Somehow, the rows of barrels felt smaller, narrower, like they were moving in on either side of us, pushing us together centimeter by centimeter.
There was so much wrong with the fact that no one had asked her that pivotal question — at least, in my mind. Here was this young girl, not even twenty years old, not even close to her prime years, and she was settling down. It wasn’t unheard of in Stratford, or anywhere else in Smalltown, USA. Plenty of my friends got married right out of high school. Most of them had kids before they could even have a legal drink.
But something told me that wasn’t what Ruby Grace had pictured for herself.
“Well, I’m asking. Are you ready?”
She blinked, and it was as if that blink stirred her from the thoughts she’d been tossing around. She started walking again, folding her arms gently over her chest. I watched her try to slip on the same disguise she’d been wearing when she introduced herself to me. She wanted the world to believe she was poised — a polished woman, a dignified lady who didn’t take shit.
But the truth was, she was still a girl, too. She was still nineteen. Who made her feel like that wasn’t okay? To just be a nineteen-year-old girl who doesn’t have it all figured out yet?
“Of course,” she finally answered. “I mean, Anthony is great. He’s older than me, twenty-five to be exact, and he’s so mature. He just graduated with his master’s in Political Science from North Carolina. That’s where we met,” she said, her head leaning toward me a bit on that note. “At a party on campus. He said the first time he saw me, he knew I’d be his wife one day. Which is so sweet. And he’s on track to be in politics for life.” She smiled, but it didn’t mask the slight shake of her voice. “The engagement happened a little faster than I expected… I mean, we’ve only known each other a year. But I think when you know, you know. You know?”
I smirked in lieu of answering.
“And Mama was so excited when we announced our engagement, she wanted to do the wedding right away. It’s crazy, knowing we have what usually is about a year’s worth of work to do in six weeks. But, she’s been taking care of a lot of it… Lord knows that woman loves a project.” Her voice trailed off on a soft laugh before she spoke again. “And Anthony, he’s exactly what my family had in mind for me. And we get along, you know? We have so much fun.”
Why did it feel like she was trying to convince me? Or maybe, it was herself she was trying to convince.
“And you love him,” I pointed out.
She paused, eyes flicking to mine as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Right. And I love him.”
I could have stared at her all day, deciphering her like a riddle that had an obvious answer if I just thought about it long enough. But she shifted under my gaze, and one glance at the rock on her finger reminded me that she was someone else’s puzzle to put together — not mine.
“Well, here they are,” I said, tapping one of the barrels on the back wall. They were stacked just as high as the rest of the room, each barrel stamped with a batch number and an exclusive, gold-plated plaque that had all the details about when it was distilled, barreled, what rows it’s been aged in over time, and more.
“There are so many,” she said, eyes scanning up. “How do I choose? I mean, should I be looking for something specific?”
I scratched at my jaw. “I mean, there is incredible whiskey inside each and every one of these barrels. Part of what makes buying a single barrel so enticing is that you’ll have a one-of-a-kind whiskey,” I said, finally remembering to give her the spiel I’d put off before. “Usually, we let our potential buyers taste a few to compare but…” I smirked. “There is that whole legal drinking age debacle.”
Ruby Grace laughed. “Oh. Yeah. That old thing.”
She swayed from foot to foot, grimacing a little as she eyed the barrels.
“Are you okay?”
Her face twisted again as she shifted her body weight to her left foot. “Yes. Sorry, it’s just these stupid shoes. I told my mom I didn’t need to wear heels to inspect whiskey barrels, but she was not having it with me wearing boots.”
For a split second, I pictured her in said boots. I wondered if the brown leather would cap off under her knee, if her thighs would have been even more exposed in the shorts she would have paired with those boots. Or would she have worn jeans, covering her legs altogether?
Stop thinking about her legs, Becker.
“Take them off.”
Her brows shot up, eyes widening as they found mine.
“What?” She asked, laughing. “I can’t just take my shoes off.” She threw her arms up, gesturing to our surroundings. “We’re in an old, dirty warehouse.”
“You act like you weren’t born and raised in an old, dirty town.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t exactly working in the distillery or out raising cows on the outskirts, now was I? A little bit of a different setting when you’re the Mayor’s daughter.”
She tried to smile, but a soft curse left her lips when she shifted her weight again.
Without hesitation, I reached back for the collar of my t-shirt and ripped it up over my head, laying it down on the ground at her feet.
“Here,” I said, holding out my hand. “You can stand on that. It might not be a freshly polished marble floor, but your precious feet should survive.”
Ruby Grace was gaping, her jaw completely unhinged as her eyes crawled over my abdomen and chest. “I…”
“Shoes. Off.” I pointed at her feet. “You do that, and I’ll let you taste a few barrels. Just don’t tell anyone, least of all your parents.”
She chuckled, but finally stepped out of her heels. They fell on their sides as a relieved sigh slipped through her lips, and I watched her polished toes curl on my t-shirt.
“God, that feels so much better.”
I shook my head, reaching back behind the first row of barrels for the tasting glasses we housed there. “Are you always so stubborn?”
“I wasn’t being stubborn.”
“I guess that’s my answer,” I said, pouring a tiny splash from one of the barrels before holding the glass toward her. “Here. Take a sip.”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s okay. Like you said, I’m underage.”
“So you’ve never had a sip of alcohol in your life?” I challenged.
She bit her lip. “I mean… I have, but not whiskey. That’s a man’s drink.”
At that, I full on belly-laughed. “What the hell kind of talk is that? Whiskey is a man’s drink?” I shook my head. “It’s whiskey. It’s expensive whiskey, at that. And I assure you, it’s delicious — whether you have tits or not.”
Ruby Grace blushed, biting her lip against a smile. “God, sorry. I sound like my mother. More and more every day now, actually,” she mused, glancing down at her toes before her eyes found the glass in my hand again.
I pushed it toward her. “Just a sip. You’re not even going to get close to feeling a buzz. But this way, you can taste the difference between a few barrels that were aged in different ways.” I swallowed. “You can pick out the perfect one for your future husband.”