Moonlight & Whiskey

by Tricia Lynne

  Angie, my bestest, my sister, my Kat—who knows where the bodies are buried and will take it all to her grave. We’ve been through a lot in thirty years, but I wouldn’t have made the trip with any other chick. To Missy, who told me I had talent even when I didn’t believe her. You take me as I am, foul mouth and all. Love you two with all my heart. There’s a trip to Nawlins in our future, girls.

  To my agent, Sary, who may be my long-lost twin. Thank you for believing in Avery’s story, and putting up with all my newbie-writer neurosis. My editor, Sue, and the rest of the Loveswept family, thank you for trading countless emails, and considering countless cover versions, but most of all for loving Avery and Declan as they are, faults and all.

  To the PitchWars family, my mentor Rebecca Yarros, Michelle Hazen, Helen Hoang, Jen DeLuca, Natalee Cooper, Katie Golding, and the rest of my OG romance crew. Thank you for nursing me through the hard stuff and celebrating the good stuff with me. I know I wouldn’t be here without you all.

  To my All The Kissing chicks—Alexa Martin, Gwynne Jackson, Maxym Martineau, Shannon Caldwell, and Lindsay Hess (and Harrison)—You all go on my list of most amazing women ever to come into my life. You took this newbie by the hand and taught me so much more than I could have learned alone. I’m lucky to call you my tribe, but truly honored to call you my friends. And to the All The Kissing Facebook community, I’m proud to call you all my home.

  To Maxym—There are not enough tears, enough heartfelt thanks, inside jokes, texts, DMs, or horrendous crying baby gifs…There are no words. My rock, my shoulder, my touchstone, my teacher…Critique partner is absolutely an inadequate term for what are. You are a kindred spirit, my trusted advisor, and most importantly, my dear friend. Thank you for all the things, my love. But especially for always being there. Love you. #TeamMaxcia4lyf

  Friends and family, old and new—I’m truly blessed to have all y’all townies in my life. I-L-L…!

  PHOTO COURTESY OF TRICIA LYNNE

  TRICIA LYNNE is fluent in both sarcasm and cuss words and has little filter between her brain and mouth—a combination that tends to embarrass her husband at corporate functions. A tomboy at heart, she loves hard rock, Irish whiskey, and her Midwestern roots. She’s drawn to strong, flawed heroines, and believes writing isn’t a decision one makes, but a calling one can’t resist.

  A member of the Romance Writers of America, she lives in the North Dallas ’burbs with her husband and three goofy dogs. Want more from Tricia? Go to her website and sign up for her newsletter to get the latest on releases, excerpts, deleted scenes, and more.

  You can also keep up with her via the links below. Don’t be shy, she’s the friendly sort.

  Facebook.com/TriciaLynneAuthor/

  Twitter: @tlynne67

  Instagram.com/​tricialynnewrites

  Read on for an exciting look at

  Illegally Yours

  by Kate Meader

  Available from Loveswept

  Chapter 1

  Lucas

  Remember that song by Queen with the banging bass riff? Dindin-din-din-din, another one bites the dust…This is my life right now. I’m at the Library, a tasty little spot in the basement of the Gilt Bar, giving one of the crew a righteous send-off. James Henderson is a friend, and the brother of Max, a partner in our family law firm, Wright, Lincoln, and Henderson. He’s getting married in a couple of weeks, and to say it’s been a whirlwind is an understatement. I suspect his fiancée’s knocked up, but Jimbo’s keeping mum.

  Max has set up a whiskey tasting for the stag party. I’m more of an ale drinker, but I like to know all there is to know about everything, so I’m up for learning how to tell the difference between this glass of yellow shit and that glass of yellow shit.

  “So, what time do the strippers get here, mate?” I ask with my cheekiest grin.

  Max flashes his perfect American teeth. “Get a couple of drinks in you and the stage is yours, Wright.”

  Up on my feet, I shake my most excellent arse. “I’ll fucking do it, too!”

  This makes the rest of them laugh, but turning to sit, I find a woman staring at me like I’m an idiot. More important, this woman is wearing a bloody catsuit.

  It clings to every curve—and she’s got a lot of ’em—and covers up all the body parts I’d usually be assessing. This cover-up is sexier than if she were naked.

  The only parts I can see are:

  Feet in strappy sandals that show a tease of skin and purple painted toes. This bodes well because purple denotes royalty (think the late, great Prince) as well as wisdom, dignity, independence, creativity, mystery, and magic.

  Arms that look toned and strong, one with a tattoo of some Asian symbol.

  Her face. Duh. Did you think she was wearing a mask like Catwoman?

  The suit is zipped up to her chin, but above her jawline is the best part: a face that launched a thousand ships.

  Or hard-ons.

  Okay, my hard-on.

  It’s more striking than pretty, this face. Regal, even. Almond-shaped eyes with melted chocolate drops for irises. Cheekbones that almost rival mine. Warm, brown skin with golden undertones. A sparkling stud in her nose that tells me she likes to go against the grain. And her hair…there’s tons of it, a mahogany wave ribboned with copper and red. I could go on, but she’s quickly recovered from the sight of my booty shake and is now passing out sheets of paper.

  “Hi, guys, I’m Trinity. Welcome to the Library and to your whiskey tasting.”

  Everyone returns her greeting and I hate them all for daring to talk to her. Her voice has a natural rasp, sexy as fuck. I try to catch her attention with one of my dazzling smiles, but she’s already slinked off, gliding on ball bearings, to get the first round of drinks in.

  I track her moves, jealous of every interaction she has with other members of the rotten human race. I consider myself an excellent judge of character and I’m especially conscious of the vibes we put out into the world. People respond well to Trinity’s energy. A quick smile and pat on the arm for a customer in her path, a wave at someone who has just walked in, a familiar shoulder nudge to one of her (male) coworkers behind the bar.

  “Other people first”—that’s the vibe I’m getting from Trinity. What impression did I make on her, I wonder? According to Chicago magazine, I’m a “Chi-Town Hottie on the Rise”—it wasn’t called that, but it may as well have been—aka, one of the city’s best and brightest divorce attorneys. (And still single, ladies!) I tend to get pegged on sight as the cheeky upstart. The good-time Brit. I find it useful to let people make a call and then, boom! I crush those assumptions with a quote from Rilke or the like. No flies on me.

  Back in our orbit, Trinity places a tray of glasses with a finger of whiskey in each on the table.

  “The first thing you want to do is check the color,” she says. “Turn your tasting chart over to the blank side and hold the whiskey against it. You could be looking at pale gold, straw, amber—”

  “Piss,” I interject, because apparently I have verbal diarrhea. Everyone glares at me, so I class it up with its scientific term, “Sorry, your-ine.”

  Trinity’s lovely dark eyes narrow ever so slightly, and she announces, “That’s not a standardized color.”

  “Sorry, we can’t take him anywhere.” So says James, the groom-to-be, though he’s barely containing his laughter.

  “How’d you get to be a whiskey expert, Trinity?” I ask her, needing to establish a connection.

  “Years of training. Next, you’ll want to assess its clarity and viscosity…”

  Summarily dismissed, I follow the instructions. Of course, I have an opinion on everything. My so-called friends should tell me to shut up, but it’s like a fire hydrant of inanity has been wrenched open and I’m incapable of closing it.<
br />
  Here’s how I fill out the sheet, accompanying commentary for free.

  Appearance: Still going with urine, because I started off so well.

  Nose: Engine oil with hints of vanilla and cabbage. Sure, why not?

  Palate: Umami. I don’t know if this is correct, but I like saying the word. Say it with me, kids. Umami.

  I suspect this is all rubbish, because one of the flavor profiles is “Band-Aids.” I mean, that can’t be right.

  “What the hell are we doing drinking booze that tastes like Band-Aids?” Not that this particular whiskey does—I think—but now that I try it again, I’m getting a medicinal flavor I didn’t notice before. “How is that supposed to be appealing? No one says wine tastes like sticking plasters—”

  “Sticking plasters?” Max interjects with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sticking plasters, Elastoplast…” I wave my glass, sloshing the remaining spoonful. “What we call Band-Aids in the old country, Maxie. Try to keep up. If someone said, ‘Sip on this twenty-seven-year-old aged malt, it’s got a lovely Band-Aid flavor,’ any normal bloke would be backing out the door tout de suite. And don’t get me started on ‘forest fucking floor.’ ”

  My tirade against the tyranny of whiskey-tasting profiles has silenced the entire group. I peek up to find Trinity glaring at me in a way that makes my dick go schwing!

  “Tell the truth, love, it’s all a load of cobblers, innit?”

  She weighs me for a moment and clearly finds me wanting in every way. “Actually, no, it’s science. Scotch, you know, from Scotland, is made with malted barley, which is barley soaked in water and dried with peat fires. Peat has a chemical compound called cresols, which are a subcategory of phenols, or carbolic acid, which is found in products like Lysol and Sharpies and—”

  “Band-Aids,” I say, because I actually know this.

  “Band-Aids,” she affirms, clearly not pleased with how I needed to get the last word in there. I’m being an arsehole, but I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for competence porn, and this, along with her self-assured beauty, makes me nervous. Rather ridiculous, because nothing makes me nervous.

  “I’ll get the next round in, gentlemen,” she says, with emphasis on gentlemen to indicate I’m most definitely excluded. “Drink plenty of water.”

  With Trinity out of earshot, Max turns to me with palms up.

  “If you’re trying to impress her, you are fucking up royally.”

  “You think?” My gaze follows her to the bar. She’s doing a fine impression of ignoring me, the little minx. “Thought I was winning her over.”

  “Tell her the color of your last dump,” Grant mutters. “I’m sure she’d love it.”

  That cracks the crowd up, especially coming from the usually taciturn Grant Lincoln. He’s my other partner in the firm, though he and Max are closer because they went to law school together. Grant’s from Georgia, looks like a Bratva enforcer, and is of a slow and methodical bent, the perfect foil to my hyper personality.

  I glance over at Trinity, who’s still not paying me any heed, and consider my options. I’ve never met a woman I can’t crack with my inordinate charm, razor-sharp wit, and all-around smarty-smarts.

  Trinity, love, prepare to be conquered.

  Trinity

  Rich, overgrown frat boys in slick, overpriced suits. Come the zombie apocalypse, these guys will be the first to get bitten.

  “Come the zombie apocalypse, we’ll have no one to charge exorbitant prices for fancy whiskey tastings.” So sayeth Gideon, my coworker and closest pal. Apparently I had muttered that observation out loud.

  “You don’t think zombies can appreciate the finer things?”

  Chuckling, he strokes his hipster beard. I’m not a fan, but I love the guy anyway.

  “I think our awesome palates will be worth jack in the new world order. It’ll be kill or be killed, Trin. But you already look like Lara Croft in your”—he waves a hand over me in my cat-suited glory—“whatever this is. I’ll just cower behind you seeking your badass protection.”

  This yields a laugh from me, which is in short supply these days. Thirty-four years old and I can’t seem to get anything firing on all cylinders: my career, my love life, even my family relationships. I think of my sister, Emily, and feel a twinge of too-familiar guilt. She’s going through a contentious divorce from her asswipe of a husband. I’m trying to be supportive, but the urge to scream I told you so! is the devil on my shoulder.

  I measure one-ounce pours into lowball glasses for the second round with the bachelor party. Whiskey tastings are very fashionable with the overgrown frat boy set these days and I should be glad, because I’m a niche girl in a niche industry. A black woman in a very white, very male field. The looks I get when I enter a tasting room usually range from huh? to disgust.

  My sister doesn’t understand my career choice. I may as well be “peeing standing up,” she tells me. Sure, this job means that I’m more likely to buddy around with guys—definitely less drama—and I have to say I enjoy not having the drama that seems to follow my sister around.

  However, I wouldn’t say no to a little excitement…

  I glance over at the bachelor party to find him looking at me: Hottie Brit. I immediately avert my gaze, but not before I catch a smug lift at the corner of his mouth. He thinks he’s got me.

  They’re all annoyingly good-looking, even the guy who looks like a WWF wrestler. Grant, I think someone called him. The brothers Max and James Henderson I’ve met before when I used to bartend in the Gilt Bar upstairs. Max is a divorce lawyer, so I’m guessing some of the others are in the biz. When they walked in, I noticed the chatty Brit first because who wouldn’t? The cheekbones are young Jonathan Rhys Meyers. The hair is late Harry Styles. The suit is…I don’t know anything about suits, but this one is clearly expensive. Shiny, too, like shark hide. I imagine if I touched his arm, I’d come away with some slimy protective coating.

  Then he opened his mouth, the first word out of it piss.

  I didn’t hear the accent until he amended to urine, pronounced your-ine. Kudos for making piss sound exotic.

  He appears younger than the rest of them, whether it’s attitude or the way they dote on him indulgently. Like he’s the crazy loon in their care, the little brother that needs to be watched like a hawk because you never know what he’ll do or say next. I’ve lived most of my life playing caregiver. I certainly don’t need that dynamic with a man.

  Pity, because I could come from listening to him talk…

  The night proceeds per its billing. Whenever I stop off at the bachelor party’s table, I’m treated to another Shakespearean soliloquy from Hottie Brit.

  The latest: “Leather and tar? Love when my drink tastes like the bottom of a biker messenger bag.”

  Max mouths I’m sorry every time, but I don’t mind—you quickly develop a thick skin working in bars—and I especially don’t mind when Max drops a couple of C-notes on me just before he leaves with the group.

  “We had a really nice time, Trinity,” he says. “And sorry about Lucas.”

  I assume Lucas is the British guy. “Not a problem. Glad you had fun.”

  He squints, looking a little pained. “We’re now headed to meet up with the bachelorettes for Abba night. The fun is only beginning.”

  My laugh is real instead of the fake one I manufacture for most customers. Max Henderson would make someone a nice husband, and being in the divorce business he’d probably know how to make her a nice ex-husband as well. Hottie Brit—Lucas—looks over his shoulder as the party troops out, but I’m already turning away.

  Not falling for your cheekbone glimmer.

  “Taking a break,” I tell Gideon, who waves me away. It’s early July, and in evenings past, I would’ve headed out t
o the alley, not to smoke, but to inhale some fresh garbage-tinged air while checking my Insta and centering myself for the rest of my shift.

  Not tonight, though. Not for weeks since it happened.

  Standing safely inside near the back office, I shoot a message off to my nephew Chase: Wassup?

  I get an eye roll emoji back. I think. Because he loves my nineties throwback references. I think. Five minutes of dueling emojis later, I return and my jaw drops at the sight of who’s sitting at the bar.

  Hottie Brit has returned. Or never went away.

  Before he sees me, I take a moment to watch him unobserved. Long fingers are wrapped around a pint glass, which we don’t see a lot of down here. The Library is a fancy cocktail kind of place. That too-long-on-top dark hair is mussed, as if he had to abuse it to temper his energy. A small scar bisecting his eyebrow makes him a little less pretty and a lot more interesting.

  The air around him thrums even as he sits still, like a Broadway musical might break out at any moment.

  Gideon squints to tell me Hottie Brit is out of here the minute I say the word. I smile to let him know I’ve got this. Maybe HB didn’t stay for me, though deep down I know that’s not true. My pulse picks up at the thought. It’s been awhile—a long, lonely while—since anyone this attractive has hit on me.

  I’ll let it buoy me and fuel a few British-accented fantasies later.

  As soon as HB sees me he switches off his phone and places it facedown on the bar. I’m oddly touched.