No Good Mitchell - Riley Hart Page 0,26

to go slow.”

“I enjoy going slow…until I’m ready to go fast.”

I smiled, and he had this wicked expression on his face, like he was all about it. He moved quickly, seizing his opportunity. I relaxed into it, cupping my hand behind his head as he moved toward me, pushing me back against the table. He was about as forceful as his mouth was wet. And so fucking warm.

I took control, shoving him back to the counter, but he rolled toward me, and I found myself back against the table. The frenzy, this tug-of-war for control, electrified me. It was even more intoxicating than the bit of whiskey I had pulsing through me.

As we pulled away from each other, our gazes shifted between our eyes and lips.

“Yeah, I think we have some serious trouble in our futures,” I teased, and we shared a laugh.

CHAPTER NINE

Cohen

The following few weeks flew by. I’d been involved in a business before, but nothing close to a distillery. While I was good with numbers and big-picture ideas, I definitely needed Brody’s help with the nitty-gritty specifics. I was shocked and pleased that he’d suggested we work together, even though it was kept on the down-low. Seemed Big Daddy really would lose his shit if he found out—and I swear I was never going to get over someone’s actual father being called that.

Porn daddy? Yes. Biological big daddies were totally new.

Isaac and I had worked day and night making plans, setting up services, figuring out what the fuck we were doing. When they could, Brody and Walker would sneak away and spend evenings with us at the house or in the distillery. I was learning that while they knew whiskey in a way I wasn’t sure I ever would, they struggled with the business and marketing aspects, but any time I tried to bring it up, Walker would interrupt the conversation and steer it back to us. Obviously, that O’Ralley brother was a little more cautious in letting us know the ins and outs of their brand.

Not that I could blame them, because apparently, I came from a whole line of criminals—well, my grandfather and great-grandfather, at least. Outside of the prohibition years, I doubted the O’Ralleys could say the same.

I shook my head, not wanting to focus on what I’d learned in the journal. It was much easier if I concentrated on what I could change—getting Mitchell Creek off the ground again, continuing what my father had tried to do, and, you know, not be a criminal.

About a week ago, I’d found the key to the locked room tucked away in a box in the attic. When I unlocked it, I’d been surprised that it was just an empty room with a desk, like maybe there had been an office there at some point. Somehow I thought it would be full of answers or proof of dubious behavior. The truth was much more boring.

I plucked another nail from the counter I was working on in the tasting room and got busy again.

“Cohen! They’re delivering the new machine!” Rusty shouted from the other side of the distillery, interrupting my hammering. He was just another way Brody had saved my ass lately. They knew each other, and Rusty used to work for my dad and knew the ins and outs of Mitchell Creek better than anyone. He’d been looking for a job and had been eager to jump in and help us get stuff figured out. He was about ten years or so older than me, and he was good people. I liked him. We sat around and shot the shit every once in a while.

“Be right there,” I called back.

“I’ll deal with it,” Isaac answered. Sometimes it felt like I’d been given a lucky extension of myself in Isaac.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was not only out of my league, but dealing with a whole lot of confusing stuff going on in my head. I closed my eyes, saw bits and pieces of journal entries I’d read over and over in my dad’s messy handwriting.

Handwriting that looked like mine.

Without, you know, contemplating the fact that I was closing my eyes and hammering at the same time, I swung the damn thing. It connected, making pain shoot through my thumb. “Motherfucker!” I cried out. It immediately started to throb, and ridiculously, the first thing I thought was, Oh, great, Brody’s never going to let me hear the end of this.

First, attack of the killer raccoon,