“You got one,” I answer. “Sit.”
She takes the chair across from mine and settles in with calm control, and she crosses her legs without making it a performance.
I pour water first, and I slide the glass toward her.
“Drink,” I say.
“I’m not here to be tested,” she replies.
I lean back and hold her gaze. “You’re always being tested.”
She picks up the water and takes a small sip, then she sets it down and looks at the glasses waiting between us.
“You brought me here for a tasting,” she says. “You don’t strike me as a host.”
“I’m not hosting,” I answer. “I’m watching.”
She gives me a look that could be defiance or amusement, and she keeps her voice steady.
“Then watch,” she says.
I lift my hand and pour the first whiskey, and the scent rises, clean and rich. I keep my movements slow so she sees I’m not rushed.
“This one is young,” I say. “Two years. It’s sharp and it doesn’t pretend it isn’t.”
She picks up the glass and swirls it once, then she brings it to her mouth and takes a measured sip without wincing or faking pleasure. She swallows and sets the glass down with a soft click. “It bites,” she says.
“It’s meant to,” I reply.
Her eyes lift. “That’s your style?”
“That’s how I keep people honest,” I answer.
She nods once, then she reaches for the bread and breaks a piece off without asking. Roarke shifts, and I lift my fingers slightly, and he stills. Quinn chews, then she speaks while she’s still looking at the glass. “Your workers talk about this place like it’s a church,” she says. “They respect it.”
I don’t respond, and I pour the second whiskey. This one is older. Smoother. More expensive. Harder to make right. Quinn takes it with the same calm, and she sips, and her eyes narrow slightly from attention. “That one doesn’t need to prove itself,” she says.
I watch her mouth as she speaks. “No,” I answer. “It already did.”
She holds my stare, then she looks down and sets the glass in line with the first. “You’re not drinking,” she says.
“I am,” I reply, then I take a sip and let her watch me swallow. Her gaze doesn’t move away, and she doesn’t pretend she didn’t just track my throat.
“Why invite me and no one else?” she asks.
I tap the folded note in my pocket once with my thumb, then I stop myself from pulling it out. I tilt my head. “Tell me what you think it is?”
She leans back slightly and keeps her hands on the table, open, no fidgeting.
“You want to see if I flinch when you change the setting,” she says. “If I chase your attention or ask questions I shouldn’t.”
“And?” I prompt.
She holds my gaze. “You want to see if you can control yourself.”
Roarke makes a low sound like he’s going to speak, and I lift my hand again, and he shuts up.
Quinn doesn’t look at him. She keeps her eyes on me, and her mouth is steady. “Can you?” she asks.