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When the shaker was frosted, and she stopped, I said, “Since you’re technically a guest here and my brother sent you inside to do this, I’ll let it slide, but we don’t offer people anything other than bourbon under this roof.

Especially to people working at our distillery.

We’ll stock it and people can help themselves, but we’ll never offer it. ”

She laughed out, “Really leaning into the bourbon boys thing, huh?”

I rubbed my thumb along my bottom lip and watched as she poured out two glasses and topped them with mint. “Leaning into exactly who I am and what defines me hardly feels like a bad thing, Hadley.”

Clearing her throat, she licked her bottom lip. “Taste it,” she said, pushing the glass across the counter.

I took a sip of it, the tinted purple drink looking more like a floor cleaner than anything I wanted to taste, but I did it anyway.

“Fuck, that’s awful.”

With her big blue eyes, she watched me put the glass back down, and something shifted in her expression that had nothing to do with her poor rendition of a classic cocktail.

I knew she was going to take this as an opportunity to ask what happened after I left her that night nearly a month ago.

I could see it plain as day in her stare.

There wasn’t an easy way to tell someone what I found, finished, and cleaned up.

“I have questions,” she said, uncharacteristically quiet.

I didn’t have any trouble looking people in the eye while I lied to them.

It was an asset I’d learned a long time ago.

“I don’t have answers for you.” I looked across the mess she made on the counter as laughter echoed from the backyard.

“You’re an awful bartender, Hadley. Stick to being whatever it is you’re planning to do with your life,” I said flippantly, then strolled out of the kitchen.

But the look in her eyes followed me all night.

A small tray of coupe glasses appearing to her right draws my attention back to the present as she finishes the story—without the details we still hold as a secret.

More gracefully than I would have expected, she hops down from the bar.

Her fitted tuxedo jacket was shed seconds after the ceremony, leaving her creamy skin and curves, from her shoulders to her waist, impossible not to follow like a damn treasure map.

Her suit wasn’t like mine, the haltered cutout of a white tuxedo shirt and black satin bow tie precisely tailored to be tight around the neck, running down the sides of her breasts to the material that’s gathered and clasped at the small of her back.

It’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen her in, and that’s saying something, considering how many times I’ve looked.

When I glance back at her face, she’s staring right at me with a smirk that clearly reads: I caught you looking .

She pours out the light purple tinted cocktail into five glasses.

“I made my toast to the bride and groom already tonight, but it’s only natural to toast to the family that loves its people.

” She holds up her glass. “To the bourbon boys who became damn fine Foxx men.” That gets me a wink.

“Cheers, and thank you for fiercely loving, teaching, and accepting...even a Finch among you.”

I swallow and stand a little taller. The way she likes to poke usually pisses me off, but right now, that swell of emotion feels less like annoyance and more like pride.

This woman has been pouring drinks for a while now, but I haven’t let her mix anything for me other than a rock among hefty splashes of bourbon.

Griz smiles and takes the first glass. Grant plucks his next, then Lincoln.

With her blue eyes glassy, she smiles wide with admiration.

When I take mine and sip, I’m immediately hit with the tart lemon that balances the earthy flavor of the gin.

On my second sip, I appreciate the rest of the well-done traditional ingredients of simple syrup and a champagne topper.

It’s easily the best version of this drink I’ve ever had.

I keep my smile stifled. Lincoln is doing enough of that, beaming at her for a well-delivered speech and a non-bourbon cocktail to boot. I still should have been the best man.

A few snickers from behind me pull my attention. It’s Griz’s book club ladies—gossips who never turn down a chance to spread rumors over a glass of something strong. “It’s like she doesn’t even care...” Another whisper rings out of choppy words. “Finch...Not ashamed of it...”

Lincoln has mentioned some of the shit she’s been dealing with lately regarding her father. I already knew about it, but I let my brother think he was telling me new information.

I turn and glare at the two older women.

Romey, who likes to run her mouth whenever possible, and her sister, who owns the hair salon in town.

They’re loud enough that Hadley heard them.

I don’t miss how those few words steal the moment away from her.

As soon as I catch their attention, both lean into the other, eyeing what I’m wordlessly conveying: shut your fucking mouths, ladies.

The evening taxes on as if it isn’t well past midnight. Laney and Faye have sandwiched Hadley in the middle of the dance floor, while Griz just keeps whistling every few songs from different spots in the room as he chats the night away with the guests.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. With everyone here tonight, I can guess it’s something that’ll need my attention.

THE JEWELER

Heard an interesting story today about a bird.

What the hell is he getting at?

ACE

Sounds nice. Hadn’t realized you’d taken to bird watching in your old age.

THE JEWELER

You’re older than me.

ACE

You sure about that?

While we aren’t friends, there’s been a camaraderie built over the years.

A sense of trust between two people in similar roles: handling what’s needed and keeping the judgement and feelings far enough at bay to sleep at night.

His text has my attention, because there’s plenty of underlying context in that one sentence.

A bird. It bothers me instantly, knowing Hadley’s name is being mentioned in any circles he’s involved in.

THE JEWELER

A lot of people looking to collect and she’s not paying.

“You look like someone pissed in your bourbon,” Lincoln says as he approaches, taking a seat at our table.

Clapping and laughter grow louder as Faye, in her typical form, starts peeling off pieces of her wedding reception attire.

Ignoring him, I nod to the dance floor. “Your wife is about to give us a performance.”

He smiles, letting out a sigh. “She’s fucking beautiful.” Leaning forward, he shouts through a laugh, “Rosie Gold Foxx, you better save some of those moves for later!”

Grant, somewhere in all of this, slipped into the chair to my left. I don’t have to look at him to know where his attention is. Seconds later, Laney perches herself on his lap, out of breath. “Dance with me, cowboy. Then we can get out of here.”

I don’t hear the rest of their exchange, but I can’t help smiling. My brother had a rough go of it before she showed up here, and while he has worked himself out of it, she makes him smile just about every time I see him.

“Faye, those stay— Ah, fuck,” Lincoln says, standing up and moving quickly to the dance floor, just as Faye holds up a pair of fishnets and a fairly drunk Hadley cackles at her side.

Hadley hugs my brother as he reaches her. He glances at me when she says something to him, but he shakes his head. Now, that has my attention. They sway together and laugh, her head kicking back and a big smile tilting toward the low-hanging chandeliers.

“Careful, Atticus . . .” Griz mutters to my right.

“Where did you come from?” I ask with a chuckle. He’s got a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigar unlit in the other.

“I never understood it,” he says, watching the dance floor and likely eyeing the same woman I just was.

If I don’t ask, he’s going to keep delivering cryptic phrases until I do. “What have you never understood?”

He takes a slow sip, draining the bourbon that remained. His leg crosses over the other as his arms drape along each side of the worn brown leather.

I eye the empty glass. “You might want to consider slowing down tonight. How many is that?”

He gives me a side-eye. “Most of my body is made up of bourbon and grit, Atticus. I’m just fueling up.”

As much as I give him shit for always being in my business and having a way of interjecting when I least want him to, I still want him around as long as possible.

I don’t seek out his approval any longer, but that doesn’t mean his opinion doesn’t matter.

Not many know about the dual life he maintains.

He’s respected and sometimes mistaken for being a charming old man, but that’s only the surface.

The man’s eighty, but he treats life like he still has plenty to live.

Most people make the assumption he’s in his mid-sixties, not too far after retirement.

But like a lot of the details of Griz’s life, that would be a lie.

There have been small things about his age that I have started to take note of over the last couple of years: he’s a bit slower to get up and move around, more reliant on his golf cart to navigate our expansive property, late nights still happen, but they’re peppered throughout the weeks with more naps and caffeine.

His mind is sharp and memory even clearer, but he’s ready to move away from the stress that lingers from what takes place behind closed doors and in back rooms. And that reminds me. ..

“Do me a favor and keep visitors to a minimum over the next few days.” I don’t want to give him information or the details of what I need to get done. I have a plan, and if he knows too much, too soon, then he’ll fuck it up somehow.

“Yeah, yeah.” A gravelly laugh sounds from his throat.

After another minute, I can still feel him staring at my profile, so I turn to meet his stare.

The serious look on his face isn’t one many see, or ever see, too often, but right now, in the dim light, I catch a glimpse of the Griswald Foxx who’s dangerous.

The man who has far too many friends, the man who has been a conduit and connector between politicians and drug cartels for decades.

I’ve learned everything from him—that shaking hands and greasing palms are just as valuable and risky as some of the favors we’ve been promised or have asked for.

A man who blurs lines about the rights and wrongs of killing someone who needs to be removed, a situation that requires cleaning without questions, a man who has loved and lost plenty.

An older mirror image, if I’m not careful.

“How did your meeting with Jim Dugan Sr. go?” He changes the subject effortlessly, probably sensing where my mind is. I try not to get worked up about him asking. He knows when the meeting’s scheduled.

“It’s next week. And I imagine it’ll go just fine.”

“The governor goin’ to be a problem? You know if he approves the big box store coming into Montgomery County?—”

“Griz, I told you, I’m handling this. So let me handle it,” I say firmly.

Foxx Bourbon has always been the metronome that kept time and tempo in Fiasco.

Fiasco turned into a destination instead of another statistic or sad story from economic downturn or mishandled property.

Small businesses thrived here. Handshakes bound agreements.

And gossip ran wild about how that was all made possible.

I’ve always felt a responsibility for the place I grew up, even if that means getting blood on my hands because of it. Griz instilled those values in me.

“You know, you’re a damn idiot. You keep staring at her and she might finally notice,” he says, shaking his head.

I should have known he wouldn’t let it go.

“I don’t understand for the life of me why—” he cuts himself off.

If he really thought about why, he’d have his answer.

The reason why I would never act on the vibrating impulse to take exactly who I want and the way I want her.

I sip my bourbon and try to ignore him. Glancing around the room toward the bar, I’m careful not to let my attention flicker back to the wildly drunken brunette rolling her hips in the middle of the room. He’s right; I have been staring, and I didn’t even realize it.

“Being married and in love looks good on your brothers.” He glances back to the dance floor, just as Lincoln lifts Faye into his arms and Grant twirls Laney before pulling her close. “You’re up next.”

He hasn’t said anything like that in years.

“Find something to ground you.” They should have been forgotten words Griz said on an unforgettable night ten years ago.

A few years later, my brothers started losing the people they loved.

Griz had loved and lost again as well. I know a part of him believes in the bullshit curse that any woman who falls for a Foxx ends up dying.

I don’t believe in curses, but the reality of loving someone and losing them seems more like a punishment than something beautiful.

Brow pinched, I watch him closely as he gets up from his chair.

He starts laughing as he hits the edge of the dance floor, like his statement won’t needle and burrow under my skin.

There have been plenty of people, especially in Fiasco, who are vocal about the oldest Foxx brother still being a bachelor.

I never saw the negative. Let them talk.

People are unpredictable and that makes things complicated.

The most unpredictable of them all sways her hips in the center of that dance floor.

I can’t help but lick my lips and swallow at how, despite not wanting it to be the case, she makes my mouth water.

Her long dark hair flows wildly behind her as her smile lights up the whole damn room.

She wears a tux better than any man has, the way it grips every feminine part of her.

Last night, with her hands on me...I stifle the memory for probably the hundredth time today and rub my hand over my mouth. The willpower it took to walk away from her only existed because people were watching.

It can’t happen again. I’m not up next; I’m doing just fine without.