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“I don't really drink,” she admits, and I stand still, my fingers twitching to touch her.

“Like ever?” I ask, frowning.

“Well, yes, I have before, on the odd occasion, but generally, no, I don’t. I try to limit the amount of toxins in my environment, although…” With a pause, she looks at me. “It appears I have come to the wrong place for all that.” Her subtle dig at me is almost humorous. I add funny to her list of attributes that’s growing by the minute.

“Now you’re calling me toxic. Name-calling your new boss, Daisy.Tsk,tsk,” I tease.

“Not boss,” she says, shaking her head, and I smirk.

“If not your boss, what am I?” I gloat, and she grins.

“Oh, so many things…”

I shake my head, the two of us clearly pushing each other, yet having fun with it now.

“How long does a good whiskey age?” she asks, coming to stop not far from me, but also too far away. I try to tame my satisfied smile. This is what I like about her. She asks good questions. She’s smart as well as sexy.

“We have a variety of ages. My favorite is our seventeen-year-old batch,” I tell her honestly.

“Why is it your favorite?”

“It was the first batch I made with Dad. Did it on my eighteenth birthday.” The memory of that time makes me smile.

Her grin widens. “It sounds like it’s special, then.”

“Yeah, well, it also makes me feel old.” I laugh, knowing that at thirty-five, I’m at least a decade older than her. “Let me show you the spa space.”

“Great,” she says as we walk in comfortable silence through the gardens to the other side of the distillery.

“So the fit-out is almost complete,” I tell her as we walk inside. The mood here is different. It’s all deep-brown woods from our recycled barrels, cream-colored stone, very earthy and raw, yet has curves that make it look soft and inviting. Our builder, Griffin, did a fantastic job, and now Victoria has added some final touches to it, but for the most part, it’s a blank canvas, ready for Daisy and Victoria to add what they need to it.

“Wow, another amazing space.” Looking around, she reaches out and touches the finishes.

“A little more aesthetically pleasing than the Sunshine Space Wellness Clinic, I think we can both agree,” I murmur, not able to help myself. She throws me a look over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing, but remains quiet as her lips thin. I miss having her volley back an insult. But there’s no denying it. The Whiteman Distillery Spa is top-of-the-line luxury.

“We have three rooms, plus restrooms and showers. An office and the front reception space. Then the back door…” I say, pacing ahead down the corridor to a door at the end. As I step outside, Daisy follows.

“This path takes you directly to our natural mineral springs,” I tell her, pointing to the raw rock pavers that make a path through the back of the distillery and through a gate at the fence into Marie’s Place next door, where the mineral springs are located.

“Mineral springs?” she confirms with a gasp, and I nod.

“Thermal springs, lots of minerals or whatnot. Very good for the body.” I don’t really know the exact benefits, and I smile, seeing the surprise on her face.

“Okay,that'samazing…” she says, a little gobsmacked, and I can see her brain moving a million miles an hour, so I decide to give her a reprieve.

“Let me show you to your place. I have a few meetings to get to, and you probably want to unpack and have some time before dinner.”

She follows me back inside, and we walk through the garden to where Dad’s old house sits right next to mine.

“I think staff will be the biggest issue. I’m assuming that Whispers doesn’t have a lot of options in regard to experienced and trained therapists?” she mentions as we walk.

“No, not really. We have Williamstown, though, a bigger town an hour or so away. I think we might find some good people there,” I tell her, although I don’t really know.

“Okay… do you have an option for staff quarters?”

I raise my eyebrows for a second time this afternoon.

“We have options…” I nod, thinking of both Dad’s old place here, where she’s staying and Marie’s Place next door that we could utilize. “What are you thinking?” I ask her as we reach the front porch.