Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(17)

Sink or swim, Mallory Scooter.

Which will it be?





Mallory


I couldn’t wait to knock that smug smile off his stupid, too-handsome-for-his-own-good face.

It didn’t take me long to figure out why Logan was so quick to let me lead the next tour. When he idled in the back of the group, arms folded, clipboard hanging from one hand and cocky smirk on his stupid face while I gathered everyone together, he might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign that gave him away.

He thought I would fail.

No — he was certain I would fail, and that I’d eat crow and apologize.

Well, he was mistaken.

His first mistake was commenting on what I wore. I’d rebelled against my father for the same reason when I was younger. He wanted me to dress conservatively, professionally, “like a lady” — and I’d told him to shove his opinion on what I wore right up his ass — especially when dressing conservatively didn’t stop his piece of shit friends from ogling me once I had tits.

If my own father couldn’t get away with it, there was no way in hell a Becker would.

His next mistake was calling me the princess of Stratford. I was no stranger to that nickname, and he knew before he said it that it’d push all the wrong buttons.

So, I gave him the princess he asked for. I’ll admit, it was a little immature, being on my phone and chewing my gum purposefully loud to make my point. But, I was already annoyed that I had to be here, and while I was perfectly content to do like Chris had told me and just bite my tongue to get through it in order to keep my studio, Logan had soured my mood instantly with his comments.

Now, I didn’t just want to get through it.

I wanted to annoy him as much as this entire situation annoyed me — by showing him that I could do his job with both hands tied behind my back.

“Alright, everyone. Thank you for visiting the Scooter Whiskey distillery. Can everyone hear me okay?”

The group nodded in unison, though everyone was watching me with somewhat confused faces. I noticed a few of them looking at my shirt, whispering to each other.

Okay, maybe slicing off half my shirt wasn’t the most professional thing.

Fine, Logan — you win that point.

“I’m Mallory Scooter,” I said. “Yes, as in the daughter of the owner, granddaughter of the founder. I’ll be your guide today.”

The faces of the tourists in our group lit up, a few of them exchanging excited glances. I looked back at Logan to see if he was bothered, but he still watched me with an amused smirk.

Asshole.

“So, if you’ll follow me right this way, we’re going to load up on that bus over there that will take us down to the first stop on our tour — the spring — which is where we get the fresh, delicious water that we make your favorite whiskey with.”

Everyone smiled, chatter picking up as they followed me down to the bus. I smiled proudly at Logan, but he just jotted something down on his clipboard, piling onto the bus after the group and taking a seat in the back.

And from there, the tour went perfectly.

For about ten minutes.

Talking about the spring was easy. I’d heard my grandfather tell stories about how he’d first came upon it, how it had been on the land of a pastor — a pastor who, funny enough, had a hankering for good whiskey. It was actually the two of them who made the first batch of what would become known as the distinctly flavored Scooter Whiskey.

I told that story with pride, adding in a few fun jokes my grandfather had told me about the spring, and then we were off to the next stop on the tour.

And that’s when things went downhill.

We were outside for longer than I expected — mostly due to me chatting more than was needed — and I was shivering so much from the cold, my teeth were chattering as I tried to explain the distilling process, and how the yeast from our process combined with the microcosms near the freshwater spring to form the Baudoinia mold they saw covering the trees around the distillery.

One of the women on the tour asked me if I wanted her jacket.

To add insult to injury, I completely bypassed a part of the tour in my effort to get warm, skipping the warehouse with our limited-edition single barrels inside, and going straight to the warehouse with the pot stills that initiate the distilling process. Logan had to remind me, and we had to turn back, making an unnecessarily long trek back to where we’d just left before circling around again.

The more that went wrong, the more wired I became — and the worse the tour got.

To his credit, Logan’s snarky know-it-all smirk had softened, and where he was quick and happy to point out that I’d missed part of the tour earlier, his voice was gentler as he filled in the blanks for stuff I missed as the tour continued.

Still, I was proving his point.

And I hated it.

“This is one of my favorite parts of the tour,” I explained when we made it to the barrel-raising warehouse. I schooled my nerves, reminding myself that I knew more about this place than almost anyone, and not to let a few hiccups rattle me. “Scooter Whiskey is one of the few distilleries that still makes and chars our own barrels. And this team of four is the incredible team that brings those barrels to life.”

I gestured behind me to the boys, and they all waved before getting back to work. I didn’t miss the questioning glance Noah gave Logan, but Logan just shook his head, as if to say I’ll explain later.