something.
She found herself looking at several rows of wooden barrels. They were all
carefully labeled with dates and check marks. She knew he’d hired several people
to help with … well, whatever it was he did here, but the labels were clearly in his
handwriting. She knew instinctively that these big barrels were like his babies.
Someone else might help him fill them, but they were his.
What must that be like? To belong to Sam Compton?
Knock it off. Don’t get weepy about the whole business.
The warehouse was organized and rustic and oddly appealing, but there was no
sign of the man. She ran her hand over the barrels as she made her way toward
the other side of the massive structure until she reached a door. She remembered
the space being one large open room, but he’d obviously put walls up to make
this a separate room since the last time she’d been here.
Her heart skipped into overdrive when she opened the insulated door and moved
into the main part of the distillery. If Sam was here, this is where he’d be.
She didn’t know which would be worse—finding that he wasn’t around or finding
that he was here, but not alone.
This is what she got for not calling first, but planning ahead had never really been
Riley’s style. She was more of the just-go-with-it persuasion. Except when it came
to sex, of course.
Which was exactly what had gotten her into this whole freaking mess in the first
place.
Her heels made a steady tap-tap against the concrete floor as she scanned for
signs of movement. She wound around a table covered in what seemed to be
labeling equipment, a bunch of other scary-looking pot-type things she didn’t
recognize, a stack of boxes containing empty bottles, and then …
There he was.
Dressed in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and looking far better than any man
had any right to look, he was crouched in front of one of the enormous copper
vat-type things that lined the far wall.
She watched him for a second as he tinkered with some tool she couldn’t see,
gathering her courage as she debated her best opening.
I need an itsy-bitsy little favor involving your joystick.
Nah, too simpering.
I can’t imagine doing this with anyone but you.
Too revealing.
Wanna hump?
Better …
“Hey.” Okay, not her best opening. But at least it was an opening.
Sam froze for several seconds before slowly standing and turning to face her.
She’d been expecting surprise, and there was a split second of that before it
turned to something far more telling.
Wariness.
“Riley,” he said, idly twirling some wrench-type thing before crossing his arms
and studying her.
“Sam.”
“Is showing up unannounced considered fashionable in Manhattan?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Haven’t gotten any complaints before.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” he said darkly. “Is your dress made out of plastic
wrap?”
She glanced down at the formfitting red sheath. “It’s Trina Turk.”
“I don’t care if it’s made out of some yet undiscovered new element; it doesn’t
belong in a distillery.”
Riley knew him well enough to hear the subtext. You don’t belong in the distillery.
“I haven’t been out here since you bought the property,” she said, keeping her
voice easy.
He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Damn it! I knew all my party invitations got
lost in the mail. Damn post office.”
Riley narrowed her eyes. “You’re cranky.”
“You’re trespassing.”
She waved this away. “I came to ask a favor,” she blurted out, going for broke.
His head tilted back slightly. “Am I going to need a drink for this?”
“Definitely. And also, maybe an attitude adjustment. This whole cranky-hermit
thing you have going on …” She waggled her hand back and forth as if to say it’s
only so-so.
He ignored her and moved toward the front corner of the warehouse. She
followed, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw that he had had a full bar
installed. “Fancy.”
“Necessary,” he said, moving behind the polished wood bar.
She plopped uninvited onto one of the barrels that doubled as bar stools.
He pulled down a couple of bottles, and she recognized one of his own labels.
“Using the good stuff?”
He smiled a little. “The best.”
Huh. So definitely not modest around her. Just the rest of the world.
Riley watched as he poured an amber liquid from a ROON bottle into a shaker,
followed by some sort of Italian liqueur, a couple of dashes of bitters, and some
ice. Pulling a jar of cherries out of the fridge, he dropped one into each of two