Six Hot Single Dads. Lynne Marshall

had heard many stories of just how intimidating Oscar Pruitt could be—stodgy, snooty to a fault, a man of the most discriminating tastes who didn’t turn down a chance to tell someone just how above it all he was. Marcus had assumed it was merely his reputation and that the real man would be at least a bit more pleasant. He’d been wrong.

      Oscar had asked hundreds of probing questions during the tour, nitpicked about every last thing, tried everything he could to rattle Marcus. It’d been trial by fire, and he hoped to hell he’d come across as unflappable. He’d certainly tried everything he could to appear so.

      “Why don’t we do the tasting?” Marcus asked, stepping behind the bar back in the private tasting room. Please. I need a blooming drink. He set out four snifters, two each. The narrow opening at the top of the glass allowed the fragrance of the botanicals to gather, while the stem would keep the warmth of the taster’s hand from affecting the temperature and taste of the gin.

      “I think you’ll be very impressed with the taste,” Marcus said. He didn’t enjoy having to sell it, but he had to. His father had been hesitant about Chambers No. 9 and the very notion of an American gin. Mr. Pruitt, being as old-school as they came, had the very same ideas.

      “Your father calls it a modern interpretation of an old favorite. He seems to think its bloody brilliant.”

      A wide smile crossed Marcus’s face. His father’s approval meant too much to feel anything but happiness. Marcus had made a leap of faith by leaving behind his lucrative career and sinking his own money into the company, but his dad had done even more. He’d allowed his son to tinker with a brand that hadn’t changed since 1902.

      “Of course, I told your father that I would determine that for myself. But I suppose I appreciate his bias. I always want to support what my children do.” Oscar removed a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his suit coat and slid them onto his face, peering down his nose as Marcus opened the first bottle.

      A side-by-side tasting was the best way to prove to Oscar that Chambers No. 9 represented a step into the modern age while keeping a firm grasp on the company’s history. He filled two glasses with one ounce of the original Chambers, then did the same with the No. 9. He added an ounce of water to each, diluting the alcohol and releasing the aromas. “As I told you during the tour, for No. 9, we’ve expanded the mix of botanicals from seven to nine. The new additions are caraway and elderflower.”

      Oscar’s vision narrowed in on Marcus, the skepticism so clear, Marcus nearly asked him if he spent his entire life hesitating. He then raised the glass to his lips. “The flavor is indeed interesting. Surprising.”

      Marcus felt a small measure of relief. Oscar hadn’t spit it out.

      Oscar then took a sip of the original and nodded at Marcus. “I have to tell you, Chambers. Having the two side by side, I can see what you were going for. It’s not my inclination to use the word, but I’d go so far as to call it impressive.”

      Marcus exhaled. His dad would get the story he’d waited for all this time. “Shall we finish up the interview?”

      * * *

      Ashley walked down the long hall leading to the private tasting room. The sound of her heels on the polished concrete floor echoed in the space, which was otherwise eerily quiet. At the very end, a small sign hung from the ceiling indicating the room with an arrow. The door was open, but voices stopped her just outside it.

      “Please don’t speak about her like that, Mr. Pruitt.” Marcus’s words were polite, but his voice was cutting and surprisingly loud.

      “It’s a valid question. Are you leaving behind your homeland and your heritage for New York and disposable American culture?”

      “That’s not what you asked. You asked why I would choose to be associated with a woman like Ms. George, both personally and professionally.”

      Ashley’s heart thundered in her chest, all while the blood drained from her face.

      “She’s a reality television star,” Mr. Pruitt continued. “It seems as though you’ve cheapened your own image in order to garner success. Frankly, I’m shocked that a family as esteemed as yours would stoop to such lows.”

      The corners of Ashley’s mouth turned down. Was that really what people thought? Or was this guy just a pompous jerk? Her money was on the latter, but it wasn’t much of a consolation. Marcus had been so excited about this interview, and it was all going wrong. Because of her. She pressed herself against the wall, right next to the door, listening.

      “I can’t believe you’d cling to such snobbery,” came Marcus’s voice, “especially since you live in the US for half of the year. You don’t even know her. She’s one of the hardest working people I’ve ever met. She may be on television, but it’s not an act. She genuinely loves to match people and find them love, and she’s amazing at it. If there’s any shame in that, it’s of your making.”

      Emotion welled up inside her—a distinct warmth and fullness in the vicinity of her heart. Marcus admired her for all she did. Even better, he’d stuck up for her.

      Mr. Pruitt laughed, but there was no frivolity in the sound. It reeked of condemnation and superiority. “I’d say someone is too henpecked to think for himself.”

      “That’s it!” Marcus yelled. It was so loud, so abrupt, that she held her breath. “Get out, now, or I’ll show you out myself.”

      “You’re kicking me out of my own interview? Your father has been hounding us for years to do a story on Chambers Gin, and this is what you do when the time comes? I can’t imagine your dad is going to be pleased when he hears about this.”

      No no no. She closed her eyes, willing Marcus to take a deep breath and calm down. She knew exactly how he got when he was mad, as if he was possessed by his anger.

      “My father would expect me to come to a lady’s defense. If you can’t see the propriety in that, there’s no point in an interview.”

      “Well, then. Ms. George has really done a number on you.”

      Ashley wasn’t sure what she should do, but if she hesitated for even ten more seconds, all would be lost, and she’d come face-to-face with the man who’d just said horrible things about her. A tiny part of her thought she should retreat back down the hall. The rest of her was going to march into that room, save Marcus, and take it like a woman.

      A distinct look of surprise crossed Mr. Pruitt’s face when she sauntered into the tasting room, swiveling her hips and smiling sweetly.

      “Oh, hello. You must be Mr. Pruitt,” she leaned forward, letting the dress do some of her bidding. She took his hand, holding it firmly. Even when his demeanor made her a bit ill, there was sweet satisfaction in witnessing his bewilderment. “I’m Ashley George. It’s so nice to meet you, sir. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.” She laid it on with the Southern charm, her accent so saccharine it made Ashley’s cheeks hurt. She looked up at Marcus, her smile unflinching.

      “Ashley,” Marcus said. “Were you just out in the hall?” The pure concern on his face was so endearing. The man could be a handsome pain in the butt, but he had a heart as wide as the sky.

      “I was. Not for long,” she replied. “I heard Mr. Pruitt say that I’ve really done a number on you.”

      Marcus blinked. Mr. Pruitt cleared his throat. Her mind scrambled for a way out of the corner she’d just painted herself into. She didn’t want to let Mr. Pruitt off the hook, but she also wanted to save the interview.

      “Which I thought was just the sweetest way to put it,” she said, exaggerating her accent and taking a seat next to Oscar at the tasting bar. “Marcus and are I quite taken with each other. There’s no doubt about that.” She slapped the bar with her hand. “Now let’s talk gin. I, for one, could really use a drink.”