“This is amazing.”

    “This is just the tasting room.” He locks the door behind us. “We run tours on the weekends and hire the room out for parties. We’re an independent craft distiller—spirits only. We produce nearly a dozen spirits, including a number of small-batch whiskeys that won medals in the San Francisco Spirits Competition. We’re doing an absinthe this year and an autumn moonshine.”

    “You run this and train to fight?” I walk over to the far wall and check out all the framed awards: New York International Spirits Competition, Wizards of Whiskey, and dozens more.

    Jack pulls a bottle off the shelf behind the counter. “I enjoy the business, it pays the bills, and it’s what I was raised and trained to do.” He pours two glasses of amber liquid, and I join him at the bar.

    “What’s below us?”

    “Stills, fermentation tanks, barrel storage, and the bottling line. The big machines are the heating equipment.”

    He seems suddenly shy, and I give him an encouraging smile. “I would love to see it all. You’re a very complicated man. Every time I think I have you figured out, you show me something new.”

    “I’ve never brought anyone here except for business.” He pushes the glass toward me. “This was our first product to win an award. It’s a single-grain, double-barrel whiskey. It’s sweet and creamy on the palate with hints of butterscotch, honey, peppercorn, and Christmas pudding notes on the nose.”

    I take a sip, expecting the usual bitterness of whiskey, but the smooth finish pleasantly surprises me. “I have to admit I don’t taste all those things, but it’s very good, and I’m not even a whiskey drinker.”

    Jack beams and pulls out another bottle. “Try this one. It was aged in bourbon barrels and then Spanish sherry casks.”

    He tells me about the distillery and how it runs as I sample everything from gin to absinthe, with water and crackers to wash out my mouth between sips. When I’ve tasted everything he wants me to taste, he takes me downstairs to show me the rows and rows of oak barrels, gleaming copper machinery, and crates of bottles all waiting to be shipped. Scents of oak grain, sawdust, and liquor thicken the warm air. I ease myself up on a wooden table in the center of the packing room as I drink it all in. “I can’t believe you’ve never brought anyone here.”

    Jack sits beside me, his long legs easily reaching the floor. “I’ve never met anyone I wanted to share it with. I wasn’t kidding when I said I haven’t had a serious relationship since Avery. I’ve had hook-ups, but mostly I’ve kept my encounters to the club.” He fiddles with his ring, and his expression softens. “Wait here. I’m going to grab a blanket.”

    He returns a few minutes later and we spread the blanket over the table and lie side by side staring up at the tasting room through the Plexiglas ceiling.

    “I hope you don’t do this when there are people upstairs,” I tease. “They might get a fright looking down to see you staring up at them. The women might think you’re trying to see up their skirts.”

    “If you’d walked in when I was down here, I would definitely have tried to look up your skirt.” He pulls me closer, presses a kiss to my forehead.

    “I might not have succumbed to your charms if I caught you looking up my skirt. You would have been added to my no-good men collection.”

    He stiffens beside me. “Anyone I need to beat up?”

    “Well, Ray already took care of Vetch Retch, not that he will ever admit to it.”

    Jack brushes his thumb along my jaw, turning my head toward him, his expression serious. “Who else?”

    “Do you really want to know? I thought guys didn’t like to know that kind of stuff.”

    “We don’t like to know about the guys you liked. Bastards like Vetch Retch are fair game.” His eyes narrow, and he tenses as if preparing to battle imaginary foes.

    “Well, there was Adam. I met him when I was fifteen and living at home…” As if he can sense my trepidation, Jack threads his fingers through mine, giving me the strength to go on.

    “I thought he loved me.” My voice wavers, but Jack has shared this special part of himself with me, and I want to share everything with him. But more than that, I want to know if he’ll accept me when he finds out my cutting isn’t the worst of my secrets. “He encouraged me to stand up to my dad when I turned sixteen, but it didn’t turn out well. My father threw me out of the house. Adam let me move in with him, and I stayed with him for four years. I thought he was my savior, and when he started hitting me, I thought I deserved it. But part of me couldn’t forgive him for hurting me, so I would cut myself, and he would pretend not to know.”

    “Jesus Christ.” Jack pulls me on top of him so I am lying on his hot, hard body with his strong arms tight around me. “You had one hell of a rough time.”

    “It got worse. When I caught him in bed with another woman, he told me he never loved me. He said that I was too broken and fucked up to love. He took the ring I’d given him and threw it at me. Told me to get out. I wanted to die.” Taking a deep breath, I hold up my hand. “I slit my wrist that night. My sister found me and bandaged it up. I left England shortly after that to start a new life away from Adam and my family.”

    Jack takes my wrist in his warm, broad hand. Slowly, gently, he brings it to his mouth. Softly, tenderly, he kisses the scar.

    “Do you hate me?” I whisper. “Some people would think what I did was a sin.”

    “No, darlin’. I’ll save my hating for the bastard who caused you so much pain.” He hugs me so tight I can barely breathe, but it is the only place in the world I want to be.

    “Thank you for sharing this special place with me.” I push up and give him a kiss. Longing flickers across his face so fast I wonder if I saw it.