Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
I couldn’t make sense of any of it. This cloud of mystery surrounded my family, Brody’s, and the distillery, giving me a fucking headache.
The smart thing would be to take the money and run. To sell Mitchell Creek, maybe to the O’Ralleys to end a ridiculous feud, and take my happy ass back to San Francisco, where I belonged.
My thoughts flashed back to Brody, to the way his lips curled when he spoke, the flush of his skin when he was nervous, and, well…to be honest, I wanted more of him. Wouldn’t be so bad if I found a way to make that happen before I left.
Forcing myself out of the warehouse, I locked up and started the walk back to the house.
The property was prettier than I wanted to admit. I looked out in the direction of Brody’s place but couldn’t see it from here. Did he live in the same house as his father? Did all the brothers live there? What would he look like on his knees with my cock in his mouth? Okay, so that last one made me smile and had nothing to do with anything other than said cock, but it was a fun thought.
I was sweating from the fucking humidity in this state by the time I made it back to the house, still feeling a slight tingle beneath my skin from the shots I’d taken with Brody.
Isaac was back in the office with paperwork and a laptop when I came home—back, when I came back. This wasn’t my home.
“How was he?” Isaac waggled his eyebrows.
“What do you mean, how was he? I didn’t fuck him.”
“Sucks for you.” He winked. “Kidding. What did he say?”
Groaning, I sat down in the office chair and recounted everything Brody had told me about the feud.
“Shut the fuck up!” Isaac’s eyes went wide. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I wish I were.”
“Do you think your ancestors stole their secret recipe?”
My gut clenched. “How would I know? I really hope not. If so, all this is a lie, isn’t it?” And it meant the O’Ralleys really did have a reason to hate us—them, a reason to hate them.
“Wow. This is crazy, Cozies,” he mused, using his familiar nickname for me. “We really did find ourselves in a good ole Southern mystery. How are you holding up?” The question was spoken with concern in his voice.
“I…don’t know.” It was weird. As far as I was concerned, I had two parents back in California. They’d always been open about what they knew about my past, which obviously wasn’t much. I’d had a single mom and no father on the birth certificate. She didn’t have much history, making them wonder if she’d changed her name. She got into a car accident. Her last words had been about me, about taking care of her son, and then she died.
Now I had a legacy, and a distillery with a feud, and a mystery along with it.
“Things would be a whole lot easier if the only thing I had to worry about here was whether I was going to fuck Brody O’Ralley or not. Christ, he’s fucking hot.”
“So hot. I would even watch,” Isaac teased. “Being serious, though, it’s okay if you want to figure this out; you know that, right? It’s okay if you’re curious about your history. That doesn’t mean you love your adoptive parents—”
“My parents,” I corrected.
“Your parents, any less. Lydia knows that.”
He was right, of course. Logically, I knew that, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I wanted to sort through all this shit. I’d also be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me wanted to keep this distillery, wanted to open it back up and see what I could do with it. To try and rebuild it on my own and do something different. As much as I loved California, I needed a change too.
“Come on. Byron still hasn’t returned my phone call. Let’s go see him.”
Isaac didn’t question me. We got the address and drove to his office, which wasn’t hard to find. I doubted anything in this town was, other than Mitchell Creek our first night.
Byron’s office was in a small brick building that looked more like a house than a place of business. A woman who I assumed was a paralegal looked up the second we walked in. “Well, if it isn’t Cohen Mitchell and Isaac Connors. I was wondering when I’d get to meet the two of you.”
“Wait. How do you know my last name?” Isaac asked.
She grinned. “News travels fast.” She was probably sixty or so, with curly red hair and a mischievous grin.
“Yeah, but I never told anyone. Are you guys scoping us out on social media or something?”
“This is a small town, sugar. We know everything about everyone, and if we don’t, we find out; if we can’t, we make somethin’ up anyway.”