But it was going to be a real shame not to get to taste his mouth again.
CHAPTER THREE
Cohen
I’d been up most of the damn night.
Isaac was sleeping in one of the bedrooms, while I sat awake with my laptop—and fucking Internet, thank you very much. Byron Palms, Harris Mitchell’s lawyer, had assured me he’d kept utilities on and had housekeeping in once a week, keeping things clean since Harris’s death.
The only room that hadn’t been touched was the office, which only Byron and I had a key to, and it was where I’d spent the night doing two things: going through Harris’s files and business information on Mitchell Creek Distillery, and researching the fuck out of the Mitchells and the O’Ralleys.
“Did you sleep at all?” I looked up to see Isaac standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of red boxer trunks. He yawned and scratched his head, his blond hair sticking up all over the place.
“Dozed for a little while, but not much. None of this makes any sense.”
Isaac padded over and plopped down on the brown leather sofa I’d wiped off last night. “Hit me. I’ve always wanted to solve a mystery.”
I rolled my eyes playfully. “Simmer down, Shaggy.”
“Does that make you my Scooby?”
“And fuck off,” I teased back. “Seriously, though. I didn’t get a lot of information when Byron originally contacted me. We met up. He showed me paperwork leaving me the distillery and land. That shit’s in the car. I’ll pull it out today. I didn’t go through it with a fine-tooth comb, to be honest.”
Isaac nodded. “Go on.”
“The thing is, according to these files, Mitchell Creek was doing very well. He has everything on paper, literally. There’s no computer that I can find. I’ll contact Byron about that today. So Harris has balances and numbers for the few years before he closed, and he was in the black. I see his estate also gave the employees who lost their jobs when he closed a good severance package. I guess I don’t understand why he closed. Or why he didn’t sell. Did he simply not want to be in the whiskey business anymore? Where the hell is the money—not that I want it. And where are the files that go further back than the years before he closed?”
“I bet there’s a journal. There’s always a journal. Did you look for false bottoms in the drawers?” Isaac winked, and I chuckled.
“We’ll be sure to search the house, Shaggy.”
“This is exciting!” Isaac rubbed his hands together.
“Probably not. I’m sure Byron will sort it all out. He wanted to meet again when we got into town anyway.” I couldn’t get over how well the distillery had been doing. I was a numbers guy. Business was my thing, whether I was working with my father or helping someone else with their company. I didn’t mean to pat myself on the back, but I was good. I’d saved businesses before. Mitchell Creek hadn’t needed saving, though. Harris had just closed the doors, paid his employees very well, and from what I could tell, spent his last two years living a simple life at Mitchell Creek.
And still not looking for me. I shoved that from the forefront of my thoughts, telling myself I didn’t care. I had an adoptive mom and dad who’d chosen me. Yeah, it was a little awkward at times. They came from money on both sides, and then my dad made even more of it himself. The only thing we ever bonded over was business. He taught me more than college did, but I also knew he didn’t really love me. Not the way a father is supposed to love a son. He liked me, but I didn’t think he saw me as his kid, and I knew he only adopted me because Mom had wanted a child.
And I knew Mom loved me. She tried her best, but it was still always…distant. She wasn’t real affectionate, and she’d been as busy while I was growing up as Dad had been. It wasn’t the type of family most people had, I didn’t figure, but then I always felt like shit thinking that way. They had taken me in, given me a home. I’d never lacked for anything.
“What about the Hatfield-and-McCoy thing?” Isaac asked, pulling me from my thoughts. “I can’t believe you have a real family feud and you didn’t even know. I’m so jelly. I want a secret past and a family feud,” he said, making me laugh again.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Which is why we’re friends. Are you the Hatfields or the McCoys?”
I sighed. That was something else I couldn’t piece together, and it was making me crazy. I had no idea why there was a feud, or if Lauren had been exaggerating. “I’ve seen stuff online about it. They were in competition, obviously—both distilleries specialized in whiskey and opened up around the end of prohibition.”
“The start date is probably a lie. I’m sure back in the day they were doing illegal shit.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “I found some articles about public disagreements, numerous think pieces on the feud, ten different reasons for how it started, but I don’t know which are true, if any. I don’t know if it was just a business thing or what. Some are sensationalized—love stories and all that shit. I plan on asking Byron.” At thirty-three years old, I was suddenly feeling adrift, wishing I could ask my biological mom all these questions swirling in my head. Why hadn’t she ever told me anything about Mitchell Creek? Why wasn’t Harris on my birth certificate, and why hadn’t he come for me?
I added, “The only thing that’s incredibly clear is that whatever the reason, the Mitchells definitely hated the O’Ralleys, and each generation has for almost a hundred years.”
“I think this might be the coolest thing that’s ever happened to us.”
I cocked a brow at him. “Us, huh?”
“Yes. I’m your best friend, your almost-brother, whom you dragged across the country with you. I’d say we’re a team.” He was right, of course. Isaac and I were always a team, a package deal. I was the only family Isaac had, and I loved him like he was blood. “And I hate to break this up, but I’m about to go all gayzilla on your ass if we don’t get some coffee, STAT.”
“There is none.” I’d almost lost my shit when I realized that. Since Byron kept everything on, I’d assumed there would be food, or at least coffee.
“Blasphemy!” Isaac shoved to his feet. “I’ll get dressed. We’ll hit up Starbucks and then find breakfast.”
“I doubt there’s a Starbucks.”
His blue eyes widened. “What in the hell is wrong with this town?”
“See? That’s what I tried to say last night.” Though I was starting to feel like I was more determined to stick around than I originally planned. I was really curious about the whole past with the distilleries and the feud. Plus, learning to run a distillery could be a cool project and—No. What in the hell was I thinking, opening a business in Buckridge?
“You’re doing that thing where you have entire conversations with yourself in your head. Yes, you’re going to decide you want to open this place back up to prove something to yourself and probably your bio-dad. If we’re being honest, I’ll probably help you. It’s not like I have anything in San Francisco that matters if you’re not there. Now can we go get coffee?”