The Good Chase by Hanna Martine Page A

or—”
    â€œJust Scotch. Your best,” he repeated, holding up a hand and closing his eyes. Like he was used to interrupting people and telling them what to do.
    Shea glanced at the woman, who folded her arms on the top of the table. Her head cocked toward the other shoulder.
    â€œSingle malts?” Shea asked. “Blends?”
    â€œYes and yes.” The man finally smiled with his mouth.
    â€œWill you be expecting anyone else?”
    â€œNo,” said the man. “Just us.”
    So she could really go all out. She couldn’t deny that excited her, to be able to head downstairs to the locked room where she kept the rare prizes of her Scotch collection.
    â€œI’ll be right back.”
    When she did return she had Dean in tow, both of them carrying trays tiled in deeply bowled glasses filled with expensive tastes of her best stuff. Just as her mysterious patrons had requested. If they drank it all, they’d be plastered by the time they left.
    Dean set down his tray and departed, leaving Shea alone with the suited man and woman. They were completely unreadable. Usually she could peg a customer within a few seconds of them opening up their mouths, but these two were blank walls. Blank Walls. A new label to add to her inventory.
    Shea opened her arms above the set of glasses, their varying amber liquids beautifully reflecting the dangling overhead lights. “So where shall we start?”
    The man had one finger pressed vertically over his lips. “Why don’t you take a look at us and give it your best shot as to what we might like? We’re yours. Take us on a journey.”
    Hoo boy. No pressure there or anything.
    Good thing this was exactly what she loved most—a rapt audience, interested drinkers, and some seriously wonderful whisky.
    â€œAll right.” She set two glasses in front of her customers. “This one is aged twice, first in American bourbon casks and second in barrels once used for port . . .”
    She talked for nearly forty-five minutes straight, switching out glasses and stories as easily as changing the filter in her coffeepot at home. She told them about the aging and the distilleries, peppering in some personal anecdotes about employees at each place and describing what their barrel storehouses looked and smelled like. They were spending enough that night; they deserved a little more than the average insight.
    About halfway through, she realized they seemed more interested in what she had to say than the drink itself, although the man did drink every bit of his. He was a closet Brown Vein. The woman, still a Blank Wall. And a sober one, at that.
    After a particular glass, he held it up to eye level and smacked his lips together. “This reminds me of this one pub in Edinburgh. On High Street, near where the old toll bridge arches over the street.”
    Shea brightened. “I think I know which one you’re talking about. The one with the stuffed pheasant in the window, covered in dust?”
    The man guffawed. “How long has that thing been there?”
    â€œSince the toll bridge was used, probably.”
    â€œSo you’ve been there?”
    â€œMany, many times. I could probably be an Edinburgh tour guide at this point.”
    The man and woman exchanged a glance, and that’s when the woman took out a pad of paper and pen. What the hell was going on?
    â€œSo what would you recommend to drink,” he asked, “if I were an obnoxious twentysomething with more money than God who’d reserved this room solely to impress a girl?”
    Cool. A challenge. Flipping open her menu, Shea pointed to the Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. “It’s in all the movies these days,” she explained, “and young, rich people like that kind of thing.”
    The man chuckled. “And if I were here for my anniversary?”
    Shea scanned the pages for the remote Orkney Islands distillery. “This one. I’d