Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four

by Kingsley, Claire

  “Afternoon, Sheriff.” One of the men in the back nodded to him, looking a little sheepish. I was fairly sure he was the same guy who’d picked up Gibson after he’d almost hit that deer.

  “Bowie,” Sheriff Tucker said. He nodded to the others. “Boys. What are y’all up to?”

  “Going fishing,” Bowie said.

  “Are you now?” Sheriff Tucker asked. “That grill isn’t on, is it?”

  The mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat wafted toward us. My stomach rumbled.

  “Yeah, it’s hot,” Gibson said, opening the lid. The meat popped and sizzled.

  “Boys, you can’t be driving around while grilling,” Sheriff Tucker said. “We’ve been over this.”

  “It’s okay, Sheriff,” Bowie said. “Jameson welded the grill to the bed for us, so it won’t go anywhere.”

  The man driving leaned over and tipped his cap. “Hey, Sheriff. Don’t worry. It’s secure. We learned our lesson last time.”

  “And here I thought if a few of them had women in their lives, it might settle them down a bit,” Sheriff Tucker muttered under his breath.

  “Care for one?” Bowie asked, pointing to the meat sizzling on the grill.

  Sheriff Tucker’s expression softened and his nostrils flared, like he was taking a good, long sniff. “Well, I suppose I might as well.”

  The third guy produced a paper plate while Bowie got out a bun. Gibson took a patty off the grill and slid it onto the bun.

  “Thanks.” Sheriff Tucker took the plate. “Horse puckey, where are my manners? Boys, this is GT Thompson. Mr. Thompson, these are… well, the Bodines. Most of ’em are, at least.” He pointed to each of the men in turn. “Gibson, Bowie, and Jonah in the back. In the driver’s seat there is Jameson.” He pointed to the man in the passenger seat—the only one who didn’t look like he must be related. “And Devlin McAllister. He’s their sister Scarlett’s beau.”

  I held up a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Bowie said. “Sorry to hear about your knee. What brings you to Bootleg Springs?”

  “The knee, actually. I heard about the hot springs and decided to give it a go. So far, I’m a believer.”

  “Damn right,” Gibson said.

  “Burger?” Bowie asked.

  I was meeting Shelby soon for dinner, but why the hell not? The food smelled fantastic. And I was a big guy. I could pack away a lot of calories.

  “Absolutely.”

  They got my burger on a plate and handed it over.

  “Thanks.”

  “We best be moving on,” Bowie said. “Those fish won’t catch themselves.”

  “Don’t be spilling charcoal out the back again,” Sheriff Tucker said.

  “We’re way ahead of you, Sheriff,” Gibson said. “We rigged up a propane tank back here.”

  “Well, in that case…”

  I raised my eyebrows. Somehow driving around with a propane tank didn’t seem any safer. But I had to admit, a bunch of guys driving around in a pickup truck, grilling hamburgers on their way to go fishing? It was awesome.

  I liked this town.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “And thanks for the grub.”

  “Anytime,” Bowie said. “Night, Sheriff.”

  “You check in with Cassidy?” Sheriff Tucker asked.

  “Of course I have,” Bowie said, putting a hand to his chest, like he was insulted the sheriff had to ask. “She’s with Scarlett tonight.”

  “Fair enough. Careful with that grill.”

  The truck pulled out on to the street and drove away.

  Sheriff Tucker shook his head. “My future son-in-law. But Bowie’s a good kid. Glad he and my daughter finally got their heads on straight.”

  “Your daughter the football fan?”

  “No, Bowie’s with Cassidy, my youngest. The football fan is June.”

  So he was June’s father. I suddenly wanted very much to be in this man’s good graces.

  “Well, like I said, I’d be happy to sign something for her.”

  He pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of his pocket. “Wish I had something better, but this’ll do.”

  I signed the piece of paper, taking care to make my signature legible for once, and handed it back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” he said.

  “GT,” I said. “And no problem. Tell your daughter I said hello.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, smiling so his mustache twitched.

  I hoped he would. And maybe soon I’d have a chance to see June Tucker again.

  8

  June

  An evening at the Lookout wasn’t typically a cause for anxiety. I didn’t mind being here. I could always read or browse ESPN.com on my phone if I was bored.

  But tonight, I was completely out of sorts. George Thompson was here.

  His presence in the bar was palpable. It was as if he displaced the air, leaving what was left to press against me, the molecules all fighting for space.

  Grateful I’d chosen to dress in layers tonight, I took off my cardigan. I couldn’t decide if the temperature in the Lookout was warmer than usual, or if it was me.

  Or George.

  Briefly, I contemplated leaving. I’d run out of Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee yesterday to avoid him. But I’d spent the rest of my day in a haze of distraction, trying to unravel the knots in my belly. Confused as to why I’d chosen to flee. Although I was feeling a now-familiar swirl of nerves, I didn’t want to leave.

  But I wasn’t going to go so far as to talk to him, either.

  “Is that him?” Cassidy asked as she sidled up next to me. She gestured with her beer toward George. “The football player?”

  I was about to answer in the affirmative but he chose that moment—that precise second—to meet my eyes and smile.

  It wasn’t just a smile. Oh, no. It was a slow spread of his lips, parting across perfect teeth. Dimples puckering his cheeks. It was crooked and sexy and utterly disarming.

  I almost fanned myself. Fanned myself, which was so ridiculous I couldn’t believe the urge had been mine.

  “Whoa,” Cassidy said.

  “Yeah.” Was that my voice? So breathy and mesmerized?

  “I take it the answer is yes,” Cassidy said. “You look a little starstruck. And… oh my god, he’s coming over here.”

  He was, indeed. His eyes were locked with mine, that grin still on his face. George Thompson was walking toward me, his six-foot-five frame all confidence and grace.

  I swallowed hard but managed to keep from jumping off my stool and running out the door.

  “Hey June,” he said. “You look very pretty tonight.”

  Cassidy’s eyes were huge, her mouth open.

  I needed to say something. “Hi.” That wasn’t very good. He’d complimented me—had he called me pretty?—so the appropriate response was… “Thank you.”

  He kept smiling at me, as if he didn’t even notice Cassidy. Which was exceedingly odd. Men always noticed Cassidy. She was beautiful and friendly. George didn’t know she was in a committed relationship with another man. Why wasn’t he turning to her to engage in a stimulating and perhaps flirtatious conversation?

  Why was he still looking at me?

  “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

  My lips parted, but I had no idea what to say. No one ever asked me to dance in the Lookout.

  “Why yes, she would,” Cassidy said.

  Before I knew what was happening, Cassidy pulled me off the stool and shoved me at George. I squeaked, my feet getting tangled, and stumbled into him.

  And then his hands—those gloriously large hands—were on me, keeping me steady. Holding me by the waist so I wouldn’t fall.

  I was utterly breathless. Unable to speak. I tilted my head back so I could look up at his face. Instead of stepping away and putting a reasonable amount of distance between us, he moved closer, so our bodies almost touched.

  “You all right?” he asked. />
  I nodded.

  “Shall we?”

  He led me out onto the dance floor as a new song began. Tennessee Whiskey. It was a slow song, and people paired off around us, wrapping their arms around each other to slow-dance.

  “I don’t understand dancing,” I said.

  “You mean you don’t know how?”

  “No, this style of dancing doesn’t appear to require any particular skill. It’s just two people swaying to music. They’re barely moving their feet. Other styles of dancing require a great deal of skill and practice. I can see the merit in that. I don’t understand the purpose of this.”

  One corner of his mouth hooked upward. “Are you always so logical?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good to know. Well, I can’t speak for everybody, but I can tell you why I like dancing.”

  I kept my eyes on his face, awaiting his explanation.

  “You know what? It’ll be easier if I just show you. Come here.”

  He slid a hand around my waist and pulled me against him. I sucked in a breath. One hand rested on the small of my back. With his other hand, he took mine, and nestled it between us. He started to move, shifting his feet with the slow beat of the music.

  Leaning down, he rested his stubbly jaw against my temple and spoke softly near my ear. “Now close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to explain dancing. Trust me.”

  I let my eyes drift closed. “Okay.”

  “For starters, the music.”

  “Chris Stapleton got his start—”

  “Hold up there, June,” he said. “You’re thinking too much. Don’t think about the artist or the origin of the song. Just feel it. The beat. The way we’re moving to it. Don’t think. Just feel.”

  We were moving in time with the slow but steady rhythm. “I can feel the music.”

  “Good. Now tell me what else you feel.”

  Keeping my eyes closed, I focused on the physical sensations I was experiencing. “I feel your hand on my back.”

  He caressed my back in a slow circle. “What else?”

  “You’re holding my hand and it’s warm.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  Tension melted from my shoulders and I nuzzled my forehead against his scratchy jaw. It was pleasantly rough. “I feel your cheek touching my skin.”

  He slid his jaw against my temple, down my cheek to my ear. “You like that?”

  “It is very nice.”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “A little.”

  I felt him smile. It brought to mind the way his cheeks puckered with those dimples.

  “Do you want to know what I feel?”

  “Yes.”

  His grip on me tightened slightly, his strong arm holding me against him. His thumb traced a little line over the back of the hand he held, and he kept his cheek against my temple.

  “I feel your body against mine. It’s warm and soft in all the right places. I feel the curve of your lower back and the promise of your hips beneath my hand.”

  I took in a quick breath, my heart beating fast, as he moved his hand down my backside. His palm slid up my hip and returned to its place on the small of my back.

  “Do you want to know what else?”

  I nodded. I really wanted to know.

  He turned his face into my hair and took a deep breath. “You smell fresh and clean, like a meadow on a spring day. I feel your soft skin against my face. Holding you like this makes me wonder what it would feel like if more of our skin was touching.”

  My breath was shallow and heat pooled between my legs. I didn’t dare open my eyes. It was as if he had me under a spell. A spell I didn’t want to break.

  “Should I keep going?”

  “Yes.”

  His voice was gravelly and low, deep and full of suggestion. His warm breath made my skin prickle with goosebumps.

  “I feel your chest pressing against me and I wonder if your nipples are hard. What they’d feel like against my tongue. Should I tell you more?”

  I nodded. I didn’t want him to stop.

  He held me tighter and there was something there. Something hard, and thick, and very, very noticeable. Had I been in my right state of mind, I might have commented on the fact that his erection was pressing against me. But I was not in my right state of mind. I was floating on a pillowy cloud of arousal, mesmerized by his hands on me and his deep voice in my ear. Heedless of our surroundings.

  “You smell so good, it makes me think about what you taste like. Your lips and your skin. I feel your body relaxing against mine. This is why I like dancing, June. Because I can hold you like this. I can think about how good you feel and all the dirty things I’d do to you if I had the chance. I can touch you and smell you and if I’m lucky, someday maybe kiss you. Taste you. But to everyone watching, we’re just dancing.”

  “I think I understand dancing,” I said, practically breathless.

  He smiled against me again. I still hadn’t opened my eyes. There was too much to feel. I didn’t want the distraction of visual stimulation to get in the way of all this tactile sensation.

  His body was hard—masculine and well-muscled. I hadn’t even thought about the way he smelled until he’d mentioned scent. Smell had a powerful effect on the brain, and his was lighting up places I hadn’t realized were there. I was filled with his woodsy, clean scent. Neurons fired like fireworks over the lake, producing explosions of sensation.

  My spine tingled and my heart pounded. We swayed in silence as the song came to an end. His cheek still rested against my head and he held my hand tucked against his chest.

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. It was like coming awake after a vivid dream. The world seemed hazy and indistinct. Another song began—a song with a faster beat—and George led me to the side of the dance floor.

  “Thank you for the dance.” He still had my hand in his and he brought it up to his lips. Kissed the backs of my fingers.

  “Thank you. That was…”

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to finish.

  “It was very stimulating.”

  That grin was back, slow and sexy and distracting. “Good. I thought so too. Can I buy you a drink?”

  I blinked at him in surprise.

  “Is that a yes, or a no?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Why do I want to buy you a drink?”

  “Buying a woman a drink is a customary action in human mating rituals.”

  “Hmm,” he said, tilting his head. He actually looked interested. Most people listened to me, then moved on with the conversation when I was finished speaking. “I suppose you’re right. Is that a problem?”

  “Well… no.”

  “Don’t worry, June. I’m not the kind of man who’ll push his human mating rituals too far. I like to feel things out first. I enjoyed dancing with you, and I like talking to you. We’re in a bar, so my next logical move is to buy you a drink so we can sit and talk more. That sounds nice to me. If it sounds nice to you, say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled again and it made my legs feel shaky and unstable. “Good. What can I get you?”

  “A bourbon bliss.”

  “I would not have pegged you as a bourbon drinker, but I like it. One bourbon bliss, coming up.”

  There was a small table with two stools a few steps from where I stood. I sat and waited for George to come back with my drink. Cassidy and Scarlett were across the bar, watching me. They leaned their heads together and spoke, their faces animated. Scarlett pointed at me and Cassidy batted her arm down.

  I turned my gaze away from them. I didn’t like being the object of their scrutiny, but I didn’t blame them. I never danced, and men never bought me drinks at the Lookout. This was wholly uncharted territory for all of us.

  A few moments later, George returned with my drink. I noticed Nicolette behind the bar, watching me too. She winked and I looked away, tucking my hair behind my e
ar.

  George slid my drink across the table and sat on the other stool. His drink appeared identical to mine and he brought it to his mouth to sip.

  I couldn’t stop staring at him. At his mouth, and his dimples. At his broad shoulders and thick chest. His long arms and strong hands.

  He set his glass down. “This is good.”

  I took a drink, needing a second to collect myself. I never drank to excess, but you didn’t grow up in a town like Bootleg Springs and not develop an appreciation for alcoholic beverages.

  “This is generally my drink of choice. I also appreciate good moonshine, particularly of the apple pie variety.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of apple pie moonshine.”

  “It’s quite remarkable when crafted properly.”

  “It sounds like it. Does it really taste like apple pie?”

  “It does. Moonshine is generally a harsh-tasting beverage. Early on, distillers started adding things to make it more palatable. Apple pie moonshine is generally regarded as the oldest moonshine recipe in this region.”

  He took another sip. “Interesting.”

  “Bootleg Springs is something of an anomaly. The majority of West Virginia was in favor of prohibition. In fact, some communities had prohibition laws that predate the Eighteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution.”

  “Sounds like you Bootleggers prefer to live by your own rules.”

  “In many ways, that is accurate, yes.”

  “I like it here. It’s a nice town.” He reached across the table and traced his finger across the back of my hand. “But tell me more about you.”

  It was hard to think when he was touching me, even with just the pad of his finger. “Um, what do you want to know?”

  “How about, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an actuary. I work as a consultant for a number of large companies.”

  “You must work from home, then?”

  I nodded, and he didn’t stop caressing my hand. “Yes. It’s an arrangement that suits all parties.”

  “And what do you like to do for fun?”

  “Watch sports.”

  That made him smile again. “Like football.”

  “Yes, although I’m happy to watch a variety of sporting events.”