s letting me take the lead, just like he did during the conference. For the first time, I give him the benefit of the doubt and think it’s the latter.

  The warmth that moves through me has nothing to do with the heat coming off the gorgeous copper pot stills, and everything to do with the man following me.

  Mount

  I didn’t know pot-still envy was a thing, but the way Keira gazes with longing at the three massive Italian-made stills tells me that it absolutely is.

  “Seven Sinners uses triple distillation as well, doesn’t it?” Sullivan asks, and Keira nods.

  “That’s the only process my family has ever used. Our motto is make less, but make it the best.”

  “And the strongest,” Sullivan adds with a laugh. “We understand that here.”

  The two of them go back and forth with questions and answers until I’m certain Keira has soaked up enough information that she could go home and revamp Seven Sinners’ entire process. The discussion of the myriad array of barrels used, maturation, vatting, and bottling would normally be something that I’d find somewhat interesting, but Keira’s rapt attention makes it seem riveting.

  At the end of the tour, nearly three hours later, Sullivan shows us into the tasting room where there’s a bar and gift shop.

  Keira surveys the entire layout, envy rolling off her in waves.

  “My assistant, Temperance, would be shoving this in my face right now, telling me I told you so.” When both Sullivan and I look at her, she explains. “She’s been after me to do exactly this for a long time. Bring people in, teach them what we do and why we do it so they feel a personal bond with the brand. Have them taste it and love it, and then sell them all the gear we can before they go on their way. Do you mind if I take some pictures?”

  “Go right ahead. And you’ve basically hit it in a nutshell. That’s exactly what we do,” Sullivan says. “We’re not Jack Daniel’s or Jameson, a bottle that people might pick off the shelf because they’ve heard the name. But once someone has been through this distillery tour, they’ll remember Sullivan whiskey for life, and hopefully buy it forever. It’s the personal connection. That’s why, when we built this facility, it was constructed with tours in mind.”

  Keira sighs. “I just did a massive renovation to bring us into the twenty-first century—late to the game, as always. We added a restaurant and gave the whole building a face-lift, but starting over and building a facility to cater to tours would be impossible. Not to mention the fact that we’d need to upgrade our equipment too.”

  “Maybe right now isn’t the time, but you haven’t been at the helm all that long, have you? You still have plenty of years to get to where you want to go.”

  “With unlimited funds, maybe . . . I’ll just have to make the small changes I can, but keep the quality. I have room for a gift shop. We have the restaurant. I just have a feeling my lawyers would freak if I mentioned tours.”

  Sullivan grins. “Fuck the lawyers. All they want to do is get in the way. Find a way to make it happen. We’re one of a kind here in Dublin. Sure, you can go tour the old Jameson building, but there’s no whiskey being made there. You get a museum. That’s great for people who recognize the name already, but if you want to stand out in someone’s head, you need more.”

  As we sit down at one of the tables and sample flights of whiskey, Keira’s mind is only halfway on the flavors Sullivan is describing. She’s already working through his comments in her head.

  And so am I.

  Keira

  When we walk out of the Sullivan distillery, my brain is going a million miles an hour. Mount must have texted Padraig, because the driver pulls up and takes the case of whiskey that Deegan insisted we needed out of Mount’s hands and stows it in the trunk.

  I pull out my phone and make a dozen notes to myself about things to discuss with Temperance and Louis when I get back. I have plans. All the plans.

  “Would you like me to take you back to the hotel, sir?” Padraig asks.

  “That depends,” Mount says, and I tear my attention from my phone and look up to meet his gaze. “What else can’t you live without seeing in Dublin this time?”

  This time. That makes it sound like I’ll be coming back, and I decide right then that Mount’s right. I will be back. But for now . . . I know exactly what else I want to see.

  “I don’t like beer that much, but I’ve always wanted to see Saint James’s Gate and drink a pint at the Gravity Bar at the top of the Guinness Storehouse.”

  “Shall we head that way, then?” Padraig asks. “It’s not far, still in the Liberties, and you can do a largely self-guided tour. It’s a tourist favorite.”

  I want to say yes. I can’t imagine Mount mingling amongst a crowd of people snapping pictures, but photos I’ve seen of the Gravity Bar were part of the inspiration for the restaurant on the top floor of Seven Sinners. Being this close to it and not going to see it would suck.

  “Whatever the lady wants,” Mount says, shocking the hell out of me. “Let’s go to the Storehouse. If we’re going to be tourists for a day, we might as well do it right.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re exiting the car onto a cobblestone street next to a massive stone-and-brick building. I head for the door that reads Welcome to the Home of Guinness. Inside, it’s a complete madhouse. The noise of hundreds of tourists echoes upward through the open center. Mount’s hand never leaves the small of my back as we stand in line to purchase tickets, and then wander through the gift-shop area to the escalator to start the tour.

  “Arthur Guinness was a smart man.”

  Mount nods to a sign painted on what looks like a partial replica of a fermentation tank. It reads:

  Not everything in black and white makes sense.

  The fact that Mount noticed the sign makes me think of the overwhelming presence of black, white, and gold in the two suites I’ve seen in his compound. And the dining room. And the hallways.

  “Did you get your decorating tips from Guinness?” When I turn to face him, he’s on the step below me, putting us at eye level.

  Mount’s laugh booms out, echoing over
the chatter, which I swear goes quiet for a moment. “No. No, I did not.”

  “Then what’s that all about?”

  The humor in his expression fades, and I don’t think he’ll reply, but he does.

  “It’s a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “That there is such a thing as absolutes. Good and evil. Right and wrong.”

  That explains the black and white. “But what’s with the gold?”

  “The golden rule. He who has the most gold makes the rules . . . and gets to determine where those lines between right and wrong are drawn.”

  I feel like Mount just gave me a peek inside his head, and I’m not sure what to do with that information. In this situation, undoubtedly, Mount has the most gold, therefore he makes the rules. But right and wrong, good and evil . . . those concepts don’t seem like they’d trouble him much. Or, if anything, I’d assume he’d say he lives in the shades of gray.

  Mount lifts his chin and glances up. “You’re missing the good stuff.”

  I look where he indicated. It’s a glass sign that reads:

  This is the storehouse where, for almost a century the magic process of fermentation took place. Construction began in July 1902. Four years later, fermentation began and continued until 1988.

  My curiosity about the black, white, and gold is pushed aside for a moment as the history of where I’m standing washes over me. It might not have a damn thing to do with whiskey, which is my passion, but my roots and their ties to the city feel stronger than ever.

  Mount and I wander up each floor, reading the placards and listening to the holograms describe the history of Guinness. What impresses Mount the most is that Arthur Guinness had the foresight and confidence to sign a nine-thousand-year lease for the storehouse property.

  “That took balls. Have to respect the man for that, if nothing else.”

  “It was crazy! They must have thought he was insane,” I say.

  Mount shakes his head. “Brilliant, more likely.”

  After learning about how to properly build a pint and tasting a sample, we finally make it to the Gravity Bar, and I’m able to see the famous 360-degree view of Dublin beyond the glass. It’s surreal.

  Mount positions himself behind me. He places his hands on either side of mine, resting on the tall table with the remains of our pints between us, protecting me from the jostling of the massive number of people crammed into the space.

  “I can’t believe I’m actually here.” I turn my head to meet his gaze. “Thank you. I know this isn’t what you would’ve picked to do today, but it meant a lot to me.”

  He doesn’t answer but his dark gaze pierces mine, making me wish I had another peek into this man’s head. He’s an enigma.

  Mount’s palm slides against the small of my back once more before he replies. “Finish your pint. We’re not done with Dublin yet.”

  Mount

  I want her to kiss me. Right there in the bar, I want her to turn around and fucking kiss me of her own free will. When she doesn’t, I force down my disappointment and lead her down the stairs and out of the building, telling myself that at least she’ll never think of Guinness without remembering this trip. And me.

  When we drive past the famous Saint James’s Gate as we leave the Liberties, Keira reaches over and grabs my arm.

  “There it is! That’s it.”

  It’s the shiny black-lacquered gate with the golden harp and Guinness name beneath it that I’ve seen in many an ad for the company, but Keira doesn’t care. She’s practically bouncing in her seat at experiencing it for herself, and her excitement is contagious.

  I’ve been to Dublin before. It wasn’t pleasant business, but it had to be done. I couldn’t tell you a thing about the city after I left except it was gray and rainy, and the river looked an unhealthy shade of green.

  But now I’m seeing it all through Keira’s eyes, and it’s a completely different perspective. She’s successfully changed my opinion of Dublin, solely by experiencing it with her at my side.

  When she asks Padraig to drop us off at a true Irish pub near Temple Bar, I don’t argue. I let her pull me out of the car when he stops in front of a restaurant that fits the bill, and lead me inside.

  The food is greasy, but filling, which apparently is exactly what we need, because Keira gets it in her head that she wants to see as many of the pubs in Temple Bar as possible. If I were to compare it to New Orleans, I’d describe Temple Bar as the French Quarter of Dublin, which is probably why we both feel so at home here. The buildings are all connected, and we wander the uneven cobblestone streets with no particular destination in mind but wherever Keira’s fancy takes us.

  In between pubs, she drags me into brightly colored shops and buys the most random things. My favorite? An inexpensive but creative necklace.

  “I think it suits me. Don’t you?” She’s tipsy from drinking all day—whiskey, beer, and cider, the combination of which has stripped her of her normal stiffness around me.

  I offer up the euros to pay for the necklace and lift it out of her palm. It’s a hand flipping the bird, and the knuckles are tattooed with two words: Work Hard. My lips twitch with the urge to smile as I fasten it around her neck.

  “It definitely suits you.”

  “But not tonight. Tonight is for fun only. Nothing else.” As though punctuating her slightly slurred words, she pulls the tie that has kept her hair in a low ponytail all day and shakes out her red mane. “I let my hair down. Now it’s your turn.”

  The proprietor looks thankful when we step out of the shop, because he’s on the verge of closing. The sun has gone down, and Irish pub music spills out into the streets.

  Keira leans into me. “So?”

  I’m not clear on how tipsy she is, but she’s missing an important piece of the puzzle. “I can’t let my hair down.” I shove a hand through it. “It’s not long enough.”

  “Then you have to do something else.”

  “What?” Again, the corners of my mouth tug upward.

  “That.” She points to my face. “Smile. You hardly ever smile. You always look so . . . stern.”

  When she makes an attempt to mimic my normal expression, a laugh breaks free from my throat.

  “Yes!” Her face lights up in satisfaction.

  “Is that all you want from me?”

  She shakes her head as we reach the door to another pub. “No. Tonight, let’s pretend you’re not Mount and I’m not your payment on a debt. Let’s just be Lachlan and Keira. Can we do that?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she’s a hell of a lot more than that, but I hold it back. Instead, I make a request of my own.

  “On one condition.”

  We step into the bar, and the musician onstage has the entire place packed.

  “What?” Keira has to yell over the crowd for me to hear her, so I wrap both arms around her waist and lift her off her feet so my mouth is level with her ear.

  “Say my name again.”

  “Come on, lads and lasses. Let’s get ta dancin’,” the man onstage cries out, urging people toward the dance floor.

  Keira bites her lip, and the craving to kiss her hits me hard again. She places both hands on my shoulders and leans in.

  My breath stops for an instant, expecting her lips to hit mine, but they bypass my mouth for my ear.

  “Dance with me, Lachlan. Dance with me in Dublin.”

  Mount

  Keira passes out in my arms almost as soon as the car door closes and Padraig drives us back to the hotel.

  I’ve gambled and won fortunes time and again, amassed money until it no longer has any meaning except for the power it allows me to wield. I’ve built a goddamned empire. But none of those things can give me what I want right now.

  “Dance with me, Lachlan.”

  Her request was ludicrous. I don’t dance, but in that pub, with the Irishman and his guitar encouraging everyone to join in, I gave her what she wanted.

  Fo
r one night, I’ve gotten the chance to be someone else. Anyone but me. And that man was able to sweep this woman off her feet, literally and figuratively.

  Keira sighs, curling into my body.

  It’s too bad she probably won’t remember any of it.

  Or maybe it’s better that way. Unlike me, she won’t spend the rest of her life wishing for another night like this.

  Keira

  When I wake, my head pounds like an entire troop of Irish step dancers is using it as a stage for a performance. I roll over in bed, naked but for the sheet and down comforter covering me, and no memory of how I got there or managed to get my clothes off.

  I glance at the clock to find it’s almost one in the afternoon.

  “Shit.” I’ve missed all the morning panels. They weren’t nearly as important as the ones earlier in the week, probably because so many people duck out before the last day, but still. This is my first conference, and I planned to make the most of it.

  I sit up in bed and haul the covers off. A note flutters to the floor as though it was lying next to me. When I reach down to grab it, everything I’ve consumed in the last day feels like it’s about to come up.

  I’m officially too old for whatever the hell happened last night.

  I’ve never been the type to get blackout drunk because my tolerance is higher than most people’s, and yet my memories from last night are fractured, at best.

  I remember the distillery. Guinness. Eating. Wandering Temple Bar and hitting a few pubs. But beyond that, it gets grainy.

  When my stomach steadies, I reach down for the note.

  There’s hot coffee in the living room. Drugs on the nightstand for your head.

  Drink some water. Shower and call down for food.