Page 43 of The Home Grown
My fingers dance over his as he hands me back the bottle and the physical contact causes me to shiver; probably because it’s been a long time since I’ve touched anyone who wasn’t a client.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise—I didn’t have you pinned as a drinker.”
“I’m not really. It’s all stuff I’ve sort of accumulated, and this bottle is something of a rare find, apparently. The other stuff, well, I’ve had one glass here and there and then … I guess I didn’t want to throw them out. I always wanted one of those globe-shaped drinks cabinets—but then I … I don’t know.”
“Oh yeah? That sounds cool—shit…” He pauses. “Thisisspecial. Where did you get it from?” He points towards a bottle of Macallan ten-year-old oak whisky. “If this was sealed, it’d be worth a fortune.”
I shrug. “That one you can touch.” I move towards him, peering over his arm at the bottle. “I won it in a raffle a few years ago, and honestly, it wasn’t even that nice.”
Now it’s his turn to gape at me. He picks up the bottle and turns it over, reading the label.
“You’re kidding? I bet this is like … I don’t know, liquid gold? Here…”
He pops the cap off and holds the bottle to his nose, breathing deeply and sighing blissfully before stepping towards me and crowding me completely.
Naturally, I’d step back to regain my personal space, but I edge closer, more interested in the smell of his aftershave at this proximity than the bitter scent of the whisky.
“Good, don’t you think?” Mike says, lowering his voice.
His eyes lock onto mine and my head spins; the fumes of the whisky mixed with the wine already swimming around my stomach.
It makes me delirious.
I shake my head. “More like gasoline. Honestly, it smells like varnish. Whisky isn’t my thing.”
Mike moistens his lips before peering back at the bottle.
“I wish I wasn’t on a drinking ban because I’d be begging for a taste of this. Honestly, Macallan whisky is…”
He chef kisses the air, then ponders over the bottle for another moment before speaking again.
“Actually, since I’m getting a cab back to my folks’ place—do you mind if I have a quick glass? I mean—one won’t hurt, will it?”
Chapter Nine
BETTSY
“I can’t believeyou don’t like this,” I say, holding up a glass of the Macallen.
Honestly, this is the whisky of dreams and even after the first sip, I can feel the warmth wrap around me in a way only decent single malt can.
“Are you sure you should drink that?” she asks. “Don’t you have your camp thing starting on Monday?”
I swallow down another drop, taking a moment to study the liquid in the glass before responding.
“Yeah, but I won’t get drunk on this. This, Kitch … is too good to waste on getting drunk. You need to savour it … enjoy the flavours and?—”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Right, well…”
“Are you sure you don’t want to try it? Maybe you just shot it down last time without giving your taste buds time to appreciate the flavours?”
I hold out my glass to her and she looks at the amber liquid for a moment before shaking her head.
“I’m good, thanks,” she says, moving to the fridge-freezer and pulling open the door to the upper compartment.
“You know whisky literally means ‘water of life’ in Gaelic? It’s designed to give people a kick up the ass—make them a little more … you know,” I say.
Ellie looks away from the fridge and over towards me. “A little … you know what?”
