The door closed behind them, shutting out the warm summer evening and throwing them into the dim, air-conditioned lounge decorated in cream leather, substantial bookcases filled with backlit glassware, and plush carpets done in modern swirls of color.

Jen squinted up at him. “Is that where you would’ve taken me if the choice had been yours?”

He recognized the question as curiosity, not judgment. “No. But I called you on a whim, so I hadn’t really given it much thought.” He would now, though.

The gorgeous hostess came up to them from where she’d been straightening chairs by the low tables nearest the shuttered windows. She wore a not-so-gorgeous expression. “Two?” she asked in a bored voice, heaving out an encyclopedia-sized menu from the side of the hostess stand.

“Yes,” Jen replied. “And could you tell Shea that Jen Haverhurst is here?”

The hostess nodded, then led them to a pair of deep, cream-colored leather chairs set facing a short table with a stone top. Leith sank into the chair that seemed to have been made for his size. Jen perched on the edge of hers, legs crossed at the ankle, perfect posture.

He let his eyes drift around the intimate lounge. Though he was an outdoor guy by inclination, he was trained in a visual art and could appreciate the fine design that straddled the line between modern and masculine, posh and welcoming. The elegantly painted sign out front had said the place had just opened ten minutes ago, so there were only two other patrons: guys in suits, one still wearing his plastic convention badge. They sat on the tall, cushioned chairs at the back bar, talking loudly.

“Is this place okay?” Jen asked.

Leith looked back at her and adopted an exaggerated Southern accent. “Yep. I think the country boy will do just fine in this here fancy place.” As she laughed, he opened the tome of a menu and glanced at the side tabs dividing the pages. “Whiskey, eh?”

“You like?”

There must have been a thousand drinks listed, all liquids in various shades of brown or gold, and his mouth salivated as he ran his eyes over the exuberant descriptions.

“How are you, Jen?”

Leith looked up from the menu to see a tall, whisper-thin woman with white-blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail extending her hand toward Jen. Jen came to her feet and firmly shook the woman’s hand.

“Shea, great to see you. I want you to meet a friend of mine. Leith MacDougall, this is Shea Montgomery, whiskey expert and owner of the Amber.”

Impressed, Leith rose and took Shea’s hand, her grip strong, her eye contact no-nonsense. “Never met an expert before.”

Shea gave him a deep, professional nod then turned to Jen. “Great launch at the Juniper Imports event last spring. I was very impressed with what you did for them. What can I do for you tonight?”

Jen kept her smile restrained, but Leith noticed by the gleam of her eyes how deeply the compliment had affected her. “Wellllll,” Jen said, “the first thing you can do is help my Scottish friend here find a whiskey or two to his liking, and then I’m here to call in a favor.”

One corner of Shea’s mouth stretched for her ear. “Of course. Single malt?” She leaned over to flip through the menu to a specific page he guessed she could find in her sleep. Shea dragged her finger down listings labeled Speyside, spouting a few facts and brief tasting notes about certain ones. They all sounded fantastic, but they were all jumbling in his head.

At last he held up a gentle hand. “I think you’re mistaking me for a half Scot who knows what the hell he likes to drink. My old man drank Famous Grouse every evening. I’m pretty sure anything you want to give me will be better than I’m used to.”

Shea straightened, and he was having the hardest time reading her expression. One moment it looked like relief, another it looked like skepticism. Odd.

“Get him something excellent,” Jen told Shea. “Something special. And bring me one of the same.”

“Carte blanche. I like it,” Shea said. “Do you have time to talk now? I have a private tasting for some conventioneers and I still need to get the back room set up.”

Jen steered Shea toward the hostess stand. Someone turned on music, and a slow, sexy beat drifted from unseen speakers. Leith sat back and watched the two women speak, their words swallowed by the music. After only a few minutes, Shea headed behind the bar to bend over and reach into hidden cupboards. The obnoxious jerks at the bar blatantly checked out her ass and nudged each other, making not-so-quiet comments about what they saw.

Jen returned to his little table in their isolated corner. Only this time, she didn’t sit professionally on the cushion edge. She collapsed into the chair, arms draped over the sides, a giant grin lighting her face.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“You’ve never heard of this place?” When he shook his head, she went on. “Shea’s one of the most well-known experts on Scotch whiskey in the world. Turn on any TV special about whiskey, and she’ll have been interviewed. She’s on a first-name basis with pretty much every distiller in Scotland. She probably has the big liquor conglomerates on speed-dial.”

“Or the other way around.” Leith watched Shea open a bottle with very little of the good stuff left. “Wow. And she owed you a favor?”

“She wasn’t my client at the Juniper Imports showcase, but I pretty much saved her ass that night when none of her booth arrived. Now she’s going to do my whiskey tent at the Highland Games.”

“The . . . Gleann’s Highland Games?”

Jen leaned back, looking wonderfully sure of herself. As well she should be.

“Fuck, Jen. That’s incredible. What a draw.”

“I know. I’m starting heavy promo tomorrow all over the valley. Gleann isn’t going to compete with the bigger, more commercial games across New Hampshire. So I’m going smaller and more intimate, but with elevated experiences. I thought of it when I saw your dad’s scrapbooks, how whiskey was so prevalent in the old games. Big, local tents. Huge bottles as prizes to the competitors.”

He loved how she glowed just then, knowing she’d done well. But even as he grinned in pride, he shook his head because he wasn’t sure where anything else in her life fit in. Now or ever. “Even on a date, you can’t not work.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said no phone. I wanted to bring you here, and I wanted to talk to Shea. Two birds, one stone.”

“I did say that.” The wonderful woman would always be working, always aiming for something. Leith gripped the armrests, fingers digging into the soft leather. “I wish I could be there,” he said to himself, but of course she heard.

She leaned her elbows on her knees, her focus switched solely to him. Her tone turned soft and serious. “Why won’t you be there, Leith? For real. Don’t give me the work excuse. That might work on the rest of Gleann, but not me. Not anymore.”

Shea, bless her, returned holding two spectacularly heavy-footed tumblers with a finger of shimmering brown whiskey in each. She set them down on the stone table with a musical chink. He reached for his without pause, lifted it to his nose.

“Thanks,” Leith told Shea. “I hear you’ll be in Gleann next week. It’s my hometown. But I should warn you that no one there knows anything about whiskey.”

Shea smiled in a way he could now classify as genuine, and he wondered what test of hers he’d passed. “Great to know there’ll be a familiar face. Doesn’t matter if no one knows whiskey. Nine times out of ten those people are more fun to talk to than the people who think they know a lot. I love teaching. And I do love to talk.” Someone out of sight caught her eye and she acknowledged them. “I’ll see you next week then. Enjoy the whiskey.”

“Nice deflection,” Jen said to him after Shea had gone. He’d known she’d been watching him the whole time. “You didn’t answer my question.”