So this was it. My possibly last big job, where I was going to try my hardest, stand up for myself and fight for my ideas, and give this advertising job one last chance before it ground me down into dust and I packed my bags and waved the sad white flag of surrender on my career dreams.

In case you’re wondering how all of this has anything to do with my solo bourbon sampler party, our latest client was Knox bourbon.

I decided to start and end with said bourbon, in order to better compare it to the others. I leaned over the first glass, parting my lips as I inhaled, both smelling and tasting the aroma of burnt caramel, old wood, and cinnamon. A promising start…I took a sip of the amber liquid, letting it roll slowly across my tongue as I memorized and savored the taste. It had a bold, spicy flavor thanks to the high rye content, with a hint of charred oak and honey, and a strong bite.

I breathed out through my nose and mouth at the same time, and the flavor intensified until I swallowed. I smacked my lips in satisfaction as I set the glass back down. I generally drank a wheated bourbon rather than a rye, and I did miss that slight hint of sweet vanilla, but this wasn’t bad at all.

Glass number two was a rye after my own heart, vanilla like the first lick of ice cream on a hot summer day, cool and refreshing, with a bit of biting heat like a miniature sun right after it washed down my throat. I took another sip of that one, in the interest of more fully appreciating that fine flavor. Maybe I was playing favorites a little, but who was going to tell?

And here came number three. That distinctive flavor that said Kentucky, Bourbon County, that long tradition of Scots-Irish immigration. All the old ways carefully preserved and kept going: a hint of cedar, a touch of honey. A little rough around the edges, but in a way that soothed with its familiarity. I sighed, letting my eyes fall shut, the taste of the bourbon becoming my entire universe.

“Ah, a lady who knows how to savor the good things in life.”

I started, blushing, my eyes popping open and my hand nearly dropping the glass in dismay. Dammit, I’d wanted to be discreet! I hadn’t wanted anyone seeing me geek out like this, and now—

I looked up, and my annoyance at being interrupted died on my lips as I let my bourbon take a rest, and drank in the sight of the interloper instead. It was the same man who’d caught my eye just minutes earlier. Of course. And here I was sighing and drooling shamelessly over an entire smorgasbord of booze. Damn but he was even tastier up close.

Had he said something about the good things in life? Well, he would know, since he was definitely one of them. Golden-brown eyes like the sun shining through a tumbler of bourbon, freckles sun-kissing the bridge of his nose, and a chiseled jaw you could cut diamonds on. His auburn-gold hair was swept back from his forehead and his navy polo shirt clung to all the right places of his shoulders and chest. I bit my lip and resisted asking him to do a spin so I could check and see if those khaki pants clung in all the right places, too.

Barely resisted.

And that accent he spoke in, oh, it made me regret all the work I’d done to lose my own. A warm honey-slow drawl that drew attention to his lips and the way they quirked up at the corner.

“I didn’t think it was good enough to stun you into silence,” he teased.

I blushed and shot back, “I’m just trying to figure out what criteria led you to hone in on the girl with the highest alcohol content in the room. Your self-esteem that low?”

I regretted the sarcastic remark the second it left my mouth. In high-stress situations, I tended to blurt out exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time; it was an adrenaline-fueled, involuntary, and very unfortunate defense mechanism of mine. One that got me into trouble more often than not.

He only grinned, and sauntered closer. “As a matter of fact, I have extremely robust…self-esteem. Show you mine if you’ll show me yours?”

“The hell kind of pick-up line is that?” I said, flummoxed by both his nonchalant demeanor and the sweet scent of masculinity radiating off his delicious body. Stop it Ally, I mentally scolded myself. You’re indignant. Be indignant!

“I’ve got all kinds,” he promised. “Want something more traditional? I’ll give it a go: let me buy you a drink?”

I gestured at the drinks already in front of me.

“I think I’m covered,” I said wryly.

“Then do you mind if I buy myself one and drink it here with you?” he asked.

I considered. I was doing research here. Important research. Research that could change the very trajectory of my career and make all those dreams come true. I didn’t need any distractions.

On the other hand, those shoulders. And those lips, mm-hmm. And truth be told, for all my defensive posturing, there wasn’t a damn thing about him that didn’t scream ‘charming’ and ‘good company’ and, most importantly, ‘eye candy.’

My old science teacher did always say that it was important to have a research partner.

“Well, it certainly would improve the view,” I said, relieved to have finally given myself permission to cozy up to this intriguing stranger.

He grinned wider then, sliding into the booth opposite me, our legs bumping together slightly. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Damn, what was this, sixty seconds and I already had it this bad? Guys this hot should come with a warning label. Not that I’d stop to read it.

Hottie McHotterson—also, damn, how had I not asked his name yet, was I really that far gone into the Lust Canyon?—flagged down the waitress, and ordered a Knox whiskey.

I made a face.

“Not a fan?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of the whiskey? Sure,” I said. “It tastes great and gets the job done.”

“What is it, then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and that made me open up. “What’s missing?”

“Well, it’s just—” I gestured at the label. “Look at this packaging. Just the name stamped on there in an old-timey font, and the same barrel logo they’ve been using since B.F. Skinner first strolled up to an ad agency with some rats in a box and a lot of fancy promises. It does nothing to catch the eye.”

“The label?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s hardly it!” I shot back. “Their whole branding approach is the same, stuck in the past! Print ads whose copy never changes, radio jingles with slang from the second World War, TV spots with the same Bob Hope lookalike every year—it doesn’t matter how good it tastes, it looks old-fashioned. Like something my grandpa would drink.”

My mysterious visitor’s drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of excellent taste.”

I snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started, looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep, golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching his fingers.

I wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.

Focus, Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing away your entire career for a roll in the hay.

Maybe the whiskey was just getting to me.

I pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing copy I’d call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’ Since I wasn’t, though, I didn’t pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his friends aren’t the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”