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Defiant Queen by Meghan March (23)

Keira

As a private car carries us through the streets of Dublin, my excitement grows with every moment. I’ve barely been out of the hotel since we got here, but today, I finally get to see the city I’ve explored many times in my imagination.

“Where are we going?” I ask the silent man beside me.

“You’ll see.”

I roll my eyes, knowing that continually pushing for an answer isn’t going to get me one. More likely than not, it’ll end up with me getting my ass spanked and hating to admit that I liked it.

I keep quiet, soaking up the atmosphere of the city. The buildings are all so close together, reminding me of New Orleans, but are built with a different architectural style—some Georgian, some Victorian, and I’m not even sure what else. The sky is gray, but that doesn’t stop people from filling the sidewalks, and tourists from climbing onto the green and red double-decker buses that make a circuit around the city.

I could only imagine what Mount would say if I tried to get him to ride on a bus. A soft laugh escapes me at the ridiculous idea.

“What?” he asks, and I turn away from the window to find his attention on me.

“I was trying to picture you riding one of those tourist buses.”

“And you found that funny?”

“I found it ridiculous for me to try to picture, actually.”

I turn my attention back out the window as the driver maneuvers through the narrow streets. A tall church comes into view, and it dawns on me what it is.

“That’s Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, isn’t it?”

“I believe you’re right. Padraig?”

Padraig, our driver for the day, chimes in. “Yes, ma’am. It’s over eight hundred years old. Saint Patrick himself baptized people on those very grounds. Construction on the current building didn’t start until about 1220.”

The tall gray spires reach into the sky. The idea that Saint Patrick himself stood on that land, the man for whom my grandfather was named, fills me with an incredible sense of history.

We turn another corner, and on the right, long reddish-brown brick buildings stretch along the street. I realize they must be townhomes, but each one seems to have a different-colored door—red, white, green, yellow, blue, purple, or turquoise. A veritable rainbow.

“What’s with the doors?”

The driver glances up in the rearview for a moment before explaining. “The townhouses all looked the same and were required to be uniform, but the residents started painting the doors different colors so they’d know which one was theirs. That way, your drunk neighbor didn’t try to bash into your house after too many pints at the pub.”

I laugh at his explanation, because it actually makes perfect sense. We turn another corner and then another, and I’m trying to soak it all in as the car slows to a halt in front of a large building with a name and a logo I know well. I’ve followed this family for the last couple of years. They have a history similar to my family’s, and they inspired me when they undertook a massive building project. If I could bring Seven Sinners up to their level, I’ll have achieved a huge chunk of the goals I’ve set for myself.

I jerk my gaze away from the golden phoenix logo on the gigantic building to look at Mount. “How did you know I wanted to come here?”

“Despite what you might think, I do pay attention.”

I’ve spent at least half the conference trying to find a way to speak with the owner of this distillery, but I’ve never been able to catch him.

I blink, shocked that Mount noticed.

The driver parks and climbs out of the car before opening the door to let me out first. Mount follows me. The brisk Irish wind makes me grateful for the leather jacket, jeans, and sweater that G packed, but if there’s a chance the owner’s inside, I’d prefer to be wearing a suit or something more formal.

But there’s no way. He must be in meetings all day like almost everyone else, even though this is our “free” day. I’ve been rebuffed in my attempts to set up a few meetings with CEOs of companies that are household names around the world, and hoped Mount didn’t notice. Judging by this surprise, I’m betting he did.

“Enjoy your tour. I’ll be waiting for your summons whenever you’re ready,” Padraig says as he closes the car door.

His words remind me that this distillery does exactly what Temperance and Jeff Doon want Seven Sinners to do—open its doors to the public for daily tours.

When we walk inside, the interior reminds me of my Seven Sinners remodel, and I’m making mental notes as Mount gives the woman behind the front counter my name.

“Of course. I’ll let your guide know you’ve arrived. Shall I take your coats? It will be quite warm inside.”

I hand mine off to her, as does Mount. He traded in his suit today for dark jeans, but I haven’t seen what is under his jacket until this moment—a worn gray T-shirt with a Seven Sinners logo. It’s been years since that T-shirt was made. My father was still running the company, and I was climbing my way up from the bottom rung of the ladder. The logo wear experiment lasted all of one year before Dad considered it a failure.

“Where did you get that?”

Mount gives me a sideways look. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He shrugs. “I’ve known about Seven Sinners a long time. Even before I knew about you.”

My brain slips into overdrive as I try to figure out what that means, but our tour guide meets us at the entrance. It’s none other than the CEO himself.

“Ms. Kilgore, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard we have some fierce competition coming out of New Orleans thanks to you and Seven Sinners.” He shakes my hand with respect, and I remember what Mount told me.

Don’t, for a single second, put yourself in a category beneath anyone here.

I guess this is where I employ the fake it till you make it approach.

“Mr. Sullivan, it’s an honor. This is—” I turn to introduce Mount, but the CEO of Sullivan Distillery beats me to it.

“A man who needs no introduction.” Deegan Sullivan holds out a hand to Mount, and the man beside me shakes it. “It’s been a while, Mount. I’m assuming you got my case of whiskey as a thank-you?”

Mount nods, and my gaze darts between the two men like they’re playing table tennis.

Mount knows Deegan Sullivan? Why am I even surprised?

“I did.”

Deegan looks down at Mount’s T-shirt. “But it seems your whiskey tastes have changed. I’m not sure you’ll be impressed by what we have to offer at our tasting today.”

Mount holds both hands palms up at his sides with a twitch of a grin. “I’m NOLA born and bred. It isn’t a stretch to figure where my loyalties lie. Either way, this visit isn’t about me. Ms. Kilgore is ready for her tour, so I hope you’re on your game, Deegan.”

“Of course. It’s Keira, right? I insist we dispense with the formalities.”

“Yes, Keira. And that’s fine. I have to admit I’ve been following your progress for a few years.”

“And I yours. Making whiskey in the Irish tradition in New Orleans is certainly a way to catch people’s attention.”

“Some people’s, I suppose.”

“Would you like to see the distillery? We don’t have any other tours for several hours, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“Absolutely,” I reply as excitement bubbles up inside me.

“Since you’re already a bit of an expert, I’ll spare you the full lecture and we’ll head right for the good stuff.”

When Deegan pushes open a large door, the heat from the stills instantly hits me in the face, reminding me of Seven Sinners. We climb a flight of stairs to a metal catwalk that gives us a view of the whole operation in a single room. At Seven Sinners, due to the age of the distillery building, ours isn’t so well organized.

“We get several deliveries a week of grain, and malted and unmalted barley, and we use special conveyers to transport it from the silos to the wet mill.”

“Isn’t that more normal for a brewing operation than a distilling operation?” I ask, mainly because I’ve been toying with the idea myself. But when I brought it up to my father last year, he dismissed it immediately.

“We’re all about efficiency, and we find that works much better.”

I walk to the edge of the platform, leaning over the railing to study the mill more closely. “I appreciate efficiency as well, but my father . . .” I trail off and find Deegan nodding as I glance back at him.

“Sometimes when you take the reins, you have to quit listening to what the older generation has to say. When the only answer they give you is because it’s tradition, I’m of the opinion that technology probably has a better solution.”

I’ve gone against my father’s opinions several times, the first time with the massive bank loan and remodel. Changing the guts of the operation—other than switching to organic grain—is something I’ve never considered. But, apparently, I should.

Deegan moves to the next stage of the process. “I’m sure you recognize mash when you see it and smell it.”

I inhale the familiar scent and ask a few questions about their temperature and timing, and Deegan is surprisingly open with his answers.

“I don’t need to explain to you that the liquid is separated so we can send the wort into the fermenters, and the spent grain is used for animal feed.”

I smile. “Yeah, I do have the basics down.”

“More than, I’m sure.”

As we move along the tour, talking about fermenting and the advantages of using both stainless and wooden casks, Mount stays a half step behind me, silent the entire time.

He’s either bored out of his mind . . . or he’s letting me take the lead, just like he did during the conference. For the first time, I give him the benefit of the doubt and think it’s the latter.

The warmth that moves through me has nothing to do with the heat coming off the gorgeous copper pot stills, and everything to do with the man following me.

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