Page 110 of These White Lies

I pass him the jar. “It’sexactlywhat you think it is. Family recipe.”

Unscrewing the top he takes a hesitant sip. “Is this legal?”

“No,” I reply, lowering onto the swing next to him. “And if you ask my dad about it, you’ll get a thirty-minute history lesson about how his great-grandfather ran a still in a nearby creek bed during the ‘lean years’ and elaborate stories about dodging the ‘revenue man.’” I laugh making air quotes.

“Bootlegging’s practically a required regional tradition,” I add. “North Georgia had settlers from the Scottish Highlands. Lucky for us, they brought their knowledge on how to distill everything from corn to elderberries to Georgia.”

His eyes squint in amusement. “I’ll have to tell Callum that. He’ll love to have another factoid to point to about how the Scottish are superior to everyone.” He snorts.

“Callum?”

“You haven’t met him yet. He was one of Vincent’s recruits. I didn’t ask too closely who he used to work for, but he’s good at his job.”

“Ahhh. One of those.”

“He’s handy. Unique skill set.”

I decide it’s best to stop asking questions.

We fall into a peaceful quiet after that. I glance sideways at him, admiring how the light from inside spills over his face, throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief.

“What are you watching for?” I ask.

“Bad guys.” His mouth quirks when I tense. “Just kidding. We weren’t followed up here. Finn was watching from…” He tips his chin toward the sky.

I scrunch my nose, confused. “Like a drone?”

Brady shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh at me. “No, baby. Finn didn’t follow us with a drone. We have… access. Let’s just say we haveaccess.”

I look out at the backyard and the intermittent, tiny, golden flickers pulsing low across the grass.

“I was watching the fireflies,” he says quietly, taking my hand.

“Lightning bugs.” I make a face and shake my head with mock resignation. “City boys.”

He hides a smile behind the jar. “I forgot.”

The sound of his laugh is low and warm, chasing away the heaviness that’s been clinging to me for the last week.

“Come here,” he says, voice soft but threaded with command.

I slide under his arm and we rock slowly together, watching the lights decorate the dark edges of the mountains. The chains on the swing creak softly as we sway, and tucked into the warm solidness of his side, I feel like nothing can touch me. It’s just us, the cricket symphony and the lightning bugs blinking lazily in front of us.

“Earlier,” Brady says, his voice, rumbling under my cheek. “You asked if I preferred mountains or beaches.”

I tilt my head to glance up at him. “I remember.”

His eyes are on the dark mountains around us, just visible against an indigo sky. “I wouldn’t mind coming back up here in the fall. Do some hiking. When the leaves change and there’s cooler air.” His mouth crooks, teasingly. “But you probably aren’t the hiking sort.”

The words strike me like a small, careful blow. He’s talking about the future. About coming back here… with me. My stomach flips with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

I force a casual shrug, trying not to sound as off-kilter as I feel. “I’ve been known to hike.”

“Oh yeah?” He squeezes my hip. “Maybe Thanksgiving then.”

I turn to him, unable to disguise my expression. “Thanksgiving?”

His grin sharpens. “What? Too far ahead for you?”