For Love & Bourbon by Katie Jennings Page B

pointed out.
    Cooper sat back in the chair and rapped his hands on the armrests. “Depends on how we do it. If I were Ned, I’d go after the young, impressionable ones.”
    “Ava and her brother.”
    “Yeah. Though Joe’s the only one we know for sure has been to Ireland. Feud or not, we don’t know how his allegiances fall in regards to the IRA.”
    Marco sat on the edge of the desk, tucked the unlit cigar into his jacket pocket. “Let’s try something. Reply to that email, let’s see if we get a bite back.”
    “It’ll have to be a vague response, since we don’t know for sure what the email is about,” Cooper began, clicking into the computer. He brought the email back on screen from Ty’s account and hit reply. His hands hovered over the keys as he considered what to say. “Maybe, ‘What do you want me to do about it?’”
    “That works. Try that.”
    Cooper typed out the message, read it over a few times, then hit send. He sat back and folded his hands behind his head, releasing a steadying breath. “All right. We’ll see if we get anything back.”
    Marco got to his feet. “Give it a day or two. If we get nothing, we’ll start bugging the family about the Irish connection.”
    “Sounds like a plan.”

 
     

     
     
    A s the last guest of the day shuffled out of the visitor’s center, Ava closed the door and leaned against it gratefully. A tour bus of winos from California had swept in an hour before closing, their final stop for the day on the Bourbon Trail. Her staff had been accommodating as usual, but Lord had the group tried her patience.
    She’d had to explain more than once that winemaking and whiskey distilling were two completely different animals. Other than some types of wine being aged in a barrel, they didn’t have much in common. Especially the taste profile, which a few of the fragile flowers had found a bit too “brutal.” They’d tossed perfectly good whiskey in the throwaway pot and fanned their faces in morbid horror.
    What else could be expected from people whose taste buds were as refined as a cheap Moscato? she asked herself. They wouldn’t know a good whiskey if it bit them in the ass.
    After waving goodnight to the last of the employees, she went to the tasting bar to clean up a few of the leftover glasses. Humming an old Hank Williams song, she washed and dried the glencairns and didn’t notice her brother come in.
    “You’re here late,” Adam said, strolling toward her with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. His mouth spread in a lazy grin, one she recognized as being laced with liquor.
    “Had a tour group come through last minute.” She placed the clean glasses back on the shelf, then faced him. “What are you doing here?”
    He let out a dry laugh. “Why does my presence around here bother you so much? This company’s mine as much as it is yours.”
    “Think again,” Ava replied, resting her hands on the bar. “When you don’t put any effort in, don’t expect to reap any of the rewards. All you’re good at is drinking our whiskey, not making it or selling it.”
    Anger had his brows pinching together as heat flushed his face. “Is that what you really think? That I’m useless?”
    Her own temper had words pouring thoughtlessly out her mouth. “What were you doing all day while I was here working? Oh, that’s right. You were drinking. Just like you always do. I gave up expecting anything useful out of you a long time ago.”
    She saw a flicker of pain in his eyes and knew she’d hurt him. Almost instantly it was gone, replaced by indignation. “This is my family, too. I deserve a place at the table. Stop shutting me out and then getting mad at me for keeping my distance.”
    “How do I shut you—”
    “I was the last to find out about the FBI investigating Dad,” he argued, approaching the bar cagily. “You didn’t see fit to tell me you went to the office two days ago to get answers from those agents. I have to learn all