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  His eyes bounced between mine. “Sorry I grabbed you,” he said, reaching for the back of his neck with an embarrassed shrug. “Acting like a big bad knight in shining armor, protecting you from a cat.”

  I let out a soft laugh, folding my hands in front of me. “I appreciate the gesture. Glad to know I’d have some help if small, furry animals tried to overrun the shop.”

  Logan smirked.

  “Anyway, thanks for indulging me,” I said on an awkward laugh, covering my face when I remembered how I’d pranced around the empty shop like an idiot as I explained my vision for what it would become. I let my hands fall to my thighs with a slap, letting out a long breath. “It really has been a long day.”

  He straightened at that, his face leveling. “Yeah, let me get out of your hair, let you get some sleep,” he said, his feet moving toward the door — toward me. He stopped with just a foot between us, and I felt that distance like it was a live wire, buzzing and sparking and warning of danger. “But, thank you for showing me… and for the apology for today.”

  I flushed again.

  Stupid traitorous cheeks.

  “Thank you for forgiving me,” I replied. “And for letting us start over, so I can show you I’m not a complete brat.”

  “Just a somewhat brat.”

  “Right.”

  He smiled. “I’m looking forward to the new beginning.”

  “Me, too.”

  Logan stood there a moment longer, eyes flicking back and forth between mine, and if it wasn’t so dark in the shop, I would have sworn I saw those hazel wells fall to my lips before he finally stepped away.

  “Goodnight, Mallory Scooter.”

  And with that, he was gone — as was the man I thought he was before that night.

  Logan

  When I wasn’t having dinner at Mom’s or going out to the bar with my brothers, my normal night routine went like this:

  Make a protein shake. Read the newspaper while I drank said protein shake, followed by a thirty-minute, high-intensity workout that mostly involved calisthenics in my back yard, and thirty minutes of yoga and meditation. Then, I’d shower, shave, and cook dinner — which was the same thing every night — chicken breast, baby carrots, zucchini, and squash — all baked in the same seasoning in the oven at three-hundred-and-fifty degrees for one hour. I ate at my small dining table alone, without the television on and without looking at a screen of any kind. After dinner, I either picked up the book I was currently reading — which almost always was a historical biography or a psychological thriller of some kind — or, on the nights I was feeling lazy, I’d plop down on the couch and indulge in a documentary.

  Tonight, I wasn’t necessarily in the lazy category, but I was very firmly in the distracted one — therefore, reading had proven nearly impossible and I was on the couch, trying (and failing) to watch the space documentary I’d been wanting to watch for weeks. Still, even though I was very interested in Apollo 11 and the countless people and thousands of hours that went into getting the first man on the moon, I couldn’t focus long enough to actually learn anything. Instead, I watched the television as if from a distance, with the words jumbling together, the images blurred.

  My workout — which usually got me out of my head for a while — seemed more difficult than usual tonight because I couldn’t clear my head, couldn’t submit to my body and just let it do the work for a while. I couldn’t relax enough to successfully meditate, couldn’t shower or cook or eat or do anything without all my thoughts drifting back to one thing.

  To one person.

  Mallory Scooter.

  It’d been more than a week since our walk down Main Street, the Christmas lights glowing around us as the girl I’d always been curious about showed me a little more of who she was. I could still close my eyes and see the excitement on her face as she bounced around her empty art studio, showing me where things would be, illustrating her vision so clearly that I could see it, too.

  It was a new beginning, a restart — and I’d found that it also might have been a mistake.

  The next day at the distillery, we’d established a new sort of friendship. She was more serious about her training, and insisted on starting over — including getting another solo tour with me where I described all the points of interest on the tour we gave to guests before she even agreed to shadow me again. The rest of the week, she’d followed all my tours, bringing up the back and taking notes as we went along. By Friday, she was chiming in from time to time, telling our guests little stories about her grandfather or dad that I didn’t know.

  And we were getting along.

  Gone was the combative girl who seemed hell bent on making my job training her miserable. She was replaced with someone determined to learn, determined to get along with everyone, determined to succeed in her role. I wasn’t sure if it was Mac chewing us out that had changed her mind, or if her father had come down on her, or if maybe — just maybe — it was that she really did feel bad for what happened and she wanted to make it up to me. Whatever the reason, Mallory Scooter and I were finally getting along, and falling into a groove I never would have guessed we could find.

  The problem was that the more time I spent with her, the more she drifted from hating me to tolerating me — the more I wanted to be around her.

  I found myself making excuses to have lunch with her — even though I’d assigned her a different lunch buddy each day to help her get to know more people at the distillery. I’d somehow always be there, at the same table, inserting myself in their conversation so I could hang out with her. She always shadowed my tours — even though I could have easily assigned her to other tour guides — and after the last tour was done, I was always finding some reason to keep her around in my office a little longer.

  And now, she’d invaded my thoughts after I clocked out, too.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her studio, about the fact that she’d struck up some deal with her father that she didn’t seem too keen to talk about. I wondered if that was why she was at the distillery — if he’d agreed to buy the studio for her in exchange for her working at the distillery. It seemed contradictory, but at the same time, I knew Patrick had wanted Mallory to be a part of the family legacy for years, and she’d always been absent.

  Maybe this was his way of exerting power over her.

  I wanted to know more, wanted to know what she’d decided not to tell me that night. I also wanted to see her art — her drawings, her photographs, the pottery brought to life by her hands. Sometimes, she’d walk into the distillery with paint on her jeans or a smatter of clay on her cheek, and I was so desperate to know what she created, what inspired her, what she brought to life.

  I wanted to hate her. And if I’d left things alone after that day she’d gotten us in trouble — I think I could have. But no, she had to apologize, and she had to take me on that walk, and she had to remind me why I had always felt some magnetic attraction toward her.

  Mallory Scooter was unlike any woman I knew, and I couldn’t shake her from my thoughts.

  I sighed when I realized I’d zoned out — again — thus missing the part of the documentary I’d rewinded to twice now because I couldn’t focus. I clicked the television off with a huff, resting my elbows on my knees as I looked around my small living room.

  My house wasn’t much, but it was perfect for me. I’d embraced the minimalist life as soon as I’d moved out of Mom’s, opting for an old farm house built in the late eighteen-hundreds on the northeast side of town. I was about five minutes farther out than Mom, which made it easy to get to her and yet still far enough away from town that I had peace and quiet.

  I’d done my best to fix up what I could when I moved in, keep the original wood and structure alive and well. Everything that existed in that little home had a purpose, and there wasn’t anything unnecessary — no décor, no expensive rugs or plants or pieces of art, no furniture that served more than a person or two. My home wasn’t made to entertain, it was mad
e to live in.

  My books had a home on the two shelves I’d built against the wall where the largest window was, the one that gave me a great view into my front yard and a way to see any cars coming down my long, dirt driveway. There was a television, a two-seat love sofa — where I sat now, and a coffee table that Dad and I had built at my camp’s father-son day when I was younger. There were a few family photos on the wall near the front door, and between the kitchen and the living room was a small dining table that sat four people max. The kitchen was small, too — with older appliances that barely got the job done anymore. I knew I’d have to upgrade them soon, but fought against it as long as I could. And in the bedroom was a simple bed frame, box spring, and mattress — plus one bedside table that was home to whatever book I was reading each night before I turned out the lights to sleep.

  There were no curtains, no embellishments, no frills. It was a home, a place to live.

  And it was always clean.

  I’d been accused of being a neat freak my entire life — mostly by my brothers. Still, I didn’t realize the full extent of my need to have everything in order and tidy until I moved out on my own. At Mom’s, I’d had no say in décor or organization other than what lived inside the four walls of my bedroom.

  But here, everything was mine.

  And it was always, always clean.

  Another minute or two passed with me looking around, and my eyes caught on my bookshelf, remembering how Mallory had teased me about the organization of the one in my office. The one at home was the same — organized by book height, color, and author last name.

  I wondered if she’d started reading the book I’d loaned her.

  You could always text her to find out…

  I shook the thought off, leaning back into the couch on a sigh. But the longer I sat there, the more the idea sounded like a good one.

  It wouldn’t be weird to text her, I convinced myself. We were friends.

  Ish.

  We worked together, and we were friend-ly. There was nothing that said I couldn’t text her, ask her about the book, see if she was ready for her first tour tomorrow.

  Well, her first tour since the disaster one she’d had last week.

  She was actually ready this time, and I’d be shadowing her first thing in the morning. Hell, I kind of owed it to her as her supervisor, didn’t I? To check in and make sure she was ready?

  I chewed my lip, considering it for all of two seconds before my phone was in my hands, fingers flying over the screen.

  Me: So, are you ready for your first tour tomorrow?

  Me: Don’t forget to wear an actual shirt this time.

  I smirked at the second text I sent, and before I could lock my screen and go do something to fill my time until she answered, I saw the bouncing dots that told me she was typing back.

  Mallory: Ha, ha. I have my outfit planned out — full shirt and all, thank you very much.

  Mallory: Are YOU ready to lose your job after they realize what a kick ass tour guide I am?

  My smile fell, along with the food still digesting in my stomach. She’d meant it as a joke, I knew that, but the sickening reality that it could actually happen made it impossible to laugh.

  Me: We’ll see. You might be so distracted by the hot guy in the back that you forget your lines.

  Mallory: Ooooh, who’s the guy? Do I know him? ;)

  Me: You know his favorite book. Have you started reading that, by the way?

  Mallory: I have. So far, no crying. You better pray it stays that way, or else.

  I smiled, laying my phone back down on the coffee table before I decided to try the documentary again. Maybe now that I’d talked to her, I could focus a little more.

  Before I hit play, my phone lit up again.

  Mallory: By the way, if you want to text me, you don’t have to make up a work excuse to do so.

  A jolt of anxiety danced with one of excitement low in my gut at her words, and I read them over and over, fingers hovering over the keys as I tried to think of what to say. I toyed with something close to a joke, trying to feign innocence and pure professionalism, but she texted again before I had the chance.

  Mallory: Goodnight, Logan Becker. ;)

  I smiled, shaking my head as I leaned back on the couch.

  She really is a little minx.

  I sent a goodnight text of my own, avoiding the fact that she’d called me out on my lame attempt at finding an excuse to text her. Then, I started the documentary again.

  So I could not watch it for the third time as I tried to decipher what that winky face emoji meant, instead.

  Mallory

  “And just like that, the title of Best Scooter Whiskey Tour Guide has officially been stolen,” I said, peeling my jacket off and laying it over the back of the chair in Logan’s office before I plopped down into it. “Boom.”

  I was still making the bomb explosion gesture of awesomeness with my hands when Logan closed his office door and rounded his desk, shrugging his own coat off. “I have to admit, that was a pretty great tour.”

  “Great?” I asked, incredulous. “That was fan-fucking-tastic. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mac doesn’t burst through that door soon and tell us we got twenty-five new Yelp reviews — all five stars.”

  “I’m sure that group of young bucks from the University of Michigan would give you ten stars.”

  I snorted. “Still wouldn’t give them a chance in hell — although the tall one did sneak me his number when he gave me his tip at the end.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the only tip he’d like to give you.”

  Logan waggled his brows as my jaw flopped open, and I reached across the desk, smacking his arm.

  “Pig!” I laughed, leaning back in my chair and folding my hands behind my head like a boss. “But see, they loved me because I have tits. The rest of the group loved me because I was charming, and witty, and I had stories galore.” I quirked a brow. “Admit it — that wasn’t bad for a rookie.”

  Logan watched me with the left side of his lips quirked, that dimple making a brief appearance before it was gone again. “You killed it. Although, I was impressed as soon as you introduced yourself. I knew it was going to be a good tour.”

  “Really? How?”

  “Because you actually wore a shirt, and you didn’t have any gum.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, which earned me a chuckle.

  “What is it with you and that gum, anyway?” Logan asked, cringing. “I swear, I was two seconds away from holding my hand out like a mom and demanding you spit it into my palm the first day you came into this office.”

  I laughed. “Well, let’s just say I traded in one bad habit for another.” I held up both hands like a scale. “Quit smoking, start chewing gum like a sixteen-year-old asshole.”

  “At least you admit the asshole part.”

  “Say what you want, Becker. Nothing can bring me down.” I fished inside the pocket of my jacket hanging on the chair, pulling out a wad of cash. “Especially not after getting this much in tips.”

  “Just wait until you get assigned to a tour of rich businessmen from some tech company in California or some brokerage in New York. The other female tour guides get five-hundred bucks easy on those ones.”

  I blanched. “Maybe I should forget my shirt for that one.”

  We broke out in a fit of laughter, but the noise died quickly when Logan’s office door flew open, the handle hitting the wall so hard it rattled the room and surely left a dent. I jumped — out of my chair, nearly out of my skin — as Mac steamrolled his way into the office, face red and blotchy, breathing like a dragon again.

  Uh-oh…

  “Please, tell me what is so goddamn funny, because I could use a laugh after the shit storm you two just dropped on my desk.”

  Logan and I were both shocked silent, and we exchanged a glance before Logan cleared his throat. “Sir?”

  “Sir?” Mac mocked him, slamming his phone down on the desk in front
of Logan. “Thirty years. Thirty years we’ve been giving tours, and not once has a video been leaked. Not once has our most precious process been exploited to the public. Until today.”

  Logan’s face was sheet white as he watched whatever was on that phone screen, and he swallowed a lump, not even looking at me before he slid the phone across the desk so I could see.

  It was a video — one taken in the warehouse where the boys were raising barrels. What was worse, you could hear me in the background, explaining the entire process as whoever it was that snapped the video got a close up of the machinery we used, of the way Noah was arranging the staves, of everything.

  “Mac, I—”

  “It’s my fault,” Logan said before I could get another word out. He stood, meeting Mac’s eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t realize the phone was out.”

  “Nor did you explain to anyone in that tour that there was no photography allowed in that part of the tour — as this little shit has repeatedly told me since he tagged us in the video and I’ve been private messaging him trying to get it taken down.” Mac turned his glare on me next. “I knew it was a bad idea when your father told me you were going to work here. If you don’t want any part of this company, fine — but don’t try to take it down in a fire while you’re here.”

  I narrowed my eyes, standing so I could look my uncle in the eyes, too. “I didn’t do this on purpose,” I defended. “And, besides — it’s on our fucking website that we make our own barrels. And anyone who takes the tour can easily write up what we tell them about the process. It’s not like it’s a secret, or like we gave away any information that they couldn’t find on Google.”