Dean had never jumped on the whole hating-Monday bandwagon. In fact, it happened to be his favorite day of the week, and this particular Monday he was determined not to let the dark sky and constant raining get him down.
It was mash day at the distillery, which meant he spent hours babying a small batch of milled corn and rye cooking in a metal vat of hot water. When it was finished, the mash would go into a fermenter and begin its six-day process before finally ending up in the copper distiller. He loved this part, always had.
Dean had learned the art of distilling grain alcohol from his grandfather who had done it in very small quantities in his barn, using a distiller he’d crafted himself out of an old soup pot and some copper piping. By the age of sixteen, Dean was already taste-testing the “hearts” and helping to transfer the distilled whiskey into small charcoal barrels. He still recalled the first barrel his grandfather had given him to take home and keep. It had sat aging in his parents’ garage while Dean waited patiently for his legal birthday, when he and his grandfather planned to uncask it together.
Unfortunately, that day came six months shy of his twenty-first birthday when his grandfather died of a sudden heart attack. The night of his funeral, Dean had opened the barrel, filled a flask, and gone out to the old man’s grave site at dusk. He’d emptied that flask, finally appreciating the smooth caramel taste of his hard work, all the while lying on the grass next to a fresh mound of dirt.
To this day he couldn’t start a new batch of mash without thinking of his grandfather. Still couldn’t feel the milled grains slide through his fingers without remembering the sight of strong wrinkled hands, or smell the yeasty scent without hearing the old man’s deep gravelly voice.
Today those fleeting thoughts brought a smile to his face, but he tried not to linger on the ones that made him sad. Like the fact that his grandfather would have been so damn proud to see his grandson running—and succeeding—at a full-fledged distilling operation.
Ronald Troyer—Grandpa Ron to Dean—had also been a hunter, a total man’s man. Hence the name the Stag. Dean had been grateful that neither TJ nor Jake had questioned him on that. They’d liked it, or pretended to. It had also matched the tone of the building they’d found, which with all the brick and exposed wood beams had sort of a masculine, lodge feel to it.
Standing on a tall stepladder, Dean watched the vat fill from the hot-water tank next to it. The water began to get murky as it covered the milled grains, and he turned the agitator on to keep things moving. If the grains set too long and got waterlogged, the machine could clog—which was a major headache.
He checked his clipboard and smiled as he wrote on the little dry-erase board that hung on the big metal tub. Lockdown Whiskey batch 100. Hard to believe that was true, but sure enough it was. They’d been in business for five years now, which was about how long it took to age a solid, smooth whiskey or bourbon. They’d gotten started quickly after setting up shop by making their signature Ten Point Vodka, which could be made and sold within months rather than years. Next they’d introduced Forkhorn White Whiskey. White, meaning it wasn’t aged, and basically moonshine. A white whiskey was a harder liquor, and not really meant for drinking neat. It was a mixing alcohol, as was their vodka, but they’d sold the hell out of them to both regional and Kansas City bars and liquor stores on their local appeal alone. All the while they’d continued to produce and barrel their Stag Signature Bourbon and Lockdown Whiskey, the first barrels of which would be ready to open in just a few short months.
Dean could not wait.
Once the mash looked like it was cooking along just fine, he headed out the back door to their secondary building. A year into business they’d purchased the old warehouse across the alley and used it to store their barrels. Just walking inside the door sent a rush of pride through him every single time.
He flipped on the somewhat ineffective overhead light and sucked in a breath. It was May, and since they didn’t regulate the temperature inside the massive space for the sake of the product, the heat was starting to settle in nice and thick. The barrels reacted to the change in temperature, expanding and tightening throughout the year, causing that great oaky flavor to seep out of the wood and penetrate the liquor even further.
Dean walked down the first row of barrels, a Stag logo burned into each lid. Row after row of Lockdown Whiskey and Stag Signature Bourbon, just waiting to be drunk by some lucky person at some point in the future. Some in a few months; many others, years from now. They’d built a solid customer base on their vodka and white whiskey, and all of those customers’ excitement for the new products had put a lot of pressure on Dean. But if there was anything he was certain of, it was his ability to make a good spirit. He had no intention of letting any of them down.
Dean’s phone buzzed. Pulling it from his pocket, he saw a text from TJ who must have shown up for work while he was working on the mash. Dean read the text and swore under his breath. He typed a single Ok in reply and then shoved the phone back into his pocket with a deep sigh. And today had been so pleasant up until this point. The last thing he needed was a visit from his ex.
He decided dealing with that news could wait for a moment and headed to the back to open the bay door for the shipment of bottles he was expecting anytime this morning. Once the door was open, he checked a couple more things and then headed back through the rows of barrels and toward the door that lead to the alley and the main building. A sluice of light entered the darkened room from up ahead, and a feminine voice sent a chill through his spine as he rounded the final row of barrels.
“Dean? Are you in here?” Amy called out.
“I am, but stay where you are, there’s not a lot of light in here.” He figured she could see just fine, but he really wanted to keep her out of his sanctum.
“This is very impressive. No need to stop working for me.”
Dean walked around the large metal shelving unit and locked eyes with the one person whom he would have been happy to avoid for … probably the rest of his life would be just fine. Today her brunette hair had auburn highlights surrounding her temples, and her pretty face was caked in makeup that was a little much for a Monday morning.
“Amy, this is a surprise.”
“A good one I hope.” She grinned but Dean could only muster up a tight-lipped smile in response because no, it was never a good surprise to see her. Instead it was always jarring and a harsh reminder of his past failures.
“Anyway, I’m here to discuss Alex’s wedding.”
“Ah, I wasn’t aware the two of you had discussed it.”
“She emailed me last week. I’m so excited. She asked me to check in on you.”
“That was sweet of her, but unnecessary. I’m doing fine with everything.” Which was the truth, thanks to Charlotte. And clearly he and Alex were going to have some words next time they spoke because he’d made it clear to her he did not want his ex-wife involved. He knew Amy would be invited to the wedding—no doubt about that, since the two women had maintained their relationship—but he’d hoped Alex would respect his wishes on this matter.
Amy laughed. “Dean, seriously? You don’t know the difference between a peony and a petunia, let alone manage a seating chart. Surely you want some help planning Alex’s wedding. It might be fun to do it together.”
He had several thoughts on that but he didn’t dare voice them. Needing to get some air, Dean gestured for the door. “Why don’t we discuss this outside where it’s cooler?” He held the door as she stepped through and out into the alley.
“You know, I’ll just admit it,” Amy said behind him as he locked up the building. “I’m a little hurt that you didn’t reach out to me. This is our girl, getting married.”
Dean wasn’t expecting that. He turned to face her, taking in the weak smile on her face. Yes, at one time, they’d considered Alex their girl, in a way. She’d been young, grieving, and in need of a lot of love and attention when she’d moved in with Amy and him at thirteen. They’d become a family unit, the three of them, and he still had many fond memories of those times. Holidays, vacations, both of them helping Alex with school projects. But at the same time, he and Amy had been going through their own private hell, their marriage and their dreams of a family slowly eroding. But all of that was in the past, and while he wouldn’t discount those good memories, he refused to indulge Amy by pretending that was still their reality.
“I’m sorry. Really I am.” Dean hesitated, knowing this was not going to go over well, but there was no other way. “But I honestly didn’t want us to work on this together.”
“But why?” She looked stricken, just like he knew she would.
Dean sighed. Over the past year or two, Amy had made it very clear that she regretted the way things had ended. Ironic, considering she’d ended them. Had she come crawling back in the first year or two after leaving him, he might have taken her back. Forgiven her cheating, lies, and blame. He’d have been insane, but he might have done it. Thankfully, he’d eventually found a new life for himself. Accepted that the two of them hadn’t been meant to be. But while he’d forgiven her, he had not forgotten.
“Amy, Alexis is my sister. Not yours.”
Her mouth dropped open, her eyes full of hurt. It had been a mean dig. Especially after all Amy had done for Alex. Many wives might have thrown a fit or been put out at the thought of unexpectedly adding a teenager to their lives, but that had been one of the few ways Amy had surprised him.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re close to her. It’s just … I don’t think it’s a good idea for you and me to work together on the wedding. It would only make things awkward and I want Alex’s wedding to be smooth and happy.”
The hurt on her face quickly turned to anger. “Wow, Dean. I know I’ve messed up in the past, but I wasn’t aware your opinion of me was so low.”
“Amy…”
She cut him off with a raise of her hand. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong. I didn’t come here to seduce you. In fact, I stated right from the beginning that this was about Alex.”
Dean knew when a conversation with her was about to spiral out of control. It wasn’t worth it. Clearly Alex wanted Amy involved somehow. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to admit to Dean how much just to spare his feelings.
“You’re right. I understand you wanting to help, so why don’t you tell me what you’d like to do and maybe you can be in charge of that. On your own.” Trying to give her the hint that he was very busy today, Dean began to jot a few things on his clipboard.
“Fine. I want to pick out her wedding dress.”
Dean’s pencil instantly stilled. His head jerked up, eyes wide. How had he forgotten the wedding dress? He knew nothing about choosing a dress, and Amy knew Alex well enough to hopefully know what she would like and look nice in.
“Perfect. I’ll leave that up to you then.”
She smiled. “Good. What’s my budget?”
He thought quickly, blowing out a breath before finally saying, “Three hundred?”
A laugh bubbled up from her chest. Not one of her forced flirty laughs. No, this one was throaty and genuinely amused. “Oh, Dean. That’s cute. That might be enough for a veil or jewelry.”
Dean frowned. “How much were you thinking? The rest of this wedding is on a fairly tight budget so the dress has to be also.”
“Even an economical wedding requires a pretty dress. I’d say at least fifteen hundred, but I can’t promise anything. Two thousand and I’m sure I can make it work?”
His eyebrows nearly hit the sky. “Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I was. But no. Besides, this is for Alexis. How can you put a price on her happiness? And since you’ll never have your own daughter, this will be the only wedding you’ll ever have to pay for.”
Dean’s jaw locked and his entire body went on alert. It was a low blow. About as low as she could go, and she knew it. Looking away, Dean tried to get his emotions in check.
Yes, he’d failed to give Amy children, but she always seemed to forget that their wedding vows had stated as long as we both shall live. Not, as long as we have a baby. It was painful enough for a man to be unable to give his woman everything she wanted. But to find out your wife had gone seeking it from another man was just flat-out unbearable.
Dean’s nose flared as he inhaled a deep breath. He’d given her a job for the wedding. Now he needed her gone.
“You start looking and let me know what you find. But I’ll tell you right now, not a penny over two thousand, and that includes everything. Shoes, jewelry…”
“Bustier, panties, garter…”
Dean held up a hand. “Enough. I don’t want to hear anymore. You deal with it.”
Amy just blinked at him, knowing full well she’d pissed him off. Finally she spoke. “Shall I just let you know when I find the dress or would you like to give me a check?”
Dean nearly laughed. “No. I will not be giving you a check. You keep me posted and we’ll make arrangements then.”
“I’m not a thief, Dean.”
He sighed. “I know you’re not. I’m sorry I’m being a dick. I’m just…” If he said stressed, it would give her more ammunition to insist she help him. “Never mind.”
“Well, I guess I’ll go. My car’s just around the corner. But … if you change your mind, get overwhelmed, call me. We could go to dinner. Chat about the wedding. I could just help give you ideas. Talk it out.”
Dean met her hopeful gaze. He’d spent a lot of years angry as hell at this woman, but he also felt sorry for her. There’d been enough pain to go around throughout their marriage. At the same time, there was no way he had the strength to put up with this kind of proximity to her for the next few months. Choosing a dress was one thing. Showing up here regularly was another, and if he didn’t nip this in the bud right now, he’d regret it. “I actually have someone helping me, so I’m good. But thanks.”
“Oh? Like … a wedding planner? I figured on a budget—”
“Not a wedding planner. A friend.”
Her lips twisted. “A friend?”
Dean nodded. “She’s a photographer who shoots a lot of weddings here at the Stag.”
“So, a woman friend.”
“Yes. If that’s how you want to see it.”
Amy sucked in a breath and then let it out on an embarrassed laugh. “Well, my goodness, you might have said that from the beginning.”
“Didn’t think it was necessary.”
Amy stood a little straighter and fidgeted with her hair. “Are you sure she’s just a friend?”
He hesitated. But there was only truly one answer. “Yes, I’m sure. But I might add that it’s really not any of your damn business.”
Her head jerked back at his blunt response and he swore there was a hint of skepticism in her expression. “Okay, fine. But it seems ridiculous to have a woman friend you’re not even dating help you with Alex’s wedding. I know her. I’m close to her. She trusts me.”
“She does, which is why I’m grateful you’re buying her dress. But I trust Charlotte to help me with the rest of it.”
Amy balked. “Charlotte, huh. How old is she, seventy?”
“Amy. Enough.” Dean could tell when the woman was on the verge of getting worked up, and he would not allow her to stand in front of him and insult Charlotte. Not for a second.
“Well, I guess I’ll just be in touch when I find the perfect dress.” She gave him a tight smile and then walked around the building toward the square.
Dean’s shoulders sagged and he looked up at the sky. Every time he saw Amy it frustrated and exhausted him. Maybe Mondays weren’t so great after all.