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A Shot With You
by Teri Anne Stanley

Copyright © 2017 by Teri Anne Stanley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Brandon Morgan stood in front of the Travel Adventures office in Puerto Vallarta and stared down at Mexico’s youngest extreme watersports guide.

Nope.

Call him Mr. Excitement with as much sarcasm as you like, but he was on vacation, and he’d choose the fun. The “high adventure” he’d signed up for was as appealing as a trip to the dentist. For fillings. Without anesthetic. And it was his vacation, damn it. If he had to leave his cozy, air-conditioned stateroom and its wifi connection, he was going to live it up in a way that made him happy.

By working.

He looked at the kid and said, “Sorry, bud. I think I’m gonna contribute to my life insurance for a few more years. I’ll pass on ski-surfing today.”

“But senõr, you’ve already paid for the trip. If you join the tequila tour, you’ll have to pay again.” And I’ll lose the generous tip you’d give me for bringing you back alive. If I bring you back alive.

At least that’s what Brandon figured he meant, so he gave the kid a few bucks and escaped into the liquor store that had a sign reading, “Tequila tour! Cruise guests welcome!”

Before he reached the smiling attendant behind the counter, a familiar label caught his eye: Blue Mountain Bourbon, Dangerous Dave’s Eight Ball. Sweet. His distribution team had managed to get it out, right on time. It wasn’t available on the ship, so he snatched a bottle from the shelf and carried it back to the cashier.

“This bottle, and one ticket for the tequila tour.” He could skip the tequila tasting—yech—and have bourbon. No cactus water for him.

“You’d better hurry, amigo,” the attendant told him. “The bus is leaving.”

Brandon threw a handful of bills at the guy and sprinted from the shop, across the crumbling roadway, and leaped onto the bus filled with grinning, sunburned tourists.

As the doors shut behind him, he fell into an empty seat next to an elderly woman with purple hair. She didn’t glance away from the iPad she held to the window, videoing the scenery, which in this case, consisted of a broken-down truck in front of a store claiming to have “Authentic Aztec silver jewelry at rock bottom closeout prices.” Brandon would have to remember to stop by there to pick up something for his mom’s birthday. Mom would appreciate authentic rock-bottom-discounted jewelry. After all, she’d loved—and still occasionally wore—the vending machine plastic gemstone ring he’d given her when he was eight.

The bus jerked with a hiss of air brakes and jolted forward.

“Welcome to the Pequeño Zarigüeya tour! Sit back and enjoy the ride as you enjoy these hits of Mexican radio.” The music that fuzzed through ancient speakers was nothing that had been produced before his parents were in diapers, but then, he wasn’t a big connoisseur of south-of-the-border pop. Maybe they did play a lot of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass here these days.

He’d made the right choice to bail on the extreme sports and could instead fantasize about mergers and acquisitions to his heart’s content. He slid the bottle of bourbon into his drawstring backpack and tucked it between his knees, grateful to have escaped another freaking adventure.

Gramps had challenged Brandon to “get the hell off the cruise ship and do something interesting. Meet some women instead of hiding in your cabin to work, for Chrissakes,” so for the last few stops he’d done things that his family and friends deemed exciting. He’d gone on a zip line tour of the rain forest in Costa Feo. And spent the next day swallowing Advil. He’d gone kayaking down the Rio Tehuantepec and wound up with mosquito bites the size of dinner plates. At least he was pretty sure he didn’t have Zika virus, always a bonus. Plus, he could check “Stretch outside of comfort zone” off of his corporate leadership self-improvement list. But he’d had enough.

This distillery tour—this was what interested him. He wouldn’t pretend that he was going to drink instead of work—as one of the sons of a prize-winning bourbon distilling family, sniffing samples of tequila and touring a distillery was work. It was market research and checking out the competition, and he loved it.

“Hey! You. Mr. Cutie Drawers!”

Brandon grunted when a sharp elbow dug into his ribs.

He sucked in a deep breath and looked at his seat mate, who grinned at him. Her lipstick-smeared teeth reminded him of a vampire ready for the second course.

“Name’s Edna VanMacintosh. From Alberta, Florida.”

“Uh, Brandon Morgan. Crockett County, Kentucky.”

“You a coal miner or a tobacco farmer?”

“Neither, I—”

“Just kidding. I know there’s also horses and hillbillies in K.Y. I’m a hairdresser,” she rasped, without waiting for him to elaborate. “Was going to go on this trip with my husband for our second honeymoon, but he went and died on me.”

“I’m sorry,” Brandon told her after a beat. “So you’re taking this trip in his memory, that’s nice.”

“Nah.” She wheezed with laughter. “He died fifteen years ago. I was bumping uglies with his brother Si for a while, thought I might get him to come along, but then he died, too. I’m on this trip hoping to find me some new man-flesh.”

“Oh.” Brandon’s brain froze.

She cackled and gave his ribs another jab. “Don’t look so scared. You’re not quite man enough for me. I like ‘em a little more broken in. A few more miles on the odometer. I don’t want to spend ten years trying to teach you all the tricks.”

Brandon was torn between massive relief and the need to point out that in spite of the way his last few relationships had ended, he wasn’t wet behind the ears.

Fortunately, massive relief won out, because Edna looked like she might be inclined to want details on his skills.

“You married? You look like the marrying kind. I bet you’ve got two point four kids, too.”

“No, not married.”

“Well, why the hell not?”

“Just haven’t met the right girl, I guess.” And the one he thought was “right” turned out to be terribly, horribly, wrong.

“Hmph. You a virgin?”

Brandon coughed. “Well, ma’am—”

Edna snorted. “Just kiddin’. What kind of girl you lookin’ for? There’s a shit ton of horny women on that cruise ship back there. I’ll hook you up before we make it back to San Diego.”

“I’m not really looking—”

“Are you gay? ’Cause there’s plenty of single men hanging around, too. You like the hairy ones or the twinkly kind?”

“No, no. Not gay. But I’m not looking for anyone on this cruise.” He decided to elaborate, before she came up with any more wild assumptions. “Most of the girls I’ve met on this trip are a little too busy taking selfies and Snapchatting themselves to have a conversation.”

“Oh. Well, if you’re looking for a wife, you’re gonna be looking for a while. You’re a good-looking fella, but girls these days are all about the temporary hookup. The Redbox and Cool.”

“Netflix and Chill?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Unfortunately, Edna was right. He’d gone out with a few women in the past few years, but he always found something that didn’t work for him with each one. Like…she didn’t want to hang out while he added one last entry—or fifty—to a spreadsheet. Or she wanted to actually go on dates instead of visiting random liquor stores to check his company’s product placement. Or maybe she’d only pretended to be crazy for him while she helped to steal thousands of dollars’ worth of inventory from his family’s business. Maybe he was too picky, but some of those things were deal breakers.

“I’m not looking for a wife,” he told her. “But some meaningful conversation would be nice.”

Edna cackled. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

The bus made a hard left and lurched onto a—was this really a street? It seemed more like an alley. Trees scraped the windows on each side of the bus, before parting to reveal a boarded up house, followed by a weed-strewn yard full of broken-down cars and skinny dogs.

A hundred yards later, the bus groaned to a halt in front of a colorfully painted but rickety wooden fence, and half of the occupants immediately stood and shoved into the aisle. Brandon waited until there was a space and stood, too. He hoped Edna would find another victim to interrogate, but alas, she actually grabbed his belt so she wouldn’t lose him as he joined the milling crowd of partiers in front of the gate that read Pequeño Zarigüeya Entrada in colorful script.

“So what are you looking for, in case we get lucky and find you the right girl? Surgeon, lawyer, international venture capitalist?”

An international venture capitalist might be nice. They did have internet at Blue Mountain, and most of that work was on the phone or online, right? But realistically… “I don’t know. Accountant? Tax attorney?” Someone who would want to climb the corporate ladder with him, not over him.

The gate opened, and a laughing, dancing, Mexican goddess swirled out into the crowd. “Welcome to the wonderful world of tequila!” she called out. “I can’t wait to show you Pequeño Zarigüeya.”

Okay. Maybe he should add “tequila distillery tour guide” to his list of options.

…

“Hola!” Lesa called to the crowd of cruise goers who had gathered in front of the distillery for the day’s deluxe tour and tasting.

“Hola!” responded the assortment of people.

Here she went again. Smile and act like you’re thrilled to be here. She glanced at the sky. Mama, I’m here, and I’m “helping.”

She didn’t know if Mama would be pleased with her efforts or not, but one thing was sure—entertaining the few dozen tourists who came to Pequeño Zarigüeya each week was not going to be enough to dig Papa out of the financial hole he was in.

She did want to help the distillery survive—work was the only reason Papa got out of bed anymore. Before she died, Mama told Lesa all about how she had worked there as a girl, when her own father owned the tequileria, and was planning to go away to college until the summer Papa showed up. They had met harvesting agave, and they fell in love and got married. He’d bought Pequeño Zarigüeya from Lesa’s grandfather, and they had been blissfully happy. Now Lesa must carry on. No pressure there. But more than anything, Lesa wanted the place to survive without her. The thought of spending yet another season trapped here made her want to scream. So she was going to sell tequila today with a smile on her face and hope in her heart that somehow, someway, they would find their way into the black.

Shifting her attention back to the crowd, Lesa got her head in the game and prepared to charm the gathered tourists—and get them to buy lots and lots of tequila. She evaluated the players. There were the dedicated drinkers, recognizable by their colorful shirts and goofy hats. Most of them already displayed half-drunken grins—and plastic cups—likely empty of their morning margaritas. These people would be good and thirsty by tasting time and it would be easy to coax them to the gift shop for a bottle or six to take back to the boat. Then there were the older couples, more sedate, but usually also ready for afternoon cocktails. They’d buy the cute little gift baskets to take home to family and friends.

There was usually a liquor snob or two, also. The liquor snob would ask dozens of questions that they already knew the answer to—or worse, jump in and answer questions from other guests before Lesa had a chance to open her mouth. At the tasting, they would swirl and breathe and make faces that said, “Meh,” even though Lesa knew without a doubt that her family’s tequila was the best damn booze in all of Mexico.

As for how helpful she was…Lesa really didn’t think that playing hostess to a bunch of tourists was what Papa needed right now. What he needed was a major overhaul of his business.

But this was what he asked her to do, and her English was better than the rest of the family’s. Be nice to the drunks and liquor snobs alike. Yeesh. She was up to eight know-it-all jerks already this season, and they were only a third of the way through the spring.

Ah. There was today’s know-it-all. She’d bet money on it. Tall guy in khakis and a polo shirt, bent to listen to an elderly lady with purple hair, a sports bra, and—oh, Dios—jeggings. Where the woman would weigh eighty pounds soaking wet, he was more substantial. Lean, but with broad shoulders and nice biceps, which he no doubt paid a personal trainer for. Medium-brown hair, a little short on the sides and longer on the top, but not too trendy. Younger than the usual jerk, but still. The deck shoes were a dead giveaway.

Okay. She knew who her crowd was, and if she was lucky, she’d be able to keep Booze Snob Guy as far away from her as possible.

Then he raised his head and laughed. And made eye contact.

Lesa forgot everything she was supposed to say to her guests.

His blue eyes held her still, and something she didn’t recognize settled in her midsection. It hit him, too, because a brief expression of puzzlement crossed his face before he simply stood there, smiling at her. Her awareness of the calm warmth was quickly supplanted by the intense way her nether regions reacted to him. He was a very fine-looking Americano—as Ralph Lauren handsome as any of the California surfer boys she’d known when she’d visited Los Angeles on a rare vacation during her early college days. Nice, strong face; long, straight nose; and lips…that she’d have to check out when she got closer to him.

Not good. She never, ever messed with the tourists. She rarely even dated since coming home from college to take care of Mama during her last days.

But here she was, standing in the courtyard like a silly girl, staring at a cute boy.

The moment ended when the cougar next to him whacked him on the arm and drew his attention away.

She realized that, while she’d been falling in lust—or whatever—with the hot guy in the group, she’d been standing still, not doing her job. A whole group of guests stood staring at her, their expectation blasting through the late morning heat.

“Okay, amigos, here is the plan! We’re going to make a quick stop in the tasting room for some tequila history, and then we’ll head out to witness the way my family has made tequila for generations.”

“When do we get to sample the merchandise?” one of the partiers asked.

“We’ll circle back to the tasting room a few minutes before you buy everything in our gift shop.” She laughed, and the audience laughed with her. A good sign.

She led the way through the courtyard of the tasting center and gift shop where her aunt held the fort. Tia Rita, Papa’s youngest sister, would expertly cajole the travelers to buy anything and everything tequila, and the guests would take home tequila and memories that would keep Pequeño Zarigüeya afloat just a little longer. The memories that would—hopefully—have them buying her family’s tequila and recommending it to others—if they could afford to keep making it.

Gesturing toward the open-air tasting room, she said, “Please, come in and have a seat.” People filed to the long tables and sat on benches, side by side, facing her. The good-looking man chose a seat at the end of a row, about halfway back. Still not close enough to see his mouth up close.

Stop fantasizing about his lips! It wasn’t like she’d ever kiss him. He’d be in her life for the next two and a half hours, and then he would be gone forever.

He saw her looking at him and smiled, sending that weird feeling to her gut again. His eyes followed her hand as she rubbed it across her tummy, trying to hold on to the sensation and categorize it. But—

“How long have you worked here?” The purple-haired woman stood in front of her, hands on hips.

“Ah…off and on since I was ten years old.”

“On and off? What do you do when you’re off?”

“Well…I went to college”—for almost two whole semesters—“and I like to travel.” At least, she would like to see the world, if she didn’t have to stay here and help Papa.

“Where do you travel? Who goes with you?”

Was she going to ask if she wore boxers or briefs, too? Not relevant, but she did like to personalize the tour, even if she had to stretch the truth about where she’d been into where she wanted to have been. “Everywhere I can. And mostly alone. I want to write a book about my travels on every continent on Earth.”

“Are you married?”

“No.” Okay, maybe not that personal. “Now, ma’am, if you’ll just take your seat, we can get started.”

The old lady stomped off, shaking her head. “She’s a four out of ten on my suitability scale,” she called back to the hot guy.

For his part, the hot guy gave her an embarrassed glance and shook his head before he looked away and helped his friend to sit next to him.

And her afternoon tour was underway.