great-great-grandfather of the current McKinnels—and there were a lot of them—had once been a bootlegger. It was his face on the bottle’s famous label. Criminal or not, he’d been a handsome devil and, from what she’d heard, his descendants had inherited his good looks.
Now that she was here, staring across the bridge, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognized the name. There’d been an obituary in the newspaper a month or so ago for Conall McKinnel—he’d been the big boss at the distillery for almost forty years until his recent death thanks to a sudden heart attack. Then there was Lachlan McKinnel—a chef who had won numerous awards, he occasionally appeared on local television and blogged his unique recipes online, all while single-handedly raising his disabled son. Callum—whom she guessed to be one of Lachlan’s brothers—was probably as close to a celebrity as she’d ever get and her stomach clenched with uncharacteristic and ridiculous nerves.
A horn sounded and she realized she’d stalled in the middle of the road. She waved a hand in apology at the car behind her, turned right and then started over the bridge toward the cluster of rustic-looking buildings in the distance. The lake on either side of her sparkled and she shivered, imagining that at this time of the year it would be icy cold. As she emerged on the other side, the sight before her took her breath away. The building sprawled almost the length of the lake and the word quaint came to mind when she looked at it. Although the exterior was brown, there were so many windows that it didn’t look dark. The pine trees in the back and the immaculate, stone-bordered garden beds at the front reminded her of a postcard of a holiday resort. When the snow came in a month or so, this place would be magic.
Such a pity she wouldn’t have reason to return.
She’d never imagined a place that produced whiskey to be as beautiful and classy as the grounds and buildings that she admired now as she followed the signs to the parking lot around the side. Nope, she associated alcohol with shouting matches, slurred words, bad breath and prayers her parents wouldn’t kill each other.
Instead of white lines, the parking lot was marked out with old barrels, which made her smile as she turned off her ignition. Someone, or more likely a whole family of someones, had put in a lot of TLC to ensure this old building continued to sparkle.
Breathing in the crisp cool air that carried a hint of liquor as she climbed out of her car, Chelsea almost forgot to grab the chocolate bouquet off her backseat. Determined not to be distracted by her surroundings, she held her head high as she strode toward the main building, which obviously housed a café if the folks sitting at tables out the front were anything to go by. It wouldn’t be long before it would too cold for outdoor dining. She had to sidestep a couple of obvious tourists taking selfies to get inside and contemplated asking if they’d like her to take a photo for them, but reconsidered when she remembered why she was here.
Not to tour or dine or admire the scenery but to be the bearer of bad news to one of the illustrious McKinnels.
That thought made her feel as if she’d swallowed a brick. Why? This wasn’t the first time she’d done this. Even before she’d started her business, doing what she was about to do had been a gift. She was determined to get in and get out, because no matter how lovely this place was, it also made her uncomfortable. Chelsea strode the few more steps to the massive, glass-front doors and pushed one open.
If the outside of McKinnel’s took her breath away, the inside filled her with warmth as if someone had just wrapped her in a heated blanket. In addition to a number of fall decorations—gourds and pumpkins and whatnot—the walls hung with hundreds of whiskey bottles, black-and-white family photos and old prints related to whiskey drinking. And as she’d predicted, a massive fireplace roared away on one wall. It felt more like she’d stepped inside a cheerful family home than a business. She loosened her scarf and undid the buttons on her coat as she started toward the counter.
As she queued alongside the people waiting to buy or taste whiskey, she looked at the wall behind the counter and smiled as she read some of the many quotes scrawled on a massive chalkboard.
What whiskey will not cure, there is no cure for.
I’d rather be someone’s shot of whiskey than everyone’s cup of tea.
Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough. —Mark Twain
She might not agree with any of the sentiments but she liked the way all the quotes were in different handwriting as if lots of different people had scribbled their thoughts.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
At the deep voice, Chelsea spun round, tightening her grip on the bouquet as she came face-to-chest with someone. Then she looked up into the face of possibly the best-looking human she’d ever laid eyes on. And not in a clichéd way. Tall, dark and handsome didn’t begin to describe him. He was all those things and then some, with an element of something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And his sea-green eyes just happened to be her favorite color. Although he wore charcoal business pants and a lighter gray shirt with the distillery logo on the breast, his strong, muscular physique and the scar just above his right eyebrow told her he didn’t spend all his time behind a desk.
“Are you after a gift or...” His voice trailed off and she realized she’d been openly gaping at him.
Ignoring the strange dizziness that came over her—maybe she’d spun around too fast—she straightened, held her head high and addressed him in her most professional voice. “Hi. I’m looking for Callum McKinnel.”
He couldn’t be the man standing in front of her because no woman in her right mind would dump someone who looked like that. Not even her.
“Then look no more. You’ve found me.” The man’s illegally sexy smile didn’t falter as he offered her his hand. “And how may I help you?”
He was Callum? Oh, shoot. Heat rushed to Chelsea’s cheeks and she shuffled the chocolate bouquet she held in her right hand into her left, then slipped her hand into his, reminding herself she was here as a professional, not to ogle the produce.
“Can we go somewhere a little more private?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as strained as it felt.
Callum raised a deliciously dark eyebrow and a hint of amusement crossed his lips. “Do we have an appointment?”
She shook her head, trying not to stare at his lips, which were perhaps even more delicious than his eyebrows. Very kissable indeed. “No appointment, but I need to talk to you. I have a message from Bailey, and you might prefer to be alone when you hear it.”
At the mention of the other woman, recognition flashed across Callum’s face, his smile faded and his eyebrows knitted together. “You’d better come this way.”
Before she could ask which way he meant, she felt his large hand across her back and she bit down on her lip to stop from whimpering. What the heck was wrong with her? There were a number of layers between her skin and his; she could only imagine how her body might react if there were not. As Callum led her across the slate-tiled floor, she took a few deep breaths in and out, trying to regain her equilibrium. She told herself this weirdness must be due to where they were, but feared this wasn’t actually the case.
“We can talk alone in here,” he said as he pushed open a door with a gold sign on it that read Director—Callum McKinnel. The sign looked shiny and new as if it hadn’t been in place very long and, when she stepped inside, the office didn’t seem at all to Callum’s taste.
And how
