When we walk out of the Sullivan distillery, my brain is going a million miles an hour. Mount must have texted Padraig, because the driver pulls up and takes the case of whiskey that Deegan insisted we needed out of Mount’s hands and stows it in the trunk.

I pull out my phone and make a dozen notes to myself about things to discuss with Temperance and Louis when I get back. I have plans. All the plans.

“Would you like me to take you back to the hotel, sir?” Padraig asks.

“That depends,” Mount says, and I tear my attention from my phone and look up to meet his gaze. “What else can’t you live without seeing in Dublin this time?”

This time. That makes it sound like I’ll be coming back, and I decide right then that Mount’s right. I will be back. But for now . . . I know exactly what else I want to see.

“I don’t like beer that much, but I’ve always wanted to see Saint James’s Gate and drink a pint at the Gravity Bar at the top of the Guinness Storehouse.”

“Shall we head that way, then?” Padraig asks. “It’s not far, still in the Liberties, and you can do a largely self-guided tour. It’s a tourist favorite.”

I want to say yes. I can’t imagine Mount mingling amongst a crowd of people snapping pictures, but photos I’ve seen of the Gravity Bar were part of the inspiration for the restaurant on the top floor of Seven Sinners. Being this close to it and not going to see it would suck.

“Whatever the lady wants,” Mount says, shocking the hell out of me. “Let’s go to the Storehouse. If we’re going to be tourists for a day, we might as well do it right.”

Ten minutes later, we’re exiting the car onto a cobblestone street next to a massive stone-and-brick building. I head for the door that reads Welcome to the Home of Guinness. Inside, it’s a complete madhouse. The noise of hundreds of tourists echoes upward through the open center. Mount’s hand never leaves the small of my back as we stand in line to purchase tickets, and then wander through the gift-shop area to the escalator to start the tour.

“Arthur Guinness was a smart man.”

Mount nods to a sign painted on what looks like a partial replica of a fermentation tank. It reads:

The fact that Mount noticed the sign makes me think of the overwhelming presence of black, white, and gold in the two suites I’ve seen in his compound. And the dining room. And the hallways.

“Did you get your decorating tips from Guinness?” When I turn to face him, he’s on the step below me, putting us at eye level.

Mount’s laugh booms out, echoing over the chatter, which I swear goes quiet for a moment. “No. No, I did not.”

“Then what’s that all about?”

The humor in his expression fades, and I don’t think he’ll reply, but he does.

“It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That there is such a thing as absolutes. Good and evil. Right and wrong.”

That explains the black and white. “But what’s with the gold?”

“The golden rule. He who has the most gold makes the rules . . . and gets to determine where those lines between right and wrong are drawn.”

I feel like Mount just gave me a peek inside his head, and I’m not sure what to do with that information. In this situation, undoubtedly, Mount has the most gold, therefore he makes the rules. But right and wrong, good and evil . . . those concepts don’t seem like they’d trouble him much. Or, if anything, I’d assume he’d say he lives in the shades of gray.

Mount lifts his chin and glances up. “You’re missing the good stuff.”

I look where he indicated. It’s a glass sign that reads:

My curiosity about the black, white, and gold is pushed aside for a moment as the history of where I’m standing washes over me. It might not have a damn thing to do with whiskey, which is my passion, but my roots and their ties to the city feel stronger than ever.

Mount and I wander up each floor, reading the placards and listening to the holograms describe the history of Guinness. What impresses Mount the most is that Arthur Guinness had the foresight and confidence to sign a nine-thousand-year lease for the storehouse property.

“That took balls. Have to respect the man for that, if nothing else.”

“It was crazy! They must have thought he was insane,” I say.

Mount shakes his head. “Brilliant, more likely.”

After learning about how to properly build a pint and tasting a sample, we finally make it to the Gravity Bar, and I’m able to see the famous 360-degree view of Dublin beyond the glass. It’s surreal.

Mount positions himself behind me. He places his hands on either side of mine, resting on the tall table with the remains of our pints between us, protecting me from the jostling of the massive number of people crammed into the space.

“I can’t believe I’m actually here.” I turn my head to meet his gaze. “Thank you. I know this isn’t what you would’ve picked to do today, but it meant a lot to me.”

He doesn’t answer but his dark gaze pierces mine, making me wish I had another peek into this man’s head. He’s an enigma.

Mount’s palm slides against the small of my back once more before he replies. “Finish your pint. We’re not done with Dublin yet.”