Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Liam
“If you roll it around on your tongue, you’ll detect hints of sweet vanilla, and maybe a little popcorn flavor on the back end…”
I duck around the corner of the tasting barn behind a giant Christmas tree decorated with mini shot bottles of our original whiskey. I’m trying my damnedest to avoid the group of semi-drunk visitors halfway through the Whiskey in Winter distillery tour.
Earlier this year, I made the grave mistake of hiring one of the ambitious business majors at the local community college. He only works for me a handful of hours a week, especially in the off-season when the whiskey trail tourists die down, but he sure comes with an entire barrel full of marketing ideas to draw more tourists to the farm.
I hear Travis, my part-time college wonder kid, explaining the difference between whiskeys brewed with corn versus barley, and I nearly face-plant into the wall to end the torture. I’ve heard this damn spiel a thousand times this summer alone. The guy has an encyclopedia for a brain, especially when it comes to all things fermented, distilled, and aged in oak.
I zone out every time he starts on the nuances of mash bills and yeast strains. He launches into monologues, his voice rising with evangelical fervor, and I want to disappear.
I’m damn grateful I’m not the guy leading the tours because it’s no secret that having me at the front of the house would lead to an epic disaster. I love whiskey, but my passion is purely for consumption, not the pedantic minutiae.
My passion for whiskey runs deep in my Kentucky-born veins. My dad, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all involved in the spirits business. It’s a family tradition, to say the least. But where my father was concerned with sourcing the cheapest ingredients to maximize profit, I’m all about quality.
And so, Whiskey Heart Distillery and Farm was born.
This place is more than a business. It’s my pride and joy. I’ve never worked harder at anything in my life, so when Travis proposed guided whiskey tours and tastings, I cringed my way through the details and agreed—as long as I didn’t have to deal with the customers. I’ve never been very good with people. I learned early on that I was much better at orchestrating from behind the scenes. Put me in the spotlight, and I shove my foot in my mouth time and time again.
Growing up, this manifested in a general avoidance of social gatherings. Parties were my personal purgatory, filled with forced small talk and the crushing weight of unspoken expectations. I observed from the periphery, analyzing social dynamics like a complex equation, always finding myself wanting to rewrite the code. The few times I was pushed to the forefront were disasters when I ended up saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and making them cry.
Apparently, not being a proficient liar and manipulator is problematic in a world where everyone wants others to inflate their egos.
The drone of whiskey facts fades as I enter the barn. Rows of aging barrels line the walls. I inhale deeply, letting the sweet scent of oak, rye, and bourbon fill my nostrils. This is my sanctuary. It’s ironic, given I don’t drink. I taste every new batch, swishing the amber liquid, then spitting it out, never swallowing. I may not like the taste, but I love the smell of the old casks. The smoky vanilla scent lining the wooden planks settles like a drug in my veins.
“Oh! Afternoon, Liam.” Linda, my part-time receptionist and full-time life manager, places a wrinkled hand on my bicep. “I was just lookin’ for you.”
I owe my ass to Linda a few times over. She was my kindergarten teacher many moons ago. I ran into her at the post office, and she was complaining about having nothing to do since she’d retired. I half-jokingly laughed that I had one hundred and one things to keep her busy at the farm. So here we are.
“Afternoon, Linda. What can I help you with?”
“I stopped at the post office to pick up some mail from the business P.O. box and ran into Nancy—you know Nancy, right? She worked at the school cafeteria for many years. Well, she’s now volunteering at the women’s shelter across town, and you wouldn’t believe who walked in at lunchtime today.”