Distiller's Choice (Bourbon Springs Book 4)

by Bramseth, Jennifer

  CiCi was most pleased with the confrontation with Jana—and there was no doubt in her mind that it had been a confrontation, simply dressed up as a friendly lunch. Jana had wanted to size up the competition and came away realizing that she was dealing with a formidable personality. And while CiCi would have preferred to have Jana as a friend, she knew that was impossible.

  Because Jana wanted her husband back.

  By the time the late afternoon arrived, CiCi had only made one decision regarding her attire for the evening.

  She had resolved to wear underwear and not go commando.

  She wanted the feeling of wearing something around her nether regions, even if only a thong to cover her lady bits. Her most delicate thong, a barely there, lacy pink scrap of a thing, was recovered from the depths of her underwear drawer, and she slipped into it. CiCi stood in only that bit of clothing before her closet after taking a shower, pondering her choices. How to pull off sexy and classy and easily removable? She wasn’t certain whether the date would progress to a point where clothes would need to be discarded, but she nonetheless was going to be prepared for such a happy possibility.

  Her choice was a simple black sheath dress, sleeveless, which hit at the knee. It was classy and elegant and had the added benefit of hiding anything she might spill on herself since she could be a bit of a klutz. And she expected to be a little nervous that evening—the night of her first “big date” with Walker. It was silly to feel that way, she knew—especially after what had passed between them in the evidence vault. Maybe she wasn’t so much nervous as excited.

  Because CiCi had admitted to herself during the course of the day that she was falling hard for Walker Cain.

  He was hot, handsome, sweet, and reliable. He’d gotten to know her slowly and respectfully over the past several months. He wanted her and had easily whipped her into a toe-curling orgasm—in the courthouse basement, of all places! She felt giddy at the prospect of what else he could do to her given the chance. And there were several things she wanted to do to him. She felt like he was holding a big sexual IOU on her for getting her off in the evidence vault, and she would be quite happy to have him call in his debt that night.

  CiCi slipped on low-heeled black patent pumps, a pearl bracelet, and a large garnet solitaire pendant accented by a few diamonds. It looked like a piece of jewelry that belonged in Hannah’s jewelry box—or maybe Lila’s now that she was Bo’s fiancée and had that gorgeous diamond and garnet engagement ring on her finger—but the piece was all CiCi’s. Her mother had given her the pendant as a birthday present in high school; CiCi had a January birthday, and the garnet was that month’s birthstone. After checking her makeup and clothes in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door, CiCi grabbed a thin black silk cardigan sweater and went downstairs to answer the door; Walker was early.

  When she opened the door, her date’s face told her everything she needed to know about how he thought she looked. But he confirmed his impression with one word.

  Walker swallowed, and his jaw was slack as he stood on CiCi’s front porch and took in the sight of her.

  “Exquisite.” He took her hand and kissed it.

  “Still the smooth one, aren’t you?” she said, moving away from the door to allow him to enter.

  He walked into the front hallway, and she could sense his eagerness. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost. I need to put on my lipstick,” she said, closing the front door behind him.

  “Can’t you do that in the car?”

  “Yes,” she said, and tilted her head. “But I can’t do this in the car.”

  Grabbing his bright red tie, CiCi pulled him against her, planted a big kiss on his lips, and released him.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said once she’d let go. “You’re not getting away that easily.”

  He captured her by the waist, bent her back, and kissed her like some kind of great lover in an old movie. CiCi clutched his shoulders to keep from falling, but Walker’s powerful arms securely held her and prevented her from tumbling onto the ground.

  After a fierce kiss during which Walker’s tongue had explored the edges of her lips, he pulled CiCi back into an upright position and seemed pleased that his move had left her panting.

  “That was nice,” she said through heavy breaths.

  He turned to a mirror over a hall table and adjusted his tie. “More where that came from.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” She grabbed her sweater and small black clutch from the table, and they left.

  As he walked her to his car, she stole a glance at his trousers and saw a distinct bulge. CiCi felt the increasing wetness between her legs and was grateful the thong was there.

  It was shaping up to be a perfect evening.

  Chapter 13

  The route to Bardstown was simple: north out of Bourbon Springs on Ashbrooke Pike, then west on the Bluegrass Parkway about twenty miles. Although they were headed west, the sun was not in their eyes since it was still so high, and abundant light filled the sky. The evening was gorgeous.

  As was the woman in the seat next to him.

  Walker kept stealing looks at CiCi as he drove. Her hemline had hiked up above her knees when she sat in the car, and Walker enjoyed looking at her bare legs. She was not showing any cleavage, but somehow that made the simple dress she was wearing even sexier. Because there was no need to imagine what was underneath; he’d seen her beautiful body. And if things went the way he hoped, he’d see it again before the evening was over.

  Bardstown was an old home to Walker; he knew it well from working for a few distilleries there over the years. The town was most well-known for Federal Hill—also known as My Old Kentucky Home State Park—although the distilleries ran a close second in the fame department. As they drove by Federal Hill, traffic increased, and Walker remembered that The Stephen Foster Story, a musical that was performed regularly throughout the warmer months, was likely scheduled for a show that evening on the park grounds.

  It was only around a mile from Federal Hill to downtown Bardstown and The Tavern, located on the roundabout facing the old Nelson County Courthouse, which now served as a tourism information center. One didn’t need to be told that the Old Talbott Tavern was old: it sported a worn façade of weathered stone in a solid, Colonial style, easily broadcasting its landmark status. It was easy to spot because of its location—not to mention the large sign on the side of the building facing the traffic circle.

  Walker was fortunate to find a parking space in the tiny lot around the corner from The Tavern, and he and CiCi walked the short half block hand in hand toward the entrance. When they reached the edge of the building, CiCi laughed when she saw the displays in the windows: they had decorated with bourbon bottles.

  In the first window was a large stuffed wild turkey along with a few bottles of Wild Turkey bourbon. The next window boasted a display of Old Garnet; a bottle of Bourbon Springs’ finest rested atop a box draped in a deep red satin cloth.

  “I hope soon they’ll put a new bottle in that window along with regular Old Garnet,” Walker said as they stopped to admire the display. “Garnet Center Cut should be out in a few months. I can’t wait to go through the rickhouses and start choosing barrels.”

  CiCi smiled, and he intuited she understood the language of bourbon, local Bourbon Springs girl that she was. He was eager to get into the bourbon warehouses on the distillery grounds and select from what some considered the choicest barrels: those in the very center of the warehouse, known as the “center cut.” It was in this location that barrels were not subjected to the extreme variations of temperature, and excellent bourbons could be produced from this sweet spot.

  They stepped into The Tavern over stone steps and emerged into a large reception and gift shop area. After a brief glance at the trinkets and wares, which included books on bourbon, bourbon balls, and the typical gift shop fare of T-shirts and hats, the hostess led them into a room to the left.

  In man
y respects, it was like they had stepped back in time nearly two hundred years.

  On the wall to their right were two stone fireplaces, wrought iron pots dangling over unlit grates, and handmade brooms propped in corners. Above was a timbered ceiling, and underfoot were hardwood floors the color of the darkest toffee, smooth and shiny.

  Their table was of a rough and weathered wood, and the chairs were fashioned to resemble barrels. The window next to them sported another bourbon display; the brand in this window was Maker’s Mark, made about thirty miles to the south in Loretto. The bright red wax seal on the neck of the bottle glowed in the relative dimness of the dining room and looked out of place against so much dark wood.

  CiCi continued to examine the window display after the hostess had handed them menus. “What do you think about when you see other bourbons?” she asked, then turned to him. “Worried that you’re not looking at a bottle of Old Garnet instead? Worried about the competition?”

  He shook his head and glanced at the display in the window. “Not at all. I think about everything that went into making that bourbon, whatever the brand. I think about the mash bill, the grains, the water, the mash, the white dog, the barrel. I think about all the choices the distiller made to create his or her product. I can see the whole process in my mind,” Walker said, and closed his eyes. “I think about all that work and care, all the time that goes into making something so wonderful and special.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I suppose you think that’s crazy.”

  “Since you’re a master distiller, I’d think there was something wrong with you if you didn’t think and feel all those things.”

  “Shhh,” he said, looking around. “I don’t want it known I’m a master distiller.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ll make a fuss, that’s why. Might want me to taste different bourbons or talk to me about my brand. Take a look around,” he said, pointing to the window displays and old framed bourbon advertisements for brands long since discontinued. “They revere bourbon in this town, as they should, considering how many distilleries are close by. But I don’t want to get caught up in that. I don’t want to be a celebrity. I just want to be out with you on a date.”

  “But you can’t just take off your master distiller hat,” she whispered and scooted her chair closer to him so that her leg touched the side of his.

  “No, I can’t. Wouldn’t want to do that. It’s who I am,” he said. “It’s a great job, a very special job. There’s such a history, a sense of place and time and purpose in making bourbon,” Walker insisted. “The water—all that limestone-filtered water—nothing like it anywhere on Earth except right here in the Bluegrass State,” he said and tapped a finger on the surface of the table. “And our climate with the hot-cold temperature variations throughout the year helps age the stuff better than anywhere else.”

  She smiled. “It’s so nice to hear someone talk like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “To talk with so much passion about your work, your profession. About your craft. And about Kentucky. About home.”

  “Kentucky is home,” Walker said with a nod, and he knew she understood the complexity of his love for what he did and where he got to do it.

  She leaned forward on the table, rested an elbow on its surface, and propped her chin on her hand as she gazed at him. “I think you must’ve been born to your work.”

  He chuckled. “My mother says that all the time. Says I was born with a bag of corn in one hand and rye in the other.”

  “And the stork brought the barley and the wheat?” she asked, referring to the two other grains which typically made up a bourbon mash bill.

  Walker laughed as the waitress came to take their drink orders. CiCi ordered Garnet on the rocks, but Walker only ordered a glass of water since he was driving.

  “It’s not like I’m being deprived, considering how much Garnet I get to taste on a regular basis,” he said when she protested.

  CiCi ordered the pot roast, as did Walker after she shared Hannah’s recommendation. Before the server left, CiCi asked for another Garnet on the rocks and whether the bourbon bread pudding was available that evening.

  “Yes, we have it tonight,” was the server’s answer.

  “Which brand do you use to make it?” CiCi asked.

  The server smiled. “We never tell. If we do, there’s always someone who’ll argue with us that we’re using the wrong kind, and that their brand—whatever it is—is the best. We actually rotate the kind we use just in case someone could actually tell.” CiCi shot Walker a glance as the server watched. “No one’s ever gotten it right by guessing,” the server added and left.

  “And I’m not going to even try,” Walker said. “I’m not a magician.”

  “You couldn’t tell?”

  “Maybe, if they made it with Garnet. Maybe,” he allowed.

  The waitress delivered CiCi’s drink and took her empty glass. CiCi took a sip and saw Walker eyeing her.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t get tipsy.”

  “I hope not,” he said. “We still have lots to do this evening.”

  “We do?” she said, nearly dropping the drink.

  He nodded and loosened his tie. “I want to take you somewhere else after The Tavern,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, seemingly disappointed.

  “What did you think I meant?” he asked and leaned toward her.

  CiCi’s answer was to brush her knee against his leg.

  Walker put his hand on CiCi’s thigh under the table. “I promise we’ll have plenty of time for everything we want to do tonight.”

  “Good.” She slipped her foot under his pants leg.

  He blushed and looked down at CiCi’s hand on the table, which he took in his.

  They sat silently, happily, until the food arrived. Hannah had steered them right on the pot roast. The meat was tender and savory and steeped in a thick, spicy sauce. Chunks of carrots and celery were generously added to the portion as well.

  “Wish I had this recipe,” CiCi said as she took the last bite from her dish.

  “I always enjoyed eating here when I worked in Bardstown,” Walker said. “Although it wasn’t that often. And I don’t know how I managed to never order this dish.”

  “Save room for dessert?” she asked. “I’m getting that bread pudding.”

  “Going to try to test me and see if I can recognize the bourbon?”

  CiCi shook her head a little too enthusiastically, and he suspected she was feeling the effects of the bourbon.

  “No, I just really want bread pudding. Although the added bourbon will be a nice bonus,” she added, and winked at him.

  After their plates were cleared, they ordered the treat, which was served in a large bowl, piping hot, with a dollop of whipped cream on top. This particular form of bread pudding looked a lot like a dull-colored, gooey and iced cake and was topped with a sprinkling of chopped walnuts over the whipped cream. They plunged their spoons in at the same time and scooped out generous bites.

  “Can you tell if it’s Garnet?” She then called the waitress over and ordered a shot of Old Garnet while Walker moved the second bite around in his mouth and considered his answer.

  “I can’t tell,” he said. “Too many other flavors.”

  The waitress returned with CiCi’s shot and placed it on the table, whereupon CiCi took the glass and dumped half its contents over the bread pudding.

  “That’s better,” she announced, nodding once. The waitress stared at her, wide-eyed. “Really, you shouldn’t skimp if you’re going to claim this is bourbon bread pudding,” CiCi declared archly. Walker had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the waitress’s annoyed expression. “Now you’ll have no trouble telling whether there’s Garnet in this.”

  “And I’d better get it right in just one bite after all that bourbon you just dumped on it,” Walker said. “I have to drive us home.”

  “You’re only gonna eat one more bite?”


  Walker stuck his spoon into the dish, scooped out a small sliver of the confection, and slipped the spoon into his mouth. “Definitely Garnet. And I am definitely done eating.” He placed his spoon on the table.

  CiCi pressed her lips together tightly and studied the remaining portion of the dessert, which was substantial. “I guess I can get a box to take this home since there’s no way I’m going to finish all of it by myself.”

  “I bet that’s the kind of thing that tastes a little better after a few days,” Walker said, nodding toward the bread pudding.

  “And this will help preserve it.” She picked up the shot glass and poured the remaining bourbon over the dessert. Walker laughed as CiCi took another bite. “You’d hate me if I let that Garnet go to waste,” she said in her defense.

  Walker watched her with amusement. He could tell CiCi was having fun enjoying the food as well as his company. And even though she’d consumed a good portion of liquor that evening, it had been spread over a considerable amount of time and with a hearty meal. She was not drunk, which was a good thing because he wanted her to be quite wide awake and ready for some fun when they returned to Bourbon Springs. But that return was going to be delayed by a short side trip he had planned. He had something to give her, something to share, that couldn’t be obtained in any shop or restaurant.

  After boxing up the remains of the bread pudding, Walker paid the bill—the first time he’d ever paid for a meal for CiCi and hopefully not the last—and they went to browse in the small gift shop. CiCi was greatly amused by a T-shirt bearing the phrase Real Women Drink Bourbon, and pulled one out from a stack. She held it over her body and asked how it looked.

  “You don’t need it,” Walker declared.

  She held the shirt out at arm’s length and examined it. “Why’s that?”

  Walker sidled up to CiCi so he could whisper in her ear. “I already happen to know you’re a real woman, CiCi,” he said. “I kinda confirmed that the other day, don’t you remember?”