Ross: 7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes (Book 3) Page 2

  “We’ve had a lot of autonomy,” Uncle Evan said. “Graham Blackthorne is a shrewd businessman and a fine whisky maker.”

  “Why do I sense a but?” Holly asked when he didn’t continue.

  “Because I’m about to tell you something you don’t want to hear.”

  Holly’s belly twisted. “What now? We’re being thrown out? The Blackthornes are sending their own people to take over?”

  Uncle Evan’s eyes widened. “Holly, we are their people. We’ve been here since they bought our stock and our equipment, and we’ve helped expand production. The Blackthornes have been good to us.”

  Holly felt herself reddening. They had, but she still hated that one fire had brought them to this. That she would never make her family whisky under their own name again. All thanks to her idiot brother and his arrogance.

  That’s not fair, Holly.

  He couldn’t have foreseen a lightning strike and high winds. Except he could have if he’d listened to her advice.

  Not that she was bitter.

  “So what is it then?” she asked.

  Uncle Evan came and sat down in one of the armchairs crammed into her little office. She could have had a bigger one, but she hadn’t wanted it. She hadn’t wanted anyone to think she wasn’t working her way to the top on her own merit.

  Being the master distiller’s niece was a fine line to walk when you wanted to earn the job for yourself someday. People talked, but they weren’t going to talk about Holly Brooks not doing what she was paid to do or getting special privileges.

  He folded his hands over his belly. One of the changes when the Blackthornes took over was how Uncle Evan often dressed. She missed his overalls and plaid shirts, though he still wore them sometimes.

  But he mostly wore shirts and ties and had meetings with people to promote the Blackthorne whisky they made here (which did not include Blackthorne Gold, the most exclusive whisky the Blackthornes made)—though she was the one who often developed his talking points.

  In the beginning, she’d attended a lot of the meetings with him. But these days he was comfortable going alone.

  “We’re getting a Blackthorne on staff,” he began, and her heart plummeted. “Graham is sending one of his sons to learn the business.”

  Holly felt lightheaded for a second. It wasn’t easy being a woman in this business, especially a woman who wanted to run the distillery someday. Technically, she already ran the distillery, but Uncle Evan was the one in charge.

  But with a Blackthorne here she would never get the job.

  But did it really matter who held the master distiller title? Uncle Evan might be the one with the most knowledge about the whisky and the distilling process, but she was his right hand—and she kept the day-to-day operations running smoothly for him.

  If she’d been the one running operations instead of her brother Ricky a few years ago, maybe they wouldn’t have lost the barrel houses. If Uncle Evan and Dad had been interested in more than making the whisky back then, maybe things would have been different.

  “Okay,” she said, resolving to stay cool and pushing down all the family drama and bitterness that still upset her. “Which Blackthorne is gracing us with his presence? And when may we expect him?”

  Uncle Evan gave her a grin. “Ross Blackthorne will be here next week.”

  Holly blinked. “Ross? But he’s a racecar driver! And the worst kind of spoiled rich guy possible. There’s no way he’s serious about this. Have you seen him spraying champagne on scantily clad women after he wins a race?”

  Uncle Evan arched an eyebrow. “Been checking up on Ross Blackthorne, Hollykins?”

  Holly blushed. She ducked her head to hide it, but she didn’t think Uncle Evan was fooled. “No, but he was in the news this morning and I saw some photos. He flipped his car on the track this weekend. Caught it on fire. Is he in any shape to come to work?”

  She knew he hadn’t been injured but he must at least be sore. Maybe even shook up.

  Uncle Evan sighed. “Walked away without a scratch, I hear. Bruised a bit maybe. I do believe there was an ultimatum issued. I take it Graham Blackthorne wasn’t too pleased with that wreck. We’re getting Ross and we’ve got to teach him a thing or two about the business. Maybe if we do that well, he’ll fall in love with the process. Or maybe he’ll quit and go back to his cars. Either way, we’re getting a Blackthorne—and like it or not, we’ve got to work with him.”

  “Assign him to bottling or something. That will keep him busy.”

  He was such an expert with opening bottles and spraying champagne on people that it was only fitting he put some alcohol into the bottle for a change. But she didn’t say it.

  “Sorry, Hols, can’t do that. Ross is the son of the owner. He’s coming here as an executive vice president, which means he’s getting fast-tracked—and you’re going to teach him what he needs to know.”

  Holly screeched as she shot from her chair. “Me? Why me? I’ve got work to do. He’ll only get in the way—besides, I’ve got too much on my plate already. He’ll slow me down.”

  Executive vice president her butt. That’s what all these rich people did. Gave themselves lofty titles and didn’t care about the work. Well, she didn’t want any part of it.

  “Holly Margaret Brooks,” her uncle said sternly as he stood again. “Graham Blackthorne asked for my best man to train his son. I told him my best man was a woman—you. I won’t lie to the man and give him anyone else. He asked for the best. He’s getting it.”

  Holly felt a mixture of pride and exasperation. And love, because she loved Uncle Evan. He was all she had left of her father. Dad had a heart attack right after they lost their warehouses full of whisky and never recovered. Uncle Evan had been her rock through everything that followed. Still was. How could she refuse him?

  “Argh,” she said. “Not fair.”

  “You’re as good as your dad was, Holly. You’ll be better than both of us when it’s your turn at the helm. This is your chance to win over a Blackthorne—hell, to impress them all by the time you’re done. Don’t mess it up.”

  Holly didn’t feel nearly as optimistic as Uncle Evan did. But she knew when she was caught. Ross Blackthorne wasn’t going to give two shits about the operations, but what could she do? “I’ll do my best with him,” she said tightly.

  Uncle Evan grinned. “I know you will. It’s why I chose you.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Cheer up, girly. You’ve got this.”

  Holly slumped down in her chair after he left and pulled up her browser again. She had a little more research to do on their competitors before the new product meeting.

  But the first thing that popped onto her screen was that smiling photo of Ross Blackthorne. Handsome, cocky, too appealing for his own good. He knew he was special. His look said it all. His hair was just a little shaggy, and he had a sexy scruff of a beard. He was rugged, masculine. He made women melt. They were melting all around him in that photo, their limbs positively droopy as they leaned toward him.

  Holly straightened. Well, she wasn’t melting. And she wasn’t going to smile vacuously at him like that either. No way was she falling at his golden-boy feet and letting him walk all over her, no matter how pretty he was.

  No siree, Ross Blackthorne wasn’t getting an easy pass from her. If he wanted to learn the whisky business, he was going to have to work for it.

  Chapter Two

  ROSS GOT UP FAR EARLIER than he liked, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, and climbed into his red LaFerrari Aperta. Maybe he should have put on a suit and tie, but screw it. He wasn’t hanging out any longer than he had to. A few days at most.

  He hoped.

  He gunned the car onto the highway, swinging around the ramp at speed, heading for the Blackthorne Distillery located about an hour away in a little town outside Lexington.

  It was a lovely, sunny Thursday morning. He could have waited until Monday, but he’d decided that the sooner he starte
d, the sooner he could get this over with and get back to racing.

  Horses grazed in herds behind white split rail fencing, their coats shiny in the morning sun. The bluegrass sparkled with dew and Ross had to slide on a pair of Oakleys to protect his eyes as he drove east.

  The drive went by quickly, not only because he was in an exotic sports car that boogied, but also because the countryside was pretty and his mind wandered as he drove.

  He liked it here. It wasn’t Maine, especially the family estate at King Harbor with its sweeping views of the water, but Kentucky had its charms. He liked the South, and he liked Southern accents. Particularly when they whispered in his ear while he lost himself in the arms of the pretty women to whom they belonged.

  Right now, he was glad to be far away from King Harbor. If he had to face his father, he’d probably snap. He’d called Devlin last night. His brother was too cheery for words these days. Came from settling down with Hannah Reid, he guessed.

  “Any advice, Dev?” he’d asked his brother.

  “Honestly? Just do it, Ross. Make an effort, do your best, fail as badly as you’re going to, then go back to your cars.”

  Ross had been a little taken aback that Devlin assumed he’d fail so easily. It wasn’t that Ross didn’t understand the whisky, or appreciate it. It just wasn’t his calling. The power that came from a finely tuned engine and stiff suspension—that was his jam. But here he was, driving toward the distillery and uncertain how he’d ever escape it.

  “What if Dad doesn’t approve?” he’d asked.

  Devlin had sighed. “Dad’s distracted and twitchy right now. He’ll relax when Mom comes back.”

  “Is she still in Paris?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “You haven’t talked to her?”

  “Not lately. You?”

  “No. She sent a text about the accident and we texted back and forth for a few minutes. But when I asked when she was coming home, she didn’t reply. I haven’t tried since.”

  “Yeah,” Devlin said sadly. “I don’t know what’s going on with them exactly, but I wish Dad would go get her.”

  “Do you really think that would work?”

  “No, probably not.”

  They’d talked a little while longer, then Ross hung up and fell into bed for a few hours before getting up early to start the trek to the distillery. He was no more settled about it this morning than he had been when Dad issued the ultimatum. Martin assured him everything would be fine with the racing team. The car would be ready to go for the next race, no problem.

  Except Ross wouldn’t be driving. It would be Eric Vicker, a young driver who’d been recruited to the team a few months ago. Eric was good, but it sure was going to hurt to watch him drive the races that Ross should be in.

  After nearly an hour on the road, Ross turned the LaFerrari onto the short drive that led to the distillery. It was a picturesque setting, with mature trees, a creek that flowed lazily past the main building, and rolling fields dotted with horses and sheep. There was an old Victorian farmhouse sitting on a hill overlooking the distillery. It had once belonged to the Brooks family from whom they’d bought the property a few years ago. No one lived in it now, though.

  Ross pulled into the main parking lot and shut off the engine. A group of people who’d been crossing the parking lot stopped to stare. He got out of the car and locked it up, tipping his chin to the crowd. Maybe he should have parked in the back instead of out here with the tourists. He gazed up at the buildings, taking in the gray and white wooden facades with their black shutters and red doors. The Blackthorne thistle and barrel label was prominent on the main building. Pride swelled within. He’d grown up with that label, grown up with everything it had given him.

  It was more than a label, though. It was family and tradition and hard work and heritage. He was a Blackthorne, and he cared about that very much—even if he didn’t personally want to learn the whisky business. A door opened off to his left. He turned to see a woman with long red hair striding toward him, holding a clipboard. She was frowning. He took a moment to appreciate the picture she made.

  Flowing hair, flashing blue eyes, a full mouth. She was wearing a white shirt with buttons, black leggings, and a pair of white Converse. She looked casual and pretty—and irritated, he noted with some confusion. He glanced behind him. There was no one—well, tourists, but they were making their way to the main entrance now. A little boy and his dad lingered, taking pictures of the car.

  “You want to sit in it?” Ross asked.

  The boy’s eyes grew wide. He looked up at his dad. “Could I?”

  “I don’t know, Timmy…”

  Ross unlocked the car and opened the door. “It’s okay. Take his picture in the driver’s seat.”

  The woman had stopped, hugging her clipboard to her chest. When his eyes met hers, she started forward again. Slowly this time. The man and his son came over and the little boy got into the car.

  “This car,” the man began. “The cost. Are you sure you want him in there?”

  Ross laughed. “Sure. You can go next if you like. I’ll take your picture.”

  “Man,” the guy said. “I really would.” He cocked his head as he stared at Ross. “You’re Ross Blackthorne.”

  “Guilty,” Ross said with a grin.

  “That was some wreck you had. Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks. It happens.”

  “I was pulling for you. Blackthorne is my favorite whisky. I really thought you had it.”

  “I thought so too. Next time.”

  “Yeah, next time.”

  Ross spent the next few minutes showing off the car, taking pictures, and chatting with the man and his son. He was aware of the woman behind him the entire time. It was almost as if he could feel her stare in his bones. And it wasn’t a friendly stare.

  When the man and boy were finished and heading toward the visitor entrance, Ross clicked the car locked again and turned. She was still standing there. She didn’t smile.

  “Hi, Mr. Blackthorne. I’m Holly Brooks. I’m here to show you around.”

  “Hi, Holly,” he said, holding out his hand. “You can call me Ross.”

  She hesitated but then she thrust her hand out. He grasped it, palm to palm. The sizzle that skipped through his nerve endings was a bit of a surprise. She seemed surprised too because she yanked her hand away and wrapped it around her clipboard.

  “Welcome to your distillery, mister, er, Ross.”

  “You said your name is Brooks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your family owned this place before mine did. I understand that Brooks Creek bourbon was some of the best around.”

  “It is. We still make it. Under your label now. Blackthorne’s Brooks Creek Select.”

  She seemed annoyed that he didn’t know it already. He wasn’t used to women being annoyed with him. “I’ll remember that. Did you work at the Brooks Creek distillery?”

  “I did. I’m a distiller, same as my daddy before me. Same as my uncle now.”

  Ross offered her a smile. His smiles usually disarmed women. She didn’t appear very disarmed. “I descend from distillers,” he said, “but I’m not one. Apparently, my father intends for me to learn.”

  “You grew up in the Blackthorne family. Surely you know something about the process.”

  “Something, yes. But I never intended to go into the family business.”

  Her gaze slipped beyond him to the car for a second. Then her eyes fixed on his again. “That’s a nice car you have.”

  Her tone said that she expected the car cost approximately the GDP of a small country and that she also thought he was compensating for something. He almost laughed. Holly Brooks knew how to throw shade.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “It was nice of you to let that little boy and his dad sit in it.”

  “When I was a kid, I loved cars. Made my day when one of my dad’s friends let me sit in a rare Corvette he’d bought
. I think I was about four. I never forgot it.”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I came to tell you that you should move it to the employee area. We’ve cleared a spot for you. I don’t think anyone expected you to show up in an exotic, though maybe we should have. But nobody will scrape your paint and the car will probably be safer back there than out here in the public lot.”

  Ross studied her. Her body language was more than dismissive. It was downright hostile. He clicked the doors open. “Why don’t you get in and show me where this spot is, Holly?”

  She opened her mouth to argue, he was sure, but then she snapped it closed and started for the passenger side of the car. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  THE LAST THING Holly wanted to do was climb into a confined space with Ross Blackthorne, but Uncle Evan had warned her to be accommodating to their guest—so she was going to be accommodating. Besides, it would be easier to ride around the side of the building with him than to tell him where to go and then wait for him to find his way to the correct entrance.

  She was still thinking about the look on that little boy’s face as Ross let him climb around inside the car when the man himself settled in beside her and the engine growled to life. Holly stared straight ahead, at the black dashboard with its red detailing, and felt the seat hugging her in place. It was definitely a gorgeous car. A very expensive car. And he’d let a kid inside it.

  She scowled. Didn’t make him a saint or anything. He was nice to a little kid, but he was still a daredevil and a womanizer who probably didn’t want to be here. Which meant he wasn’t planning to take the distillery seriously. She’d had enough of that with her brother.

  “Seat belt,” Ross said.

  They were only going around the building but she snapped it into place anyway. He put the car in gear and backed up. Then he gunned it and the vehicle shot forward like a racehorse leaping out of the gate. Holly may have squeaked.

  “Turn there,” she said, pointing.

  But Ross kept going, swinging the car onto the main road and accelerating toward town.

  “You missed the turn,” she said stupidly. She could smell him in this confined space, or maybe that was just the expensive leather of the seats.