The Convenient Wife

“I have my reasons,” I say, intent on keeping that information to myself.

She doesn’t need any of the details, all she has to do is agree. Starla is the perfect fit, she’s the exact opposite of what my father expects—or wants—for my wife.

Starla comes from nothing. A broken home, with a father who was in and out of jail, and a mother who could barely afford to put a meal on the table. She has nothing to offer our family, other than being an embarrassment to my father.

My father will hate her, then he’ll want us to divorce before word gets out, and his name is somehow tarnished. And I’ll agree, telling him he just has to put it in writing, making sure that I will still get the company regardless of marriage or children.

I’m ready to play his game, I’m just playing a little dirty, is all.

“Just think about it, I don’t need an answer this very second,” I say, drinking the last of the whiskey in my glass and setting it on my desk. “Let me give you a tour.”

Starla places her glass on my desk, nervously twisting her fingers around each other. “So you’ll let me think about it?”

“For now.” Smirking, I bite my lip and reach down to grab her hand. “You can give me your decision after. I want to show you something first.” Pulling her up from her seat, she’s a little hesitant.

Her hand fits perfectly in mine as our fingers wrap around each other, falling into place. A tingle races up my arm, making my heart speed up as I run the pad of my thumb over the tops of her knuckles.

Starla glances down at our hands and quickly pulls hers free. Wiping her palms on the side of her pants, she gives me a small smile.

Smirking, her reaction sparks something inside me. It’s a need, a desire, a fixation to take her home and hear her scream my name.

The expression on her face makes my cock jerk and my stomach clench. There’s a softness to her, an innocence that’s begging to be shattered.

And every instinct in my body is telling me to break her.

But I hold back, not letting her see the desire pooling in my gut. I want her to say yes to my offer, I don’t want to send her running. For everything I can offer her in return for her help, I need this too. I need her.

“Follow me.”

I take her down the hall, watching her face as she sees the pictures with wide open eyes and awe in her expression. It’s refreshing for me to watch her excitement build, to see her almost giddy like a kid on Christmas morning.

There’s a twinkle in her gaze as we approach a giant metal still. “Is that. . .” Her voice trails off as her eyes expand even wider.

“The still, yeah.” I answer with a grin. “Holds sixty-thousand gallons.”

“Holy shit.” Starla tips her head back to look up at the top. “Yale was right, the pictures do no justice. Wow, this is amazing.”

Her excitement is invigorating, it gives me chills to have someone else so amazed by the distillery. Most of the other interns we had over the years were all about the chemical process and doing it more efficiently. They wanted to focus on getting it done quicker—not getting it done right. They were all lost to the history, focused on new methods and machines.

I enjoy doing it how it’s been done since whiskey was created. It isn’t fast, but that only enhances the experience.

Starla appreciates the process, I can see it on her face. And I like that. A lot.

“You think that’s cool, I’ve got something else that will blow your mind.”

Leading her through the still room, we move into the room that holds our doubler. This is my favorite room, where the vapor is moved into the condenser, turning from gas back into liquid, into the raw whiskey.

Taking a small cup, I twist a valve on top and fill it an inch. “Here, try this.”

Starla smells the liquid, then takes it all in one gulp. “Woo!” she calls out, her eyes snapping closed as her mouth forms a cute little O. “That’s strong shit.”

“That’s White Dog, eighty percent proof right there.” Filling the cup another inch, I drink it myself and smile. “Fucking delicious, that’s what it is.”

“That tastes like pure gasoline.” Giggling, she opens her mouth wide and shakes her head. “Wow, talk about raw form.”

“I’ve got an idea, let’s play a little game. What do you think?” I ask, a playful tone in my voice.

“Game, what kind of game?”

“A taste test.”

She nods eagerly, sniffling as the heat of the raw whiskey makes her nose run. “Alright, I’m down for that. I’ve been told I can taste a single sour grape in a full bottle of juice.” Wiping the back of her wrist against her face, she smiles. “I might surprise you.”