The sign announcing Jack’s seventy-fifth birthday threatened to crash down as I struggled to pin it up with a dull tack. The chair I stood on wobbled with my every move, making me regret the decision to use it as a ladder. Not that I had much of a choice. After all, the Gett Bar didn’t have an actual ladder. And why would it? Drunks and ladders didn’t mix much, like whiskey and tequila.
I had less than an hour to finish decorating for the party. A party that had to be perfect. After all, seventy-five was a big milestone. One my grandfather had almost missed due to a heart attack that had nearly killed him nine months ago.
A heart attack that changed both of our lives.
Since the day I returned home to take over Jack’s care as well as Lucky Whiskey, nothing had seemed the same.
I surely wasn’t.
My life, which had once consisted of late-night Hollywood parties, now entailed waking at four a.m. to check cask strength or churn the delicate mash. Not to mention the hours I spent looking for a head distiller willing to work in the Florida Everglades. If I was honest, it wasn’t so much the Everglades that bothered the most eager of candidates, but rather the murder of our last distiller.
That and the Getts.
The Gett family and my own, the Luckys, had a long history of sabotaging each other. Not unsurprising since we both ran whiskey distilleries in a town the size of a shot glass.
The chair swayed once more and I stifled a string of curse words. Before I fell, a pair of strong hands gripped my waist. I gasped when I realized exactly who those hands belonged to—“Grodie” Brodie Gett. Unfortunately, the nickname I’d given him in grade school had never quite stuck, much to my dismay. Unlike the one he’d thrust on me.
“What are you doing, Charms? You’ll kill yourself,” he drawled in that good ole boy manner, even though he’d spent the last ten years living all over the world as an Army Ranger. But he was home now. Like me. The town was in our blood, much like the whiskey business. I’d fought it for as long as I could, but every day whiskey became more and more a part of me.
Where I once dreamed of accepting an Oscar, I now fantasized about the perfect blend.
A sad testament to my love life.
“Don’t call me that,” I growled. “My name is Charlotte. I know nine letters are tough to remember for you, but do try.” I slapped at his hand. Thankfully he didn’t remove it, for neither the chair nor I were stable.
“Don’t go getting all huffy, Charms. I’m saving your life. Again.”
“Again? You’re kidding, right?” I glared at him. “If anything, you nearly got me killed.”
He winced, humor leaving his face. “Let me say again how sorry I am—”
“Unless you’re apologizing for lying, for years, about the water tower, I don’t want to hear it.”
One of his dark eyebrows hitched upward. “Water tower? What about it?”
I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Three months ago, when he thought I was dying, Brodie confessed to, years ago, painting the town’s water tower to read Getting Lucky. Which was bad enough. But he’d also put the blame on me.
Now he acted as if I’d imagined the whole sordid confession.
I wasn’t close to forgiving him yet. Though I had to concede he’d made a fairly good crime-solving partner. I wondered how he was at hanging party decorations.
“All joking aside, what the hell are you doing? You’re going to fall and crack that stubborn head of yours.”
“What does it look like I’d doing? Balloon animal tricks?” I snapped.
He grinned. “As much as I’d like to see that, I’m afraid you’re gonna break your neck instead. Jack surely will be surprised then.” His hand shifted when I rocked back a step. “Come down, and I’ll pin the sign up.”
“Fine.” I gave an affected huff, blowing a wayward piece of tawny hair from my eyes. My once stylish A-line hairdo had grown out, leaving me a shaggy mess. Here in Gett, the only two hairstylists were Mrs. Bennet, an old, nearly blind woman with a flair for bowl cuts, and Nadine Rogers, who loved teased hair, the higher the better, and gossip. Having lived with bowl cuts for the first seventeen years of life as well as more than my share of cruel gossip, I opted for trimming my own split ends. “I have plenty of other things to do before tonight anyway,” I added.
Without a warning, he swept my knees out from under me, forcing me to grab his neck or risk immediate injury. He held me against him, swinging my legs back and forth. I couldn’t help but laugh, which made him act up even more. Just like when he’d pull my pigtails in grade school.
“Let her go before we have a problem,” a voice growled from behind us.
Brodie swung to face the intruder. My eyes shot wide when I caught sight of the man dressed in gator-hide boots, with matching belt, designer blue jeans, and a light sapphire-colored shirt that cost more than I made over the last year.
“Marcus?” I muttered, shocked. I hadn’t talked to my ex-boyfriend, Marcus Savage, since leaving Hollywood. In truth, I hadn’t thought much about him either. “How . . . what are you doing here?”
“You know this . . . guy?” Brodie asked, his voice hard, almost as much as his muscles pressed against me. I looked to him, and then to Marcus, who wouldn’t stand a chance if Brodie truly lost his temper. Marcus wasn’t puny by any stretch of the imagination, but his muscles were the gym-sculpted kind—an illusion, like most things in Hollywood. Brodie, on the other hand, likely knew fifty ways to kill a man with a whiskey bottle.
I poked Brodie until he let me down. He kept his hand on my waist though, as if irritating Marcus on purpose. I pinched his arm. Hard. He winced but didn’t release me. “Marcus, this is . . .” My friend didn’t sound quite right to explain my relationship to Brodie, not with years of baggage between our families and us, so I decided on, “Brodie Gett. Brodie, Marcus Savage.”
Brodie’s face looked blank, like he didn’t recognize Marcus’s name. Even though Marcus spent years playing a hero on the TV show War Dogs. Not too surprising since Brodie spent little time in front of the TV, unless it was to watch hockey or football.
“Good to meet you.” Brodie held out his hand.
Marcus didn’t take it. Instead, he reached for my arms, pulling me toward him for an embrace. Thankfully Brodie had let go of my waist. Last thing I needed was to be involved in a testosterone-fueled tug-of-war. I fell into Marcus. He bent to kiss my lips, but I moved my head in time. His lips hit my cheek, leaving sixty dollars’ worth of La Mer lip balm imprinted on my skin.
I stepped back. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see my girl and celebrate your grandfather’s birthday. I can’t wait to meet him.” He smiled, the amber flecks in his eyes sparkling. “And see the town you talked so much about.”
My forehead wrinkled. I didn’t remember ever discussing Gett, Florida, nor Jack with him. Especially since my feelings for the man who raised me after my parents’ deaths, along with the town, were complicated at best.
“But . . . we . . . ah,” I mumbled to the man I’d thought was my ex. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, not after he came all this way, and especially not in front of Brodie, who was watching our exchange with a hard grin on his lips. “How did you find me?” I said instead, glancing around the back room of the Gett Bar, the only place large enough to fit half the town for Jack’s party tonight—people who expected a bash bigger and better than Rue Gett’s eightieth birthday blowout last year. A lot was riding on tonight. Not only was I honoring my grandad and his legacy with the unveiling of this season’s small batch, but the future of Lucky Whiskey might very well hang in the balance. If I couldn’t manage to secure a loan from the Gett Savings & Loan to buy a new still, we were sunk.
Marcus shrugged. “I asked at the Gett Diner. About seven people pointed this way. God, I would die in a town like this without any privacy.”
I wanted to laugh. Gett had nothing on Hollywood when it came to gossip. By my second date with Marcus, my face, along with commentary on my bra size, hairstyle, and weight had been splashed across at least two tabloids. One of which claimed a shocking pregnancy.
He wasn’t finished. “This place doesn’t have a four-star hotel or even a three-star one. Instead I’m registered at this awful place the next town over. How do you stand it here?”
“Perhaps it would be best if you move on, quickly, before something even worse happens,” Brodie snapped.
I flinched, never before having heard that tone from the normally good-humored Gett. What was going on with him? My eyes caught his, but no emotions were revealed in his rigid gaze.
Marcus’s shoulders drew back, chest puffing forward.
The tension in the air was denser than a glass of Gett Whiskey. Enough was enough. With an eye roll, I stepped between the two men. I had much too much to do to waste my time dealing with this ridiculousness. “Listen, Marcus,” I began.
“I missed you so much,” he said, reaching for my arms again.
I ducked away. “That’s . . . nice. But I’m really busy right now setting up for Jack’s party. Maybe we can talk later.”
“Oh,” he said, his eyes darkening. “Of course. I’ll see you at the party then.”
Before I could dissuade him of the idea he moved toward the door. A couple stopped him for a photo. Leaning between them, he smiled into their camera phone. Once it clicked, he patted the man on his back and gave the woman a hug. “Make sure to tag me in it,” he said.
Brodie snorted, shaking his head.
I could only imagine what Jack would think when he met Marcus. My grandfather didn’t like anyone I dated, let alone someone he considered a Hollywood type. Type was always said in a snarky slur. “I don’t need this right now,” I whispered.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Brodie growled. “Now hand me that damn tack.”
I did as he ordered, unable to meet the judgment surely in his eyes.