Page 3 of Snow Much Trouble
"Neither." He glances at my sweater. “Nice snowflakes.”
That gaze feels like a caress down my entire body. That gaze is dangerous. That gaze screams me writing he-broke-my-heart-in-two-pieces songs a year from now instead of upbeat Christmas tunes.
Determined to resist that gaze, I stare back, waiting for him to continue.
We’re doing it again. A silent stand-off. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a grin he’s trying to contain as his eyes are firmly on mine again.
Finally, he speaks. "I own a distillery. Four Brothers Bourbon, up in Wanted, Kentucky."
Maybe rich. Maybe famous. Definitely trouble. That’s what I can firmly conclude. "Are you one of the four brothers or is this a hand-me-down distillery?"
"Hand-me-down distillery? I thought you said you know bourbon. If we were around for decades, you would know it. We only launched last year. Also, it’s called generational, not hand-me-down.”
Now I’m getting a business history lesson from a house crasher? I roll my eyes at him. “My daddy gave me his old truck when I was sixteen. Should I call that a generational truck?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “What is the revenue stream on an old truck?”
“It got me from North Carolina to Nashville so I would say I can’t put a price tag on that.” I’m waiting for him to pour a finger of bourbon but so far he hasn’t. Maybe he’s contemplating leaving the cabin after all. “Which brother are you? In the four brothers?”
“The devastatingly handsome one."
He says it so deadpan that I blink. Lord, this man needs to leave immediately, if not sooner.
“I meant what is your role in the business?”
“I run sales and distribution. I know, I know, it’s not very sexy. My identical twin brother, Ian, is a master distiller, which is way sexier. But I work with what I’ve been given.”
He doesn’t look like he feels the least bit sorry for himself any day of the week. “There are two of you? Plus two additional brothers? Your mother must be a saint.”
“That she is.” He extends a hand like we're meeting at a cocktail party instead of having a territorial dispute in a cabin decked out for the holidays. “Welcome to my weekend getaway.”
I snort. “I was here first, you know.” But I shake his hand anyway. His is warm and slightly rough, like he gets his hands dirty from time to time.
“What do you do for a living, Miss I Was Here First?”
"I’m a songwriter.”
“That would make a hell of a lot of sense since you know Jolene. Anything I’ve heard of?"
That ruins my mood instantly. “Nope. I'm here to write Christmas material, actually." I gesture toward my guitar case, which is propped against the couch. "I have a deadline, and I need absolute quiet and solitude to meet it."
Dylan's eyes light up. "Christmas country songs? I love Christmas songs."
He does have the look of a man who sips bourbon by the fire after driving a Clydesdale-pulled sleigh through a Christmas village. But like the sexy version. Thedaddyversion, as opposed to thedadversion.
I’m suddenly way too warm in my festive and mildly inappropriate sweater.
"It's also lucrative if you can write them well." I'm not about to tell him I'm writing for Miranda Leigh. The last thing I needis for word to get out before I've even written the songs. There’s already enough pressure on me.
“Need help?”
He looks like he’s joking.
He’d better be joking.
Dylan
Lauren Scott doesn’t look like she needs or wants my help.
