She inhaled deeply, experiencing a heady rush as memories of this place washed over her. She’d been coming to the distillery for as long as she could remember. McKinnel’s Distillery, a local institution, had become famous for creating one of America’s best boutique whiskeys long before boutique distilleries, breweries and wineries were all the rage. As a child and teenager, she’d hung out here because her mother was best friends with Nora McKinnel. Bailey and the seven McKinnel kids had spent many a day running rampant through the warehouse, chasing each other, playing hide-and-go-seek, making mischief and memories. It had been better than a playground.
For the past five years, she’d been a regular guest due to the fact she’d been dating and then (briefly) engaged to Nora’s oldest son, Callum. Their moms had been ecstatic about the union, then dumbfounded and devastated when Bailey had ended it a couple of weeks ago.
But they didn’t know the half of it.
The macramé in her stomach tightened as she stepped farther into the building, her knee-high boots echoing as they struck the floor. Today, the familiar scent and the innocent childhood memories didn’t calm her. Instead, guilt warred with desire as she called out “Quinn” (before she lost her nerve) and remembered the last time she was in here with him. Although it was late November, the day after Thanksgiving, and the air in here was even cooler than the temperature outside, her whole body, from her fingernails right down to her tippy-toes, heated at the recollection.
She hadn’t been cold that night a few weeks ago, either. Quinn’s hot bare skin against her own had provided more warmth than an electric blanket, and however wrong it may be, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head since.
“What are you doing here?” Quinn stepped out from behind a row of barrels, jolting her thoughts and almost scaring her half to death.
Her heart quivered at his less than enthusiastic greeting, but her hormones jumped up and down in excitement at being so close to him again. He wore only jeans ripped at the knees and a black T-shirt, indicating he’d been doing some physical labor before her arrival. She licked her lips, garnering the courage to speak, the wisdom to know what exactly to say, and tried not to stare at the way his lovely arm muscles peeked out from the sleeves of his T-shirt. He was ripped—that was for sure.
“I thought we should talk about, you know, what happened...” She didn’t need to finish her sentence. It didn’t take a genius to work out what she was referring to.
Quinn let out an irritated sigh and ran a hand through his thick dirty-blond hair. Despite his obvious annoyance at her presence, Bailey’s fingers twitched as she remembered how it had felt when she’d knotted her hands at the back of his head while he’d thrust into her. Her cheeks flamed.
“What’s there to talk about?” he asked.
“Well...” she began, swallowing, “I can’t stop thinking about what we did that night and wondering what it meant. You and I, we...”
He held up a hand as if scared she might try to come nearer to him. “It meant nothing, Bailey.”
“Nothing? We slept together.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “We had sex. That’s all it was. It shouldn’t have happened. But it did. End of story. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
He gestured toward the door, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a pesky child. Her cheeks burned, but it was a different kind of heat than before, and inside her organs felt as if they’d turned to ice. What had she been expecting? That Quinn would decorate the warehouse with balloons and crack open a bottle of expensive champagne on her return? That maybe they’d repeat their shenanigans of that fateful night?
As if. A few weeks ago, she’d been engaged to his brother. Yesterday, when she and her parents had stopped by Nora’s place to wish their old friends a Happy Thanksgiving, it hadn’t been the awkwardness between her and Callum that got to her, but the way Quinn had barely met her eye. Except for one question about how she knew the woman Callum had brought as his date, Quinn had barely spoken to her. And that hurt more than she’d imagined it ever could.
Was this the way things would always be between them from now on? Perhaps it would be easy if she could just walk away from the McKinnels, once and for all, but due to the friendship of their moms and the small size of Jewell Rock, that was unlikely. She could always move to Bend, the nearby town where she worked at one of the best hotels. It might only be a short drive away, but Bend was like a metropolis compared to small-town Jewell Rock, and she and Quinn would be far less likely to run into each other.
The problem was, she’d realized over the last few painful weeks, she didn’t want to walk away from Quinn McKinnel. What had happened between them against a whiskey barrel had been explosive. Mind-blowing. Frenzied. Until then, she honestly hadn’t understood all the hype about sex.
It was the thought of never experiencing that kind of sex again that had compelled her to swallow her fear and doubts and come here to face him today. To find out if he’d felt it, too. That earth-shattering, soul-changing connection, that shift inside when they’d climaxed together and she’d opened her eyes and seen him looking right into hers.
But now, looking into his eyes for one final moment, Bailey could see it had meant nothing at all to Quinn. It was clear that she was just another notch on his bedpost (or rather his whiskey barrel), and even if he wasn’t such a jerk, the idea of them together was laughable. Unable to stand another moment in his presence, she turned and fled in the direction he’d pointed. She’d never felt more mortified in her life. And if she never saw Quinn McKinnel again, it would be too soon.
Dear Aunt Bossy:
Although I’ve been reading your sage advice for years, this is the first time I’ve ever had reason to write to you myself. And I must admit, I’m terribly ashamed to have to do so, but I’m in a quandary and I need your wisdom.
I’ve always been a hardworking and sensible woman who prides herself on being organized, planning ahead and making good choices. Until about two months ago, I was with a wonderful man—he was kind, dependable and hardworking—but then I lost my head. I slept with someone I shouldn’t have—a sexy devil-may-care playboy who hasn’t had a steady girlfriend in as long as I can remember. And I’ve known him all my life. Please don’t think too badly of me, I already hate myself enough and the first thing I did was end my relationship.
But, as if my one-night severe lapse of judgment wasn’t bad enough, somehow, despite using protection, I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do about it. Oh, I’m keeping the baby, don’t get me wrong. Getting rid of it is not an option. Having a baby might not have been on my immediate agenda, but it was in my five-year plan. Granted I was hoping to be in love and married, but I can’t wait to be a mom. What I’m undecided about is whether or not to tell my baby’s father.
He’s not the type to marry me out of a sense of obligation (at least I don’t think so, and I wouldn’t say yes, even if he proposed such a ridiculous arrangement), but I’m worried about him being an unsettling influence in my baby’s life.
What do you think, Bossy? To tell him or not to tell him? That is my question.
Yours sincerely,
Pregnant with Mr. Wrong
Her heart beating like a brass band, Bailey read her letter over once more, glanced around the office to make sure she was alone and then pressed Print. Her stomach churning, she hurried over to the printer, snatched the piece of paper off as it shot out, and then quickly folded it up and shoved it into an envelope. With a deep breath, she took the envelope back to her desk,