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Ignoring the white-hot twist inside my chest, I say, “Remember that one time we had the IRS breathing down our necks after you plundered the business? Remember when we nearly lost everything? The distillery? Our whiskey? Our livelihood? Because I do.”

Dad smiles at me grimly. “Like you’d ever let me forget, son.”

“Get gone.” I push off the door, releasing it.

Turning away, I check my watch—a Rolex, my first present from Reese. How is it not even noon yet? This has been the longest fucking morning ever.

My blood is churning and so are my thoughts. I need to move my body. Clear my head.

Luckily we’re one of the few distilleries that still floor malts our own grain. Flipping my keys into my palm, I head for the malt house.

Scrape.

Whoosh.

Scrape.

Whoosh.

There is no greater cure for a highlander in distress than turning malt. It’s an old technique, one that many distilleries have mechanized because it can be boring, backbreaking work. But I happen to find comfort in the repetitive motions, the sweet, earthy scent of malted corn filling my head as I scrape it onto the blade of my shovel, lift the shovel waist high, and flick (or “turn over”) the grain so that it showers back to the ground like droplets from a quiet spring rain.

It’s the traditional way to keep the malt cool as it germinates. Essentially, you spread malt over an empty warehouse floor after soaking it to trick the corn into believing it’s spring, and then we have a small crew come in and turn it every so often with shovels to keep too much heat from building up. Back in the day before we could afford to hire extra hands, my brother, Silas, and I used to do it on our own. I’m too busy now to work on the malt floor, but goddamn I’ve missed it.

My thoughts run riot as I work, sweat pouring down my bare chest despite the windows that are open to the chilly autumn afternoon.

I love how excited Reese is about the wedding. I think we’re both guilty of being too focused on work—in many ways, we’re both trying to fill our fathers’ enormous shoes—so it’s nice to have something fun to look forward to.

I do not love the hollow feeling I get in my gut whenever I think of Milly. Which I can’t seem to stop doing, no matter how hard I try to focus on the malt or the wedding or those new sherry casks from Spain I’ve been aging some of our liquor in.

I thought about Milly all the time after I broke things off. I hated keeping what we had a secret—made me feel like I was an embarrassment or something to Milly—but I’d wanted her.

God, I’d wanted her.

But shit was really hitting the fan then, and after a while, living in survival mode took its toll. I had to put one-hundred-percent of my focus into saving the distillery and fixing my family. Then I met Chris and Reese, a literal dream team. Reese and I really hit it off. And then . . .

Yeah. Thinking about Milly didn’t serve the new life I was building. Did I have regrets? Yes. Did I miss her? Fuck yeah. But at some point I had to forgive myself. I did what I thought was right, and it was time to move on.

So I moved on.

Why, then, can’t I ditch the memory of Milly refilling my glass? Why do I keep replaying the way the light in her blue eyes dimmed when she saw Reese’s engagement ring?

Thinking about her this way is wrong. Thinking about her is wrong, period. Before I walked into that office, I was so sure everything was as it should be. I’m engaged to a gorgeous, smart, kind woman I love. Kingsley Distilling is doing better than ever after some really dark days. I’m getting a whole new family that’s functional and fun—seriously, the Nobles are the total package—including a father-in-law who’s turned out to be an incredible mentor.

In short, I’m one lucky bastard. Things are finally lining up for me in a way I doubted they ever would.

I do not—I repeat, do not—need to put any of that at risk by thinking about a woman who is not my fiancée.

Thankfully, it sounds like I don’t really have to see Milly all that much until the wedding. I’m happy to help out on the backend—emails, guest lists, that kind of thing—which then frees Reese up to do the in-person stuff.

This is probably just a case of stress-induced shock anyway: my brain playing tricks on me, making me second-guess things I shouldn’t. If I can keep Milly out of sight, I can keep her out of mind too.

“I heard you were up here.” Speak of the devil. Reese stands on the edge of the floor, arms crossed against the frigid air. My stomach drops, and I tell myself it’s because she looks cute as hell in her pencil skirt and heels. Our eyes meet, and she smiles. “I also heard you were shirtless. I had to come see for myself.”