Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(7)

“And for God’s sake, lose the gum before I have an aneurysm.”





“So, this is another area where photos are forbidden,” Logan said as we walked through the barrel-raising area. I noticed him give a slight head nod to his older brother, Noah, who eyed me with a scowl that told me he didn’t like that I was there.

You and me both, buddy.

“Because—”

“Because we’re one of the only whiskey distilleries who still makes their own barrels,” I finished for him. “I know. You forget that my father owns this place.”

“Trust me, I didn’t forget,” he murmured, and then continued on with his spiel.

I listened — or at least, pretended to — as I watched the team of four arrange staves of wood in perfect order within a metal ring to make a barrel. Noah slid the top ring down on a barrel he’d just put together, sending it down the line before he started the next, and I hated how much he looked like he loved his job.

Because I had a feeling it wouldn’t be there much longer.

My father was all about innovation, about being the best of the best, being ahead of the times. Other members on the board had been fighting for tradition for years, urging him to keep the staples that made Scooter Whiskey a household name in the first place. But, those members of the board were thinning out, and slowly, Dad was turning the tides and showing why innovation should be at the forefront of their mind — especially with more and more craft distilleries popping up.

The team of four in front of me were some of the most important people in this distillery and had been for years.

And I couldn’t be sure they’d have a job in six months’ time.

Logan snapped his fingers beside me, and when I turned to face him, he cocked one brow. “Well?”

Oh, shit. Did he ask me something?

I smiled. “Uh… I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

Logan sighed at that, shaking his head slightly before making his way toward the back door of the warehouse. “Try to at least pretend you give a shit on this tour, could you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, jogging a bit to catch up with him. “Really, I am. It’s just that I know this distillery like it’s the house I grew up in… because, honestly, it practically was. This tour seems like a waste of time to me.”

“You know the layout,” Logan agreed, holding the back door open for me before we both slipped back out into the cold. Logan zipped up his jacket while I flipped up the hood on mine, tucking my hands in my pockets against the chilly wind. “You know the name and the processes. But, do you know the history? The selling points? The fun facts and figures that tourists will want to hear? The stories that will stick with them and have them telling their friends about the amazing tour they had when they get home?”

“Like that my grandfather died from an infection of a finger injury that he never told anyone about? Or how we use the fresh spring water on our property and that’s why our whiskey has a distinct taste that no one can emulate?” I challenged.

Logan paused where we were walking, facing me for the first time since we left the warehouse. “Those are both great examples. But, they’re also facts that can be found online. Tell me something no one can find with a quick Google search.”

I opened my mouth, paused, and shut it again.

I couldn’t think of a single thing.

The truth was that I should have known more stories than Logan Becker — being that I was the daughter of the owner and the granddaughter of the founder. But, I’d been trying to get away from this town and the legacy my family had built in it since I was fourteen.

I’d blocked out almost every story I’d ever heard my father tell, and any time someone asked me about my last name, about this town and the whiskey distilled in it, I gave them base-level information that anyone could find out on their own — simply because I didn’t want to talk about it.

I didn’t want to be a part of any of it.

Logan nodded. “I’ll take your silence as an admission that you don’t have an answer. Come on,” he said, steering us in a new direction. “We’re almost done, and then we can end your torture for the day.”

We walked through various warehouses — where the single barrels are held, where the tasting takes place at the end of tours — before he gave me a quick overview of the gift shop and lobby area. His younger brother, Michael, was in the gift shop when we passed through.

He looked just as miserable to be there as I was.

“Is something wrong with your brother?” I asked when we left the gift shop, making our way through the back halls that led to the tour guide offices.

“Noah?”

“Michael,” I clarified. “I’ve been in the gift shop a few times with friends who visited from out of town, and he’d always been so cheerful. But today… I don’t know. He kind of seemed like he was going to bite the head off the next tourist who asked him how to order a Scooter barrel.”

Logan’s face soured. “He’s just going through a rough time. But… you’re right. He wasn’t being the friendliest. I’ll talk to him.”

I blanched. “Oh, I didn’t mean…”

I was mid-apology when Logan stopped, glancing down the hallway at an office door I knew all too well. It was Grandpa’s office, the first one to ever grace this old building. For years, it had been unoccupied. Then, it had been damaged from the fire that took place inside its walls. Now, the door that had been closed since that day, other than to clean out the fire damage and make sure it was safe again, was open.