A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(23)

“And this is our fifteen-year whiskey, aged in French oak barrels on our estate,” Grandpa says, uncapping the other decanter. Its contents are a rich cognac color. And he begins to pour healthy amounts into the larger glasses. “Goes for two hundred and fifty bucks a pop in our Texas store, and the newest vintage sold out in thirty-three minutes last year.”

“I’m so impressed,” Reed drawls, and I give him what I hope is a warning glare.

Not that I don’t take his point. The Sharpes are a challenge. With their snakes and their moonshine and ostentatious display of wealth, they are clearly compensating for something.

But that is not my problem. All I have to do is smile and have a little whiskey. What’s the harm?

“None for me,” Mr. Madigan has to remind Trey, who’s passing out shot glasses.

“Why’s that?” the young buck asks, and I try to hide my flinch. Does he not know how rude a question that is?

“Doctor’s orders,” my boss says cheerfully.

“Bummer,” Trey says. “You’re missing out.”

Reed rolls his eyes again. But he takes the glass he’s offered.

Now I’m holding two glasses of alcohol that I don’t really want. I never expected to find bathtub liquor on my bingo card.

But I smile anyway, while the eldest Sharpe makes a toast. “To strong men, pretty women, and above-average seasonal snow falls in these mountains.”

I laugh politely instead of pointing out how sexist that toast is. And then I throw back my shot like everyone else does.

And, wow, it burns going down. If that’s not a metaphor for the Sharpes’ company, then I don’t know what is.

“Another?” Grandpa asks me as I set the glass down on the bar.

After a beat I manage to reply. “I’ll just enjoy this one,” I say, holding up the whiskey. “I’m not a big drinker.”

“Tonight you are.” Grandpa pours me another shot of moonshine and hands the glass back to me.

“Thank you,” I say brightly. But I want to kick him in the nuts. I’m supposed to spend two more days showing the Sharpes around. It didn’t sound hard until right about now.

But I’m a very determined person when I need to be. It’s only a little booze. I’ve got some Tylenol at home. Thinking of my promotion, I tip the shot glass up and swallow the second shot.

My lungs seize up, and my eyes water. But I get it down. If this is how the Sharpe men bond, I won’t let some whiskey stand in the way.

Halley gives me a pitying glance. Then she sets an icy glass of soda water on the bar and winks at me. After the first sip of cold water, I pull up my big girl panties and buttonhole the youngest of our hotel magnates. “I had a question for you, Mr. Sharpe.”

“Call me Trey.”

“Sure, Trey.” I take a deep breath. “Since we already know we’re going to be working together, I would like to ask you to draw up an employment contract. I thought two years seemed like the right span of time.”

That came out smoothly enough. I smile and wait for his response.

“Hmm,” he says, which is not promising. “Mark also mentioned you have some vacation time coming that you planned to take?”

“Yes, sir.” I wave a hand, like it couldn’t possibly matter. “But there’s no way I could use all that I saved up. I rarely take vacations. But I do plan to take a week or two, so long as it doesn’t inconvenience the transition.”

He rubs his chin. It burns me just a little that this conversation was Reed’s idea. But I’m realizing how badly I needed to ask for a contract so the man can’t replace me while I’m out of town.

“An employment contract,” he says vaguely. “That’s an interesting idea. I’ll look into it. Are you sure you’d want to tie yourself up like that, though? You’re a young woman. Who knows what you’ll want to do? Do you have children?”

My heart squeezes, and it takes me a beat to remember to breathe.

Sometimes this question glances off me without drawing blood. But sometimes it hits me like a karate chop to the heart. Tonight—standing here, holding a whiskey I don’t want, with Reed a mere two paces away—it makes me want to curl up in a ball and howl.

And now Reed is staring at me. I think he’s heard the whole damn conversation.

I draw a sharp breath. “I…I don’t have any children who need my attention. No.”

If Sharpe finds my answer to be oddly constructed, he doesn’t say so. His father lifts that infernal bottle of whiskey toward my glass. “Who needs a top-up?”

But I cover the glass with my hand. “I’m still nursing this.” I hold up my glass, which still has most of my pour still in it.

“Drink up, little girl!” the old codger says. “Or I’m going to think you don’t like Sharpe whiskey!”

Little girl.

I chuckle, although it almost kills me. So I offer my glass, and he fills it.

Several more of my tastebuds wither and die as I force it down. When I put my shot glass down on the bar, someone snatches it.

That someone is Reed.

“What are you doing?” I hiss. Then I grab the glass back again.

“Don’t get alcohol poisoning over this,” he murmurs. “They are not worth it.”