Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,23

say, and nothing is where I recall it being when I was helping him here last summer.

“Why do we need an outside shipment of water?” Melody asks me. I don’t know if she’s quizzing me or serious. I’m aware neither daughter has a ton of experience running the distillery but I’d figure she’d know some key parts of running the place. Maybe not, though.

Whether she’s testing me or curious, I tell her, “It’s limestone water. We get an import from the Canadian distributor once a month.”

“Oh,” she says again, twirling a strand of hair behind her right ear. She does not want to be in my presence, it’s almost obvious. I wish I knew what I did to make her this uncomfortable. She seemed more confident on the plane than she is now.

“Do we need to do anything with the corn?” Journey asks after giving Melody a curious look, appearing to silently ask her what the problem is.

“Nah, it’s good for now.” The only thing they’d have to do is clean up the kernels that spilled out, but I’ll take care of that, so they don’t have to. I walk past the two of them toward the row of barrels where Parker is still reading. “Parker, we have to get going,” I call out when I turn the corner into the row. She stands up and packs her bag with her book and walks toward me with an eyebrow raised as if she has a question she’d like to ask. When she walks by me, I’m positive there’s something she needs to say. I feel like I’m slowly learning to understand the female psyche. That thought is laughable. I notice Parker dropped a paper out of her bag on the way and I lean over to grab it.

“Is she your—” Melody’s voice and question scare the crap out of me. I spin around, finding her a few feet away. Her cheeks are still red as she places the palm of her hand on her cheek. I would have thought the Pearson family knew about Parker. Mom gushes about her to everyone she speaks to, and Pops is worse sometimes.

“Yes, this is my little girl, Parker.” This ... as in … she was right here, but now she’s probably halfway to the truck, ready to drive off herself. “Oh, wow, I didn’t know—congratulations.” The congrats doesn’t sound very sincere, which tells me Parker is most definitely news to her. I can only imagine what she’s thinking, especially after giving her my phone number at the airport. I’m sure she is assumingI’m married with a child and looking to have a fling with a woman I didn’t recognize from ten years earlier—the girl I never forgot about.

“Thanks,” I say. Parker turns back around the corner just in time to catch the tail end of our awkward conversation and crosses her arms over her chest, gesturing for me to get moving.

Melody glances down at Parker and smiles. “You’re adorable. You must get your pretty looks from your mommy.” Oh man. She doesn’t know a damn thing about my life, and I need to get Parker out of here before this conversation goes any further.

“I don’t know, maybe,” Parker responds with a hitch in her voice. I don’t know how a seven-year-old little girl is strong enough to deal with the pain that I see in her eyes most days.

“Well, I’m sure your mom thinks you look like her,” Melody continues.

I shake my head and mouth the word, “No,” to Melody, hoping she will get the hint to stop.

“Sorry,” Melody mouths back, but she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for. I can’t explain it now, not with Parker here.

“Anyway, if we don’t leave, we’ll be late for school. First grade doesn’t tolerate tardiness these days,” I say, wrapping my arm around Parker’s shoulders.

“Dad,” she groans. “We’re never late.”

With that last statement from the peanut gallery, we leave the scene and head upstairs and out the back door. “That’s the girl,” Parker says.

“Parker, enough.”

“The one on your phone yesterday. Why are they at the shop?”

“That was Melody and Journey, Mr. Quinn’s daughters.”

Parker scrunches her nose and looks up toward the sky. “Hmm, they don’t look like the picture Mr. Quinn showed me once.”

“They’re older now.”

“They don’t know about Mom?” Parker asks. I’m sure she’s wondering why Melody was saying what she did.

“I guess not. I can tell her if you don’t want to,” Parker says.

“No, that’s not something you have to do.”

“She should know.”

“Why is