A Dog and a Diamond (13 page)

This feeling probably wouldn't last long but she was damn well going to make the most of it while it did. With that thought, she went inside and headed to her computer to answer inquiries for breakups.

* * *

Callum couldn't remember the last time he'd looked forward to something as much as cooking dinner for and hanging out with Chelsea on Friday night. Sophie had caught him honest-to-God whistling at work today, and even a grumpy old man he'd had to deal with on the tasting floor couldn't take the spring out of his step. It might only have been two days since he'd seen Chelsea, but that felt far too long.

Although his house was usually neat and tidy thanks to his cleaning guy, this afternoon he'd left the office early to cook dinner and make sure everything was perfect. He'd checked for any lingering evidence of Bailey and done a few more pieces of the puzzle he'd dug out of his mom's games cupboard yesterday. Okay, so having a puzzle on the go was perhaps a little try-hard but he wanted to make Chelsea feel comfortable in his space. So much so that when buying the ingredients for dinner, he'd even bought a big, juicy bone for Muffin. The way to a man's heart might be through his stomach but he reckoned the way to Chelsea's was through her dog. Luckily, he liked the mutt almost as much as he liked her.

Half an hour before she was due to arrive, with his lasagna in the oven and the garlic bread ready to go under the grill, he had a quick shower. He was toweling himself dry when the doorbell rang. He peeled back his bedroom curtain, which gave him a view of the grounds in front of his cottage, and he saw Chelsea's little car parked out front. Perhaps she was as eager as he to get this evening started.

About to pull on his boxers, Callum paused and thought again. Then, his grin still wide, he walked through to the kitchen, grabbed his apron off the hook, wrapped it around his waist and went to open the door.

Muffin burst inside before either of them could say anything to each other. Callum chuckled and called over his shoulder, “Make yourself at home, buddy.” Then he turned all his attention on Chelsea. She was holding a small gift-wrapped box and was dressed from head to toe in warm weather-appropriate attire. The only flashes of skin he could see were her face and hands. He shivered as the winter breeze whooshed inside.

“You're early.”

“I am.” She smiled and glanced slowly down his body; his skin heated as if she'd touched him. “And you're wearing an apron.”

“I warned you I would.”

“You did. I just imagined you'd be wearing something else, as well.”

“Do you have a problem with nudity?”

She shook her head. “Not yours.”

“Good.” And then he pulled her inside, kicked the door shut behind them, took the box from her hands, dropped it onto his hall table and pulled her into his arms. She tasted so good—if anything, even better than he remembered—and he wanted to devour her. If the hands that landed on his buttocks were anything to go by, Chelsea's thoughts were heading in the same illicit direction as his.

As much as he'd happily take her right there against the wall, he summoned some restraint.

“This is a nice place you've got,” she muttered, glancing around as he took her hand and led her down the hallway. “It's got a lovely warm vibe to it.”

“Thanks. It was my grandparents' place when we were growing up, but when my grandma died a few years ago, my granddad moved out. Too many memories or something.” That was all the history he gave her before closing the bedroom door behind them and lifting his fingers to the buttons on her shirt.

Later, when they lay beneath his bed covers, arms and limbs still entwined, Chelsea's head resting on his shoulder, Callum tried to recall a moment in time when he'd felt like this before. There was just something about Chelsea that got under his skin, but he still wondered if it actually meant anything more than sex. After everything with Bailey, he no longer knew whether to trust his own feelings.

“Is something burning?” Her question interrupted his thoughts and he sat bolt upright.

“Shit. The lasagna.”

Chelsea laughed as he shot out of bed and hurried to the kitchen. A few moments later as he stared into the oven at what
was
going to be their dinner, he felt like weeping. He'd slaved all afternoon over a hot stove to impress her and now all he had to offer was carcinogen poisoning.

“Dammit.” Ignoring the smoke that wafted out of the oven, he grabbed a tea towel to stop from burning himself and lifted the disaster out onto the stove top.

Chelsea chose that moment to come up beside him. “Hmm...” was all she said.

“Sorry.” He shook his head as he turned to look at her—she'd taken a moment to pull on the shirt that he had hanging over the end of the bed and she looked amazing in it.

“That'll teach you to open the door to me wearing nothing but an apron.”

“At least I haven't killed the garlic bread. And I have cupcakes.”

Her lips curled at the edges. “You made me cupcakes?”

And dammit, he wanted to say yes. “I... Okay, no, I bought them. There's a bakery in town and you haven't lived until you've tasted their cupcakes.”

She laughed. “Garlic bread and cupcakes for dinner sounds good to me then. Truly, it's the company that matters and I'm quite enjoying yours.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual.”

They got dressed again for dinner, taking turns watching the garlic bread cook to avoid any further culinary disasters.

“I had set the dining room table for us to eat in there,” Callum said, when the garlic bread was nice and crunchy, “but it seems overkill for what is essentially toast.”

Chelsea agreed so they took their dinner of cupcakes, garlic bread and soda into his living room and set the feast down on his coffee table. It felt all kinds of wrong not to offer a guest in his home an alcoholic drink but he knew her well enough already to know her answer and he didn't want her to feel any kind of uncomfortable.

“Where'd you get this?” Chelsea asked, eyeing the barely started puzzle that also sat on the coffee table.

“You inspired me the other day, so I came home and raided Mom's cupboards. Feel free to help. I'm not very good.”

“Back in a moment.” She stood and went into the hallway, returning as promised a few moments later with the box she'd brought when she arrived. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

He took the box and unwrapped it to find a jigsaw puzzle of a glass of whiskey. The image, which consisted mostly of clear glass and amber fluid, sat on an oaky grained table. It was simple but beautiful and would be very tricky to do.

“I love it,” he said. “Thanks, but do ya reckon you could help me finish this one first?”

“I'd love to,” she replied, settling in beside him.

For the next few hours, they sat together on his sofa, eating, finding pieces of the puzzle and talking about everything from favorite bands to the history of the McKinnel Distillery. For someone who abstained from drinking alcohol, Chelsea showed a great deal of interest in his family business. She listened eagerly as he explained how his father and his father's twin brother had come across from Scotland in their early twenties to travel the US.

“They both got lucky over here—Dad met Mom and on impulse Uncle Hamish bought a lottery ticket and won a bit of money. When Dad decided to move to America for Mom, Hamish came too and they used his winnings to buy the land we're on right now. Coming from the Scottish Highlands region, the boys had been surrounded by whiskey distilleries all their lives. Hamish worked at a local one, where he started as a grain flipper, but he'd always had the ambition to start his own. They were two young men with a dream and because Mom was the reason for the move to America, they decided to use some of her family history in the label. One of her ancestors was a bootlegger—it's his face on our label and our signature bottle is also named after him.

“Not long after they barreled their very first batch, Hamish was killed in a car accident and Dad threw his heart and soul into fulfilling their dreams on his own. Mom took up the trade, as well—she learned to live and breathe distilling, and when I was born, her parents moved into this cottage to help look after me. By that time Mom and Dad had built the main house with the last of Hamish's winnings.”

“Such a sad story,” Chelsea said, “but I bet Hamish would be very proud of what your parents achieved. From what I can gather, they've come a long way from those early days.”

Callum nodded. “I wish I'd known him.”

“What about your father's parents? Are they still alive? Do they still live in Scotland?”

“Yes. They're in a nursing home now but we take turns going across to visit them. All of us except Sophie, Annabel and Mac have done a stint living in Scotland and working in a distillery there that is owned by Dad and Hamish's mentor.”

“It must be wonderful to have something that glues your family together like this. I can see why you love this place so much.”

He could see the sadness in her eyes when she said this and it made him realize just how lucky he was. “Yes, it is. Do you not see any of your family now?”

She shook her head. “Mom was never in contact with her parents and Dad's mom died before I was born. I was never much more than a burden to anyone in my family, and I haven't seen nor heard from any of Dad's family since he died.”

He was racking his head for what to say to that, but she spoke first, directing the conversation back to him. “Do you guys do tours here?”

He nodded. “Yep, Sophie and Blair take turns running them twice daily.”

“I'd love to go on one.”

“Seriously?” Considering her stance on alcohol, she couldn't have surprised him more if she'd said she'd love to swim naked in the Deschutes River in the middle of winter.

“Yep. I'm interested in what you do.”

He grinned. “In that case, why wait for Sophie or Blair to show you through, when I can give you a private tour right now?”

Chapter Ten

W
hy Chelsea found herself so fascinated with the workings of the distillery she didn't understand. But she found herself hanging on Callum's every word as she followed him to the distillery for a private tour and he told her about its history.

They'd put on their winter coats and boots and decided to leave Muffin in the cottage, chewing on the bone Callum had given him earlier.

The distillery was only a short walk from his place and he held her hand the whole way as they trekked across the frosty grounds toward it. This place was magical at night. Someone had strung fairy lights across the trees and the garden was lit up with hundreds of little lights, as well.

“Who looks after the grounds?” she whispered to him, not wanting to alert his family as they passed his mom's place.

“Mom, actually. She's never happier than when she's in the garden, although some of the heavy work is getting a bit hard for her lately.”

The farther away they got from the cottage, the stronger the smell that permeated the air here grew. The aroma of whiskey had always turned her off in the past, but she found herself warming to it. She guessed it was a little like those people who didn't drink coffee but adored the smell.

Only a hundred or so yards in front of the main house was the beautiful building she'd been in the first time she came here. Callum had explained that in addition to his office, the building also held the tasting room, shop floor and small café. Off to one side of this building was a large barn-type structure.

“This is the actual distillery,” he said, as they approached and he shone his flashlight at the massive oak entrance doors. “And behind the distillery is our storage and bottling facility. Not all distilleries bottle their own whiskey but it's something we pride ourselves on here at McKinnel's. As you know, I'd like to go one step further and farm our own grain, as well, but I might be getting a little ahead of myself.”

If anyone could do it, Callum could, she thought as he took a big ring of keys out of his pocket and dropped her hand in order to open the door. Darkness engulfed them when the door swung back, but he flicked a switch that flooded the building with bright lights. In here the smell of alcohol was so strong, she screwed up her nose, thinking she might get drunk on the fumes.

Callum laughed. “You get used to the smell after a while. I must admit I barely notice it now.” Now that there was light, he went over and closed the big doors behind them. “Temperature is very important when it comes to distilling, so we don't want to let the cold air inside.”

She visibly shivered at his words and he laughed. “Right, let's get this tour started before we both freeze to death.”

“Sounds good.” She half laughed, but it didn't quite come out that way as nerves threatened to swallow her whole. The smell of whiskey was so potent, it brought back memories of her father and the rages he used to go into when he'd been on a bender. Which was pretty much every night.

“Are you okay?” Callum asked, a frown creasing his brow.

She nodded and lied. “Just cold. Tour away.”

Still looking a little hesitant, Callum gestured for her to follow him and they crossed to the far end of the building. He cleared his throat. “Now, I warn you, I can get carried away when talking about this stuff, so feel free to interrupt or tell me to shut up.”

She smirked. “Just get on with it, will you?”

“Yes, miss.” He rewarded her with one of his tantalizing smiles and she made the decision to focus on that, on
him
, rather than where they were. “Okay, first thing is the grain and this is where we store it.” He pointed to some large silver tanks. “All whiskey is made from some kind of grain—wheat, corn, rye, barley or a blend of these are the traditional ones, but anything goes these days. And lots of boutique distillers are trying other cereal grains.”

“Would you ever consider doing so?” she asked.

He nodded. “It's one of the many ideas in my five-year plan, but Dad was dead set against it, so I need to tread carefully as I try to win the others round to the idea.”

“Why is the type of grain so important?”

He smiled at her question. “The grain and how we treat it is the first step in determining the flavor of the finished product.”

“I see.”

“All you need to make whiskey is grain, yeast and water, but that doesn't mean it's easy to do.”

Chelsea glanced around them at the rows of tanks, barrels and other large machinery she had no idea of. She could quite believe it.

Over the next little while, Callum walked her around the building, explaining each step of the distilling process in layman's terms so she could understand but also with the kind of passion that made her want him to speak forever.

He taught her about milling and mashing, fermentable sugars, brewing and the two types of stills used.

“Essentially whiskey is just distilled beer. First you make the beer from the grain, water and yeast, then the beer goes into the still for boiling. The alcohol and some flavor evaporate, leaving the water behind. Dad always used to say that beer is for impatient people who don't want to wait for moonshine, and moonshine is for impatient people who can't wait for whiskey.”

He'd already mentioned that moonshine—baby whiskey—was what went into the barrel, and whiskey (or bourbon or Scotch, depending on where it was made and what grains were used) was what came out.

“Does it take a long time to make whiskey then?” she asked.

“Whiskey isn't genuine until it has been aged for a minimum of two years, so yes, it takes a while.”

“Wow, I don't think my family ever appreciated the effort that went into making it when they were drinking it.”

“Well, to be honest, as a distiller, I wouldn't want people to take as long to drink it as we do to make it, or we'd go out of business, but it's nice when connoisseurs take the time to do a tour and learn what they can.”

They continued on to the area where the barrels were stored, each one stamped on the end with the McKinnel logo and the date the batch was barreled. The room felt a lot warmer than the rest of the building and was positively temperate compared to outside. “And did I mention all these barrels must be new American oak? That's the law—you can't call it a bourbon unless it's aged in new oak.”

Callum's smile dazzled her as he spoke and every word that came from his mouth was so full of fervor that she couldn't help grinning.

He caught her looking and frowned. “What's so funny?”

She shook her head. “Not funny. Wonderful. You really love this stuff, don't you?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah. I guess I do. I've been feeling a bit jaded lately, but sharing it with you reminds me this is who I am. This distillery, it's in my blood. Without it, I wouldn't know what to do.”

“Can I taste some?” The question surprised her almost as much as it did him.

His eyes widened. “What? You serious? I don't want you to feel pressured just because we're here. I wouldn't want to make you do anything you don't feel comfortable with.”

She swallowed. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she'd be voluntarily tasting whiskey, she'd have laughed in their face. But Callum made her want to push boundaries, to step outside her safety zone.

“You're not,” she said. “I don't feel pressured at all. Watching you, and seeing your family at Thanksgiving, has shown me that alcohol isn't black and white. I don't want it to scare me anymore. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes, it does.” He stepped closer and took her hand; his hand was warm despite the frosty temperatures. “Come on, let's go over to the tasting room.”

As they left the actual distillery, Callum let go of Chelsea's hand only long enough to lock the door again, then he led her across to the building she'd gone into that first day they'd met. She'd been nervous the first time she stepped inside, but her heart beat wilder now than it ever had before.

What the heck was she getting herself into?

“Take a seat at the counter,” Callum instructed. “Are you warm enough? Do you want me to get the fire going? There's something about tasting whiskey with a roaring fire in the background, I always think.”

“That would be great,” she said, more to delay the tasting than anything else. As she looked around this gorgeous building—brimming with McKinnel family history—she fought to control the urge to turn and run away.

Callum shrugged off his coat and threw it across the black leather sofa by the fireplace. Chelsea watched, inhaling and exhaling deeply as he brought the fire to life. Pity she was far too apprehensive to appreciate the lovely view of his tight behind as he squatted low. When he was done, he straightened again, wiped his hands on his jeans and then crossed over to where she was perched on a stool. Smiling at her, he went behind the tasting counter, retrieved two funny-shaped glasses—like a bowl at the bottom but narrower at the top.

“Nosing or snifter glasses,” he said. “These are for tasting whiskey, not generally for drinking it—the narrow rim helps channel and concentrate the aromas toward your nostrils, if you know what I mean.“

She nodded and only just managed to reply, “I think so.”

“Take your coat off, you should be relaxed when tasking whiskey.”

Chelsea raised her eyebrows. Relaxed might be asking a little much, but she slipped off her coat and draped it over the stool beside her anyway.

Next Callum took a couple of bottles off the shelf on the back wall. “Remember how I said we have a few different varieties. I'll start you on our signature line—this is a bourbon, which means...”

“It's mostly corn,” she interrupted, “and aged in charred new-oak barrels.”

“I'm impressed.” As he spoke, Callum poured a small amount into both glasses, then lifted one, swirled the liquid around inside and then handed it to her. “One of the first rules of drinking whiskey—or any alcoholic beverage for that matter—is that you must never do so alone. Drinking is a social thing. Or it should be.”

Her stomach flipped as their fingers brushed, but she wasn't sure if it was his touch or the fact she was about to do something she'd always sworn she never would. He noticed her fingers shaking and reached out to steady her hand, wrapping his around hers and the glass as he looked right into her eyes. “Chelsea, you don't have to do this if you don't want to.”

“I
do
.” She wanted to
and
she needed to. Tasting Callum's whiskey would be like flipping her past the bird. Proving that no matter what happened between them, she would no longer let her past have such a strong hold on her.

“Okay, then,” he whispered, easing his hand away from hers. “Take it slow. First look at the color—this will vary depending on the oak of the cask and how long the whiskey has been aging. Then stick your nose in the glass and have a smell. Then do it again and again. A whiskey's nose tells you a lot. If the smell intoxicates you, you're more likely to enjoy the drink.”

She did as he said, aware of his eyes fixed on her. Not a sound could be heard except the crackling of the fire behind them. “I can actually smell caramel,” she said after a few long moments.

A proud grin spread across Callum's face. “Not many amateurs smell anything the first time. You obviously have a nose for this.”

Her stomach flipped at his compliment, giving her the courage to lift the glass to her mouth. “Okay. Here goes nothing.” She sucked in a deep breath and then took a sip. As the liquid hit her tongue, it burned and she screwed up her whole face, spluttering as she swallowed.

“Yuck.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as if that would eradicate the aftertaste. “That's
ghastly
! It doesn't
taste
like caramel. How can anyone ever get addicted to
that
?”

Callum had never in his whole life seen anything quite as delightful as Chelsea's reaction to the whiskey. Her beautiful grimace would be imprinted on his mind forever.

“You know not all people who drink alcohol become alcoholics,” he said, stretching out his hand and wrapping it around hers, “but I'm sorry that's mostly been your experience.”

She shook her head. “Please, don't apologize. My past isn't your fault, but you're showing me the other side of the coin and for that I thank you.” And then she lifted the nosing glass and took another sip.

Again, that grimace. This time, he couldn't help laughing.

“Does it get any better?” she asked, a smile blossoming on her face.

“Bourbon can be an acquired taste,” he admitted, scrubbing his hand over his beard.

“I'm sorry.” She rubbed her lovely lips together. “I'm being rude. This is the produce of your family's love and hard labor. I wonder if I'd like it better with soda or ice? Or is that a big no-no?”

He swallowed, almost losing focus on what she was saying because he was staring at her lips. “There are no rules. Some folks say you shouldn't drink whiskey anything but straight, some say even adding ice is sin, but I say—and this is one thing my father and I agreed on—that there is no one way to drink whiskey. Saying that, I don't want to force you. We can stop now if you like.”

After all, he could think of many other ways to pass their time together.

“No.” She shook her head and held out her glass. “Hit me with the next one.”

He took the glass and put it to one side. “New whiskey, new glass. This one is our single malt, made with 100 percent malted barley,” he explained as he poured her a measure. “It's basically a Scotch, but you can't call it that if it's made outside of Scotland. It'll taste quite different to the bourbon.”

Chelsea took the glass, swirled the liquid and then lifted it to her mouth as if she'd been born tasting whiskey. “I can definitely taste the grain in this one,” she said after taking a sip. “It's a lot more...”