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wardenparker · 2 years

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Down the Rabbit Hole - ch 2

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 20.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings - mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing.* Canon typical violence, flirting, Jack can dance and I will die on this hill. Summary: Your introduction to the world of Statesman comes with a flirtation, a job interview, a pool game, and an unexpected turn to the night after an unexpected day. Notes: I’m not even mad about how long this chapter is. I *loved* introducing this reader to Statesman and I hope you guys do, too!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Epilogue

Three hours later to the minute, you're standing on the tarmac at Portsmouth International Airport with a backpack slung over one shoulder as you follow a flight attendant in a crisp Statesman uniform up to the stairs to board the jet bearing the company's logo in giant letters splashed across the side. It's really real. It's actually, really real. A discreet picture on your phone will be very quickly texted to your mom before the plane takes off, but for now you're listening to the attendant tell you that the flight will last two and a half hours and that anything you need will be provided on board. There's a man in a Stetson standing just inside the door of the plane as you walk up, and you have to hand it to these folks. They have truly committed to the cowboy aesthetic.

“Howdy ma’am.” Champ didn’t tell him who he was picking up when he called Tequila to his office and told him that he was being sent with the jet to pick someone up. He didn’t rightly think it was his business; but he has to admit that you’re cute. He smirks slightly as he tips his hat with two fingers and motions you towards the captain's chairs. “Want a drink before takeoff?”

"Just a bottle of water would be great." As much as a finger or two of whiskey would calm the hell out of your nerves right now, you don't know if drinking during what is technically one long-ass job interview would be considered very professional. You look around as the flight attendant whisks your backpack away, setting it on the end of a small sofa that serves as seating on the jet. "This plane is absolutely amazing..."

“Aw, come on now.” Tequila steps behind the bar and grabs the bottle of water to set on the shiny surface. “You can’t tell me you don’t drink? You’ll break my heart.”

You laugh, appreciating the man's jovial attitude and willing to admit to yourself that he's very attractive. Not your usual type, but there's nothing wrong with being leading-man attractive. You just normally go for more unique looking men - and older. "Experience tells me that drinking during a job interview is bad manners," you admit, taking a step further into the room. This plane has rooms. "But I've never interviewed for a distillery before, so maybe the rules are actually the opposite now."

“Drinking’s a job requirement.” He flirts, sending you a small wink and reaching for the bottle of ‘82 Special Selection. “Champ’ll have you with a glass in your hand by the time you get done shakin’.”

"Just a little, then." It doesn't matter that your tolerance is hellishly high, you're not aiming to get drunk at all during this trip. "So your boss...Champ? He, uh...he doesn't do things by half, does he?" You're curious about the man after finding next to nothing about him online. Even finding a photograph was like pulling teeth.

“No one at Statesman does.” Tequila grins proudly as he picks up the bottle and uncorks it to start pouring into the awaiting glasses. “So why are you coming to Kentucky?” He’s curious and as an intelligence agent, he’s never one to not ask questions.

“It’s…an interview?” You look up at the man in confusion and laugh, purely out of nerves. “Did your boss not tell you who you were picking up, or why?”

“Champ says go, you go.” You don’t scream ‘new agent’, but he’s been wrong before. “What’ll you be doin’, if I can ask?”

“I’m a pastry chef.” One hand curls itself around the glass he has poured for you, feeling the steadiness of the weight of cut crystal in your hand. “Mr. Rogers wants to expand the food that the distillery is able to offer to guests who take tours and come to events. So…he called me.” Which still seems sort of batshit insane, but you are good at what you do, and you love it. You’re even a good savory chef - but pastry really has been your passion.

"Pastry....like cakes and pies?" Tequila asks, tilting his head as he thinks about it. You nod, giving him a vaguely amused smile that he notices a lot on people around him and he purses his lips, nodding in agreement. "I like it. Although you're gonna be haunted by the ones with sugar addictions." He warns, thinking about Jack's hidden sweet tooth. Man likes to claim that his ever so softening belly is the result of his bad back, but the drawer in his desk that is devoted to candy would prove that is a lie.

“Well, I hope so.” It earns him a bright, genuine laugh with a smile. “Otherwise there would be no point in hiring an executive pastry chef for the distillery at all.” Feeling slightly more relaxed, you take a small sip of whiskey and hum at the gentle burn. The notes of vanilla and smoke in this particular vintage would make an amazing boozy caramel for that chocolate tart you’ve been doing at the restaurant. “Everyone has a favourite sweet. Something tied to good memories or a favorite person. Sometimes it’s a thing you had once and maybe never again, but you’ll just love it forever from that one taste. Sweets are kind of magical like that.”

"I guess." Tequila gives a small shrug, shooting you a grin. "I'm more of a red hots kind of guy myself. I like the heat." He's not overly fond of sweets, but he can enjoy a dessert every now and again. It's more like he would haunt your kitchens for you rather than your cakes.

“You’re telling me you’ve never had Mexican hot chocolate or a spicy sweet candied anything?” When the cowboy looks at you in wonder and shakes his head, you laugh again. Not to laugh at him, just because getting people to try new things is one of the best parts of what you do. “I tell you what. If I get this job, I’ll road-test a batch of my guajillo and cinnamon fudge brownies for the menu. They’ll knock your socks off.”

"If you say so." Tequila looks skeptical but gives a shrug. He's always willing to try anything once. "So you are willing to move to Kentucky to make cakes at a distillery?" He asks, trying to get a feel for you. He's cocky as an agent, but when he doesn't know the woman's background, he can be a bit shy.

“What’s life without adventure, right?” You shrug and take another sip of the drink you’ve been poured. Statesman really is quality liquor, you have to admit that. “It’s a great position and comes with a lot of freedom. Not everybody gets to develop their own menu and recipes at a facility like yours.”

Tequila chuckles, lifting his own glass up and silently toasting you before he takes a sip. "Thank God for freedom, right?" He is meaning his freedoms on a mission, but you don't know that. He wonders if you will be clued in on the real function of Statesman, or if you will just be another front for the intelligence agency.

“Absolutely.” It hits bittersweet, though, this time. Freedom in a general sense is great. But three days ago you were in the walk-in at work and dropped every single thing in your arms when a searing, unintelligible pain took over your entire body. Thinking it was a weird muscle spasm or an allergic reaction to the new body wash you were trying out, you ignored it until the end of the day. Of course, at the end of the day, you stood in your bedroom mirror and realized there was no rash. No reaction. The mountain range tattoo over your heart had disappeared along with the chef’s knife that had adorned the inside of your forearm, and all the scars from cuts and burns that had told you your soulmate had to be a chef were gone. Your brother had tried to be comforting. Told you that you were free now to love whoever you wanted. But that wasn’t the kind of freedom you had ever wanted.

He wonders about the sudden look of melancholy that washes over your face but he doesn't want to pry. You aren't a target and he wants to make sure that you are comfortable around him if you take this job. Something tells him that you will, but he's been wrong before. Hell, he thought Jack would have crawled out of a bottle by now, but when he had left, the man was still drunk from the night before.

The captain’s voice comes over the intercom, asking all passengers and crew to take their seats for take off, and the overly tall cowboy nods in response before leading you to your seat. “So what do you do at Statesman?” You ask, once you’re buckled in and he is sitting beside you. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Security.” He sits down and untucks his jacket from around his back with a small wink towards you. It’s the go-to cover position within the distillery workforce. At least where the civilians are concerned.

“And is this your uniform?” He makes it work, you’ll give him that. But you kind of want to prepare yourself for whatever you’re about to walk into. If you’re going to be wearing a cowgirl hat instead of a toque, you want to know ahead of time.

"Uniform?" He scrunches his nose and shakes his head. "No ma'am, we dress for comfort at Statesman." He tells you, although everyone had their own sense of business style, Tequila was still more comfortable in ranch hand attire than anything. Jack was on the one to wear fancy threads.

“Just curious,” you tell him honestly, adding a nonchalant shrug because you’re a little awkward about everything. “It seems like Statesman has its own culture about it, and I like that. Places I’ve worked before haven’t felt like a community at all.”

"You won't feel like that here." Tequila promises. "We're proud of what we do and it shows." Of course, there is a lot to that statement that you don't know how true it is but even the front of the distillery was worked with pride. He honestly felt like it was the best damn bourbon mash in all of Kentucky.

“We’ll see how the interview goes.” There’s no way you’re going to count your chicken before they hatch, but this job just sounds like an absolute dream.

Tequila snorts and listens to the engines power up before the large jet starts to roll down the runway. "Everyone who's ever worked for Statesman has probably said some version of that statement." He tells you, lifting a brow playfully. "And never left."

******

The flight seems short with such good company, and the man who cringes at his own name - Tex - brings you from the airstrip to the main building to actually meet Champ when you land. It’s been a mere six hours since that phone call this morning, but it feels days away. The Statesman campus is stunning. Everywhere you look are excited tourists and seemingly happy employees. Most wear some kind of western-influenced style but not everyone, although you do notice that everyone who does wear the cowboy look has beautiful quality boots and Stetsons. If what they’re offering to pay you is any indication, everybody here can definitely afford high quality pieces. There is a decent-sized cafeteria buzzing with eager patrons eating classic Southern favourites, and then there is the brand-new empty restaurant space where Tex introduces you to an older man in worn but well-cared-for western wear of his own, and you’re instantly certain that this is Champ.

Champ gives you an affable grin as he reaches out and takes your hand in his. "Richard 'Champagne' Rogers." He tells you by way of introduction. "But call me Champ." He looks away from you and towards Tequila. "I see that Tex has gotten you here without any emergencies." He nods towards the agent and then looks back you. "How was the flight?"

“Very comfortable, thank you.” He has a patriarchal vibe that leans more toward grandfather than anything else, and you feel yourself relax a little. Your own grandfather would probably fit right in here. Right alongside Champ Rogers. “The campus here is gorgeous. I’m excited to see the facilities you talked about this morning.”

"It's in the back here." Champ gestures towards an area that has been cordoned off and still has the air of being in the final stages of being remodeled. "We were going to do some kinda fancy steakhouse, but folks don't want another one of those." He explains.

“So you’re leaning in the direction of Southern tea house instead?” Following him into the kitchen, it’s easy to see the makings of a world-class set up here. Glistening appliances and brand-new surfaces wink in the bright light and the door to the walk-in is so new it still has film on the window. It’s just the dining room that has no personality yet.

"I want a place where people can come in and relax." Champ tells you. "Indulge and pair new things with old whiskey."

“New twists on old classics?” It’s something that is gaining a lot of traction these days, and you nod your head in agreement. “My style is a combination of things. French technique and American classics, with some British influence to polish it all off. And I can do savory as well as pastry.” If this whole place is going to be a functioning tea room of sorts, you don’t want him to make any mistake about your abilities. “Are you planning on hiring an executive savory chef as well?”

Champ frowns for a moment and shakes his head. "Naw...what's that sayin'? 'Two women in a kitchen's bad business'. You can head the whole thing."

If you had been holding anything, it would have gone clattering to the ground. Your own restaurant. This company is offering you your own goddamn restaurant. The second you start to process it you feel giddy and anxious - like you could actually fly from the butterflies in your belly. “Then I hope you like what I do,” you tell him with what you hope is a carefree laugh. “One more question, if I could? Before I get to work, I mean.”

Champ raises a brow at you and chuckles. "Shoot, girl, straight from the hip." He tells you. He likes the look of you and he can see why you would be Jack's new soulmate.

“I suppose it’s sort of a multi-part question,” you admit, hoping that doesn’t make you sound inexperienced or unprepared. “I’m wondering if this restaurant will be just for tourists and guests, or if it will also be a facility for your employees? And also what kind of events you anticipate being able to host here with the event space having access to a specialized restaurant.” Frankly, to you, it screams parties and weddings - but who knows what they’re expecting to be able to do?

"Isn't that up to you?" Champ asks, looping his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and looking around the place again. He shoulda known Jack Daniels soulmate had a keen business sense and a good head on her shoulders. He woulda said the same about Jack until recently. "I mean, it'd be your rodeo, wouldn't you call the shots?"

It’s simultaneously terrifying, inspiring, and nerve-wracking to get that kind of answer, but you end up stifling a grin when Tex flashes you two thumbs up behind his boss’s back for encouragement. “You’d make a hell of a profit from weddings,” you tell Champ honestly, although that’s not why you like the idea of doing them. “Weddings, private events, corporate parties, live music events. From large scale down to small scale, they all run on the same principle. A restaurant staff can handle the catering demands, and we can work with other vendors and event planners to make sure the details are right. I’ve done it at my last two jobs with excellent results.” It’s a goddamn dream come true, that’s what Statesman is. You just have to work your ass off to make sure Champ likes your food.

Champ purses his lips and looks around like he's contemplating it. It all actuality, it would be whatever would make you stay here. As a senior agent, Jack's worth the investment of a business that might actually expand the Statesman brand. And if it keeps his soulmate on the grounds and protected, well that was just fine. "If you want to take that on, I don't see why we couldn't do it. Have the boys in bottling provide a special bottle for the occasions." He offers, knowing that an etched bottle of whiskey would be a perfect wedding thing. "If you don't, you could just have the little dining room."

“Provided you like my food, I would say the most pragmatic path would be to open the restaurant and start with small events first. Expand to weddings afterward.” It’s a big, demanding industry, but you already know you make a killer wedding cake and can manage the menus. It’s pretty literally your dream being laid out on the table here for you to prove that you deserve. “The menu I put together for the tasting can be done in just a few hours. I only need you to tell me how many I’m expected to feed and then I’ll get started.”

Reaching up, Champ rubs his jaw with his hand and hides a small smirk. "Oh I think enough for five or six should be enough." He tells you. "Yourself included."

“Very doable.” That’s just one batch of everything, and you can definitely pull that off without a problem. “Give me two hours, and come back hungry.”

"I'll send someone by in case you need something." Champ decides that he's going to give you space. He needs to fish your soulmate out of his bottle and sober him up a little before he meets you for the first time.

“Fantastic.” Two hours will be a hustle, but you know you can do it. There’s too much at stake here and too much potential on the horizon not to. Whoever this head hunter was that passed your resume on to Champ? You could kiss that person.

******

"Jack." Grunting, Jack tries to ignore the sound of his name being called. He hasn't slept, hasn't done much but drink and for the first time since that awful day Champ desked him, his eyes are closed on their own.

“Jack.” Champ growls his name on the fourth try, and when the best he gets from the noncommittal agent sprawled out on his own living room couch after living at the bottom of a bottle for two solid days is nothing - he holds up the pitcher of water he poured in the kitchen and unceremoniously dumps it directly on Jack’s head and chest.

"SHIT!" Jack sputters, coming up off the sofa in a shock of cold water like he's been hit with a defibrillator. Reaching for guns in holsters that aren't there. "What the — what the fuck?" He demands when he realizes that it's Champ and he slumps back against the now soaked sofa. "Go away."

“Get up.” Tossing him a towel from his other hand, Champ ignores Jack’s order completely. “You got someplace to be in…” he checks his watch. “An hour and thirty-one minutes.”

“Imma off d-desk duty already?” Jack asks, bewildered and he throws his hand over his eyes and groans in pain.

“No.” It would be funny if it weren’t troubling, and Champ shakes his head. “You’re gonna eat something. You, me, Tequila, Ginger, and Diana.” It’s as good a crew to taste test food as any, not to mention they’re generally Champ’s favourite people. His own soulmate is working just the same as any other afternoon, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind being stolen away for a surprise dinner. Diana Rogers is always a fan of surprises, so Champ makes sure to keep them locked and loaded for her at all times.

Disappointment rolls through Jack along with a wave of nausea. He’s not as young as he used to be and he’s gone through a least three bottles. “Not hungry.” He huffs, turning away from Champ and making to lay back down. “Another time.”

“That’s not an option, friend.” Producing a cup of coffee seemingly out of nowhere, Champ holds it out to Jack and hooks the thumb of his free hand into his belt. “I need you showered and lookin’ presentable. And reasonably sober if fuckin possible, so I’ll have Ginger bring you something to help with that if you can’t manage it yourself.”

“Shit.” It feels like a million little hammers from Satan’s army is pounding away inside his head, but Jack sits up slowly and belches. Groaning when the sloshing in his stomach feels like he’s at sea in a dingy during a hurricane. “Yeah.”

“Fine.” The older man nods and offers the coffee again, glad when Jack finally takes it and at least sniffs the brew. “You got clean clothes, or did you ransack your own house along with your desk?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” Jack grunts at him, not quite making sense. “Why are you in my house?”

“You never shoulda given me a key,” Champ jokes, allowing himself to find a little humor in the moment.

“Remind me to get it back.” Jack scowls and takes a sip of the coffee, hissing when it burns his tongue.

“Now is that any way to talk to a man who’s feeding you dinner?” It doesn’t really have much to do with him and he knows it, but Champ is still going to tease his friend now that Jack is on the other side of the bottle.

“It is when you’re dragging me somewhere I don’t want to go to eat food I don’t think I can stomach.” Jack grouses, throwing Champ a halfhearted glare.

“You’ll manage.” He hadn’t wanted to use this as leverage, but it seems he’s going to have to. “She’s here, Jack.”

Jack blinks for a moment, the alcohol in his blood making him a little slower than normal and then he huffs. “Fuck, Champ, is that why you want me to have some dinner?” He demands.

“Yeah, that’s why.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at Jack, studiously ignoring the indignant tone in his friend’s voice. “She’s cookin’ it, so you’re eatin’.”

There is a staring contest that last for about a minute before Jack sighs. “Shit.” He sets the coffee down and manages to stand, swaying slightly. “Let me shower.”

“She doesn’t know.” Champ tells him, putting out a hand to steady Jack a little before he heads to the stairs. “And it ain’t my place to tell her.”

“Well that’s something.” Jack mumbles, suddenly even less inclined to attend than before. “And nobody else better run their damned mouths.”

“Only you, me, and Diana know.” He has taken his concern for Jack home to his wife, knowing that the younger man wouldn’t judge him or be upset over it. “She’s here to interview for a job.”

“Jesus, Champ.” Jack jerks to a stop and even though he regrets it, his head whips back to look at him. “An interview? Whadya gonna do? Make her an agent?”

Champ huffs, hot air escaping his nostrils and making him feel like a goddamn bull on the charge. “Make yourself presentable,” he rumbles. “I’ll send Ginger to pick you up.” Without another word, Champ rocks back on his heel, pulls Jack’s spare house key out of his pocket, and drops it on his coffee table on his way out the door. If he’s gonna be an ass, he can be one on his own.

Jack blows out a sigh, feeling like an asshole now that the door slams behind Champ. He was out of line and regrets the look of disappointment that he saw in his friend’s eyes. Shuffling to the bathroom, Jack strips and looks in the mirror, disgusted with the reflection he sees.

******

Given what you set out to do, it's a testament to hard work and a small miracle that you have everything done in time. The very last thing to come out of the oven will be the soufflés, and those are scheduled to be done as the first course as soon as Champ returns with his four person entourage in less than two minutes. If there is any mercy in the world they might even come early and be witness to the tray coming out of the oven, because that would be an incredible flex. Everything has been carefully plated and arranged, and you've probably sweated out three pounds of water weight from all the running around you've done in this kitchen, but every single piece of equipment here is pristine and glorious. If you don't get this job you'll be more disappointed than you've ever been to miss out on anything, but at least you'll have gotten to cook in this amazing kitchen once.

Jack is as nervous as a foaling mare around people. He has shaven his cheeks bare and slapped aftershave on until it stung. Combed his hair and put on clothes that are clean and fresh. He feels like he should be confident, but he’s not. His stomach is rolling and it’s not from the alcohol. He had thrown that up in the shower. He’s nervous to meet this woman, this soulmate.

"Look who's up and about." Tequila gives Jack his most encouraging smile as he spots his friend walking up the path with Ginger at his side. "Champ invite y'all to join us for this thing?"

“More like ordered.” Jack mutters under his breath, but he gives a halfhearted shrug. “Guess he figured I needed some fresh air.”

"And he cleaned up all nice for us." Ginger jokes, trying to lighten the mood as best she can. She knows Jack has been inside his own shell for a few days, and why, but she knows that getting him out of the house is the best thing that Champ could have done.

He’s still slightly queasy, but it’s because of who he’s about to meet since Ginger had given him one of her magic hangover pills. “Yeah, yeah.”

"Good." Champ's voice booms over the distillery courtyard from the other direction as he skirts a tour group with his arm around his wife. "Everybody made it on time. Let's get in there and find out what we're eating, huh?" Satisfied to see Jack dressed and upright, Champ heads straight for the side door to the building that will let them directly into the remodeled kitchen.

Jack frowns and wonders why the hell they are eating in the kitchen but he follows suit, dropping back to walk beside Tequila. “How’d you get roped into this?” He asks the younger man.

"Volunteered." Tequila tells him cheerfully. The truth is that he would have begged to come to this thing after hearing you talk about your food on the jet, but Champ had obliged him easily. "Never gonna turn down a good meal, you know me."

Jack huffs at that truth. “You do think with your stomach.” He jokes, reaching over and slapping him on the shoulder. “Have you met her?” He asks.

"Picked her up this morning." There's a flash of something like being pleased on his face but he shrugs it off. He's made sure that he's cleaned up and even better looking - in his opinion - than he had been this morning. Just in case those flashes of smiles and laughter he'd gotten on the flight were for the same reason his were.

Jack’s eyes narrow slightly at the tone and stature of the man beside him. There’s something in his voice that has him on edge but he can’t put his finger on it. “From where?”

"New Hampshire." Tequila's strides are just a tad longer than Jack's or Ginger's and he has to keep himself walking slower to be in step with Jack as Champ pulls open the door. "Flew her down on the jet. Champ's orders." The younger man still didn't really understand why a chef needed a security detail, but he was glad to oblige anyway.

It registers that Tequila doesn’t know. Champ had told him that he hadn’t said anything to you, but he had thought the agent had been brought into the loop. Jack relaxes slightly, his shoulders pulling down and he wonders if it’s a mistake. If you were meant to be Tequila’s soulmate and it would all be cleared up by the universe or fate or whoever was in fucking charge of all of this.

"Well damn," Champ chuckles jovially as the party files into the kitchen just in time to see you taking one last pan out of the oven on the wall. "Smells incredible in here. Looks like we made perfect time, didn't we darlin'?" You whirl around at the sound of the now-familiar drawl, prepared to answer the old-fashioned term until you realize that Champ has a woman on his arm when he walks into the room. She's about his age, bright-eyed and beaming up at him as she smiles, and your heart wrenches a little. No doubt this is Mrs. Rogers - most likely his soulmate - and the pang of knowing you no longer have a soulmate of your own sticks in your gut harder than you would ever admit. "Welcome back." You force yourself to smile and focus on the matter at hand, wondering who else the elder cowboy has wrangled for your little audition tonight.

Jack hangs back for a moment, almost unwilling to look towards the voice that sends a shiver down his spine. His mouth is dry and he rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. He doesn’t know what to expect, and he’s afraid.

“I’m set and ready to go, if everyone would like to take a seat?” You had taken the liberty of pulling six stools up to the end of one counter and setting out glasses of water right before you took the soufflés out of the oven, creating a small tasting table for everyone to sit at. “The first course is best served hot.”

There’s a moment where Jack just stands there. Unsure of himself and what exactly to do. His eyes looking from the table to the chairs and everywhere else until he finally looks up and sees you.

The small stack of plates in your hands hits the steel counter a little harder than you mean for them to when you glance up and meet the eyes of the last person to come through the door. He’s broad and lean, clean shaven except for an immaculate mustache and looking at you from under the brim of his crisp Stetson and your mouth runs dry almost instantly. As quickly as your eyes meet his you look away again, feeling your cheeks heat and the last thing you need is to be flustered while you’re trying to get through this thing. Just focus, you tell yourself, carefully laying out the plates to put each course on.

He feels like he’s been hit by a truck when his eyes meet yours. He hates it. Hates how his heart speeds up and his cheeks flush. Unable to shake it off as if it didn’t matter. The knowledge that you are his soulmate is weighing on him. He sees Champ shuffle, catching his eye and it makes him realize he had been staring. “What’s for dinner, darlin’?” He drawls out, as he would if it were any pretty woman.

"First course is a sweet potato soufflé with a blue cheese cream sauce." Carefully spooning the sauce over each soufflé and setting them down at the six places that you've set, you look around at the group and try very hard not to stare at this man you haven't met yet. "The play of natural sweetness with rich and complex cheese sauce makes for a dish that stands alone or compliments almost any protein."

Jack isn’t a fan of blue cheese and almost opens his mouth to say so, but there is something tantalizing about the smell. “Well shiiiiiiit.” Tequila speaks up before Jack can say anything. “That sounds disgusting but it smells like heaven.”

"I know blue cheese can be an acquired taste." More comfortable with the youngest of the men purely from having spent the most time with him, you shrug a little and chuckle softly. "But bold flavours are memorable flavours, and I believe in food being an important part of building positive memories." This meal is your sales pitch - selling yourself and your abilities to this company - and goddamnit a soufflé is just about one of the most technically difficult things to do perfectly. Which is exactly why you did it.

“Well I’m gonna dig in.” Tequila promises with a wink as he pulls a chair out to sit down. “Come on, Jack. You need to eat too.”

Jack. You do your best not to react with anything but pleasantness, and feel your shoulders relax as multiple sounds of enjoyment break out when people take their first bites. What starts out with hesitation from almost everyone turns into surprise and delight, and you have to admit that - if your portion is any indication - this is probably one of the best soufflés that you've made in an extremely long time.

There is something magical about the texture of this thing that he is eating. It’s creamy and sweet and savory. All of the flavors should clash but somehow they compliment one another and bring out the sharpness of the cheese and the sweetness of the yam. Jack groans after the first bite - surprised that it is not making his stomach do anything but demand more - and quickly goes in for a second bite.

“I think that’s a ‘yes’ from everybody, darlin’,” Champ chuckles, glad to see Jack acting like a human instead of a man-shaped bottle of liquor like earlier. Even if he’s not thrilled with his friend at the moment, it’s still good to see.

“It’s incredible,” his wife sighs, and she offers you a beaming smile. “I’d eat one of these every day for the rest of my life in whatever flavour you felt like.”

“Well, thank you very much, ma’am.” Even if she introduced herself as Diana on the way in, she’s still the spouse of the man making the decision about hiring you, so you’re going to be polite as hell. “They’re a particular favourite of mine, as well. I’m so glad you like it.”

Jack hates that he files that piece of information away, like he is memorizing your likes and dislikes. What does it matter? Your marks might be on his body but you aren’t his soulmate. His soulmate was Abigail Monique Daniels. Born April 24th 1976 and died August 12th, 1998. Instead of saying anything, he concentrates on his food, eating it faster than he anticipated, and slumps slightly when he’s done with the incredible soufflé.

When everyone has had what they like of the small first course, you collect the plates and deposit them in the sink before retrieving a set of six square plates from the fridge. Each has two petite sandwiches on them, and you set them in front of your panel of judges - for lack of a better term - with as much confidence as you can muster. “Our second course is dilled crawfish tea sandwiches. A distinctly Southern twist on a classic.”

“God, crawfish.” Jack groans, rolling his eyes and nearly drooling. It’s been awhile since he’s had the little mud bugs and he’s always enjoyed dishes with them in it. “This is— fuck—” He bites into the sandwich and his eyes widen in pleasure before they drift shut as he chews.

"I hate to agree with Jack," Ginger jokes, making everyone else at the table laugh. "But these really are excellent." Murmurs run through the group, but the buzz running through you is from Jack's very verbal reaction. Watching cowboys fluster and groan over little tea sandwiches is some kind of pleasure you never really expected, but it's gratifying in a very entertaining way. It's not, you tell yourself, that you find Jack incredibly attractive. Of course not. It's that this tasting is going so well. Yup. That's all it is.

“You’re gonna hafta make more of those.” Jack predicts, speaking to you for the first time. “Two ain’t gonna cut it once they taste ‘em.”

"They'll go straight on the menu, then." You may have been pushing the confidence a little bit until now, but this has you smiling immediately. This is going to work, you tell yourself, and ignore the little extra boost you get from someone you're attracted to liking your food.

“Damn.” Jack sits back when the sandwiches are gone, disappointed when everyone else is eating theirs, “I’d make a meal off of them.”

"Maybe sometime soon, you'll be able to." It's a hope, not anything cocky or pointed, and you don't even hear how it could be considered flirting as you take the second sandwich off of your own plate and place it on his when you get up to plate the next course.

He shouldn’t accept it, it’s part of your dinner, but he picks it up and nods towards you before he pops the sandwich in his mouth with a groan. The soufflé was good, but sandwiches like those are his weakness. Champ chuckles, leaning back on his hair with his arm around Diana. “Way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, ain’t it Jack?” He teases, making Jack glare at him.

"Sure is to mine." Tequila pipes up, oblivious to any underlying meaning in Champ's comment. "What's next on the menu, darlin'?"

"The last two courses are sweet." The plating for this has to be done right before serving because of the various textures at play, and you bring the completed plates over two at a time to take away the sandwich plates as you set down the next. "Buttermilk biscuits with strawberries macerated in honey, balsamic vinegar, and cracked black peppercorn. Topped with bourbon vanilla whipped cream." There was no way you were going to do this tasting and not make biscuits. As a staple of Southern cuisine, the quality of a restaurant's biscuits can make or break their entire menu.

“Bourbon whipped cream.” Champ grunts, looking impressed at the mention of a boozy addition to the meal. “It sounds good. Real good. Mighty glad we found you. We wouldn’t be eatin’ so well tonight.” He tells you lightly, looking over at where Jack is sitting.

“This is amazing.” The woman who introduced herself as Astrid hums in delight. "I never would have thought all these flavours could go together, but it's heaven." She grins at Champ before flashing you the same expression. "I might want this instead of birthday cake this year."

“Probably have something even better for birthdays.” Champ nods towards you. “She’s a baker. All things sweet.” That gets Jack’s attention, his love of sweets making him really interested in that.

"So far I haven't met a cake that got the best of me." It's not bragging, you decide, but selling yourself. This is still a job interview and a taste test, and these people need to know that you can rise to any occasion that might land in your lap. "What do each of you usually like to celebrate with?"

“Oh, red velvet.” Diana moans happily, leaning into Champ’s side. “It was our wedding cake, even though it was scandalous at the time.”

Champ chuckles and leans over to press a kiss to her forehead. “Always give my girl what she wants.” He jokes, winking at Ginger.

"Chocolate." Tequila's grin is impetuous, like the little boy who continuously got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Carrot cake, usually." Ginger smiles happily as she polishes off the last bite of her biscuit and its fruit sauce. "But I was dead serious about wanting this instead. That might be the best biscuit I've ever had."

"Well geez." You clear your throat, flustered at that level of compliment, while you file away the different kinds of cakes these folks might like to see pop up on a restaurant menu. "Th-thank you. Very much. That's an amazing compliment."

Jack squirms slightly in his chair. He doesn’t celebrate his birthday. It’s too painful. It’s a day he wants to forget exists. He hopes you don’t ask him about it.

“What about you two?” It’s like a horrific moment from some farcical comedy when you turn your bright smile on him and Champ. “No birthday favourites?”

Champ throws Jack a look and clears his throat. “I normally have red velvet, for the missus.” He tells you with a grin. “And Jack isn’t one for birthdays.”

“No?” This plate is a little larger, so there is more time to linger and talk. “That’s a shame.” But it also smacks of bad memories, so you just lend the man a sympathetic smile and try to ignore the twist in your gut that wonders if he lost his soulmate, too. “Well, I hope they start to be fun for you again sometime soon.”

Jack can’t offer more than a half hearted smile, doubting that very seriously but it’s nice that you care. Or at least make the appropriate noises. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen.” Tequila huffs awkwardly, giving a nervous chuckle.

Sensing the topic might be better left alone, you shut your mouth tight and stand from the table to collect empty plates. The last course is your ringer — your family’s favourite cake that gets made several times a year depending on who requests it for what occasion. Each small, star-shaped plate bears one large cupcake, decorated simply and beautifully. “The last course is coconut cupcakes with whiskey cream cheese frosting, using Statesman ‘82 Special Selection,” you explain as the last plate goes down. “I hadn’t tried it before, but Tex poured it for us on the flight here and the smoky vanilla notes are perfect for this application. Please, enjoy.”

Jack isn’t a coconut person. Never really cared for it, but his eyes close as he has a religious experience with a fucking cupcake. Groaning as he lets the flavors burst on his tongue and slowly chews.

Champ smirks, eyes crinkled in amused approval as he watches Jack fall in love with a goddamn cupcake. It’s damn good. He won’t deny that. But seeing Jack react this way when he knows his friend’s general aversion to the fruit is proof enough for him that even if you weren’t his soulmate, you’d still be the right person to hire for this job.

“I don’t even like coconut and I’d eat a hundred of ‘em.” Jack groans as he finishes up his cupcake and looks around the table at everyone else to get their input.

"How many times have you gotten men to propose marriage with this cake, honey?" Diana jokes, swiping up a missed blob of frosting with her finger so nothing is wasted. You laugh, an actual real, deep belly laugh, and shrug innocently. "Family legend says that it's how my Grandma Jane got her beau to propose," you admit. "My grandfather always said he was going to ask anyway, but we all think it was the cake." The family recipe is one of great important and great popularity, and clearly with good reason.

Jack shuffles in his seat, another damn fact to learn around you and he knows he won’t forget it. Damn mind is trained to remember facts and his brain seems to think that learning about you is a good thing.

"Your granddaddy'd be off his rocker not to ask after a taste of that." Tequila declares, leaving a completely clean plate in front of him. He's got a warmth in his chest and a pride in his smirk at having influenced something you made tonight, even if it's only by accident, and he swears to God that if Champ doesn't offer you whatever this job is, he'll hop back on that jet to New Hampshire himself to hear that laugh of yours again. "Dontcha think, Champ?"

Champ raises a brow at the obviously smitten cowboy and sneaks a glance at Jack who is studiously ignoring the entire conversation and drinking water like a dying fish. “Have to agree.” He chuckles, amused by the development and wonders how this little love triangle will play out.

"Well," you sit back on your stool, looking between the smiling, seemingly satisfied faces and feel your heart stick in your throat. You've done all you can do. If they like your food this much to your face but decide not to give you the job, then at least you put your best foot forward. "Thank you for your consideration. I'll clean up here and find my way to the address I was given to stay at tonight while you make your decision." The staffer, in her polo shirt and khakis, that had come by an hour into your cooking time had dropped off an address allegedly on the Statesman campus that would be yours for the night, but you didn't know yet if it was the same one that Champ had said on the phone would belong to the person who received the executive chef position. And right now you're far too afraid to ask.

“That sounds good, sweetheart.” Champ leans back in his chair and rubs his belly. “We’ve got some talkin’ to do, but thank you for a fine meal.” He turns towards the others, about to tell Jack that he should walk you to the accommodations you’re staying in, he should recognize there. But before he can, Tequila leaps out of his chair.

“I’ll walk you!” He blurts out, cringing a little at how loud he had gotten and gives a small shrug. “I mean, I’ll help you clean up and show you where to go, give you an unofficial tour.”

"That's very nice of you." He's sweet, this towering cowboy with the bright smile, and while Jack is far more your type, there's no denying Tex is attractive. "I'd appreciate the extra hand to figure out where I'm going. This place is kind of huge." If you've only got the one night here, it won't hurt to pass it in good company. As attractive as you find Jack, and as much as he seemed to like your food, you don't get the feeling that he likes you very much.

Tequila lights up and it takes everything in Champ not to snort at his eagerness. Jack looks like something’s stuck in his craw, his slight frown making the older man smirk as he watches the two of you gather dishes and carry them beyond the barrier into the belly of the kitchen. “You coulda offered, ya know.” Champ tells Jack, making the other man huff.

“I’m going back to my place,” He sulks, standing up and glancing towards the doors again, seemingly torn.

"At least say good night," Diana urges, seeing the hesitation on Jack's face. "She worked hard tonight and you liked what she made, so just...stick your head in? Say good night? There's no harm in being polite."

“Damn fool.” Champ hisses, making Diana turn and shush him. “Can’t see that it’s a damn blight on her memory to be actin’ this way.”

"Everybody mourns differently, Rick." Diana murmurs, shooting her husband a fierce look as they both watch Jack shuffle his feet at the turn of the long kitchen, debating whether or not to go in.

Jack has never had fucking sweaty palms, never. Not even when he was standing at the altar waiting for his sweet Abigail. Now, it feels like his hands are coated in baby oil. He can’t keep them dry, rubbing them on his jeans for the fourteenth time since he’s stood. “Damn Ginger and her hangover shit.” He mutters to himself, rolling his eyes over how juvenile he is being. Rolling his shoulders back, Jack assumes the bravado and cockiness that he is known for and pushes through the barrier to stride into the kitchen.

You practically jump when the door opens again, not having expected anyone to come in. Tex is beside you at the sink, loading the dishwasher after you rinse off plates, but when you spin around you're surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway with a charming grin painted on his face. "Jack." You swallow your surprise at seeing him along with the laugh that had been bubbling out of you when you heard him approach. "Can I help you with something?"

“I’ve got to get goin’ miss.” He murmurs, suddenly a lot less eager to escape, but it’s for the best. “Just wanting to thank you for the fine meal.” He reaches up and tips his hat towards you. “Have a good night.”

"Thank you very much. But hang on one second." Quickly running over to the fridge on the other side of the kitchen, you rummage for a few seconds before coming out with a container bearing the rest of the crawfish salad you had used in the sandwiches, and another bearing two more of the coconut cupcakes that he had ended up loving. "Take these with you," you insist, holding them out once you're in front of him again. "In case...in case I don't get the job, ya know? You seemed to really like these."

Jack opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out as he silently takes the containers. Touched that you would give away the extras because he had liked them. It’s only when they are against his chest does he remember that the entire point of him coming into the kitchen was to be polite. “Thanks, sugar.” He drawls quietly, looking down at the food. “I—I appreciate that.”

“It was very nice to meet you, Jack.” He seems slightly odd, or maybe just taken off guard, or maybe he’s sad. You can’t tell, but he was very nice about your food and you’ve always been the sort of person to return kindness with kindness.

Jack stares at you for a moment, conflicting emotions waging a war inside him as he does. Finally, he reminds himself that you don’t know who he is and he’s free to leave. He nods again and looks past you towards Tequila. “Behave.” Jack tells his younger friend, knowing that he can get rowdy when he wants.

“They call us Southern gentlemen, don’t they?” Tequila shoots Jack back a wink that you don’t catch and grins. “Y’all get home safe. I’m just gonna show our new friend here around the place.”

Jack frowns as he turns around and walks out of the kitchen, bitterness swelling in his gut and he hates it. He reminds himself that this isn’t his place. He killed your soulmate.

“He seems nice,” you observe, trying to shake off the odd feeling that washes over you when he looks sad again before walking out. Like you want to rush after him and give him a hug or something.

“Jack?” Tequila looks up from the pan he is washing and gives a shrug. “He’s a damn good man. Going through a rough time.” It’s not his place to mention it, especially to someone who’s not aware they are all agents. So he leaves it at that. “But he was right, those were some damn fine desserts.”

“Thank you.” The way that makes your cheeks burn is professional pride, you tell yourself unconvincingly. “I’m very hopeful. This…this job would be a dream, and everybody has been so nice. It would be…a real adventure, ya know? A big, fresh start.”

He chuckles and nods in agreement. “Workin’ for Statesman is never dull. Always havin’ an adventure or ten since coming on.”

Taking the last pan from him, you load it into the industrial dishwasher and shut the machine, pressing the button on the side before you wipe your hands. “What’s the most fun you’ve had working here?” You ask, wanting to see if you can get a feel for this place and these people and what their adventures might be.

“Well–” Any and all stories would have to be tamed down for your ears. Plus you don’t have a security clearance. “There was the time we had someone try to break into the facility to steal a barrel of the ‘65. It was personal then.” Tequila huffs. “Best damn batch we have.”

You’re about to ask how that could possibly be fun until you remember he’s security and you end up shaking your head and laughing. “Do you get that a lot? People trying to break in, or theft?”

“More than you’d think.” He snorts, knowing how it might seem crazy to a civilian. “It’s why our security system is so advanced. If you run across some hardware you don’t recognize, best to stay away.”

“Really? Wow. I wouldn’t have thought it would be that bad.” Leaning back against the sink, you stretch your arms and feel a little bit of satisfied soreness coming through your muscles after a job well done. “You must have a big team, then? Champ made it sound like a lot of employees live on the premises, but that would make this place absolutely huge.”

“Yeah.” Tequila hooks his thumbs through his jeans belt loops and grins at you. “Lotta technical stuff they do, don’t understand it, but the big brain was here. Astrid? She’s over our R&D.”

“Damn,” you murmur, impressed. “Well…are you up for that tour? I’d love to see the whole place.” Just in case it’s the only chance you get.

Winking at you, Tequila straightens and walks over to you to offer his arm. “Nothing like a nice night and a pretty girl to walk with.” He flirts.

“Why do I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m not the first girl you’ve ever said that to?” Not that you care, though. You’re not one of those uptight people who thinks people should only ever be with their soulmates. And even if you were? Well…you don’t have one anymore, so it’s kind of a moot point. Instead of lingering on it, you grab your bag from under the counter and take the arm you’re being offered with a smile. “Lead the way, cowboy.”

“Who knows, might be the last time.” Tequila murmurs, aiming another grin at you as the two of you make your way out of the kitchen and through the empty dining room. “This is going to be our newest venture.” He teases. “Some kinda tea room? With Whiskey? I don’t know but the food’s amazing.”

“Oh god, don’t curse it,” you groan playfully, wiping one hand down your face.

“Naaaaahhhhh.” He chuckles and opens the door for the two of you to walk out into the late evening twilight. “I can tell you’re gonna get it.”

“Either way, I’m glad I came.” Sure it’s different from New Hampshire. Drastically, in some ways. But you’ve lived your whole life on the sea coast and Louisville is a big city. It would be, just like this interview, a big adventure.

“You’ll be enjoyin’ the country and mountains in no time.” Tequila predicts, bringing you around to see the distillery up close.

The facilities are actually beautiful. Equally rustic and hyper modern depending on the building, with aesthetically gorgeous gardens lining all the walkways as far as the eye can see. The main building is full of offices, Tex explains, and even those are as beautifully kept as the rest of the grounds. It’s impressive, you have to admit it. You were absolutely right to think this place would make an amazing wedding venue. It will - for you or for whatever chef gets hired.

The path for housing is off the main distillery, secluded enough that people don’t feel like they are living at work. Trees and shrubbery separating the spaces so that it feels like a little relaxing oasis. The path way is lit, Diana insisting that it makes the entire area look romantic and of course Champ wasn’t going to deny her. “This is our housing.” He tells you. “We decided to go with the theme and model them after mountain ‘shine cabins. With modern conveniences, of course.”

There’s big houses and little houses, and what looks like a small apartment complex to one side of the neighborhood built on Statesman grounds. On the other side, beyond what you can only describe as a small park and grove of trees, are three much larger houses that smack of importance or seniority. “Who lives in those?” You ask, pointing toward the trio.

“Those belong to our senior staff.” He points at the largest. “That’s Champ’s in the middle and Jack and Ginger on either side of him.”

"Ginger?" Tilting your head at him slightly, you ask the quest with your brow slightly furrowed. "What does she do?"

Tequila winces, catching his mistake. “Astrid.” He corrects. “We just all call her Ginger. Nickname of sorts.” He can’t tell you that it’s her code name Ginger Ale.

"Got it." You nod, remembering that he had said Astrid ran the research and development department at Statesman - whatever that meant when it came to whiskey. "I'm guessing that one is hers?" The house on the right of Champ's is hyper modern with clean lines and very little of the mountain-aesthetic charm of the other houses around. It looks like it was made just for her with all the bells and whistles. Conversely, Jack's house to the left of Champ's looks like an almost Victorian-style ranch house with a wrap-around porch and a paint job as pristine as his mustache. It's much more your style than Champ's mountain cabin or Astrid's smart house, but since it doesn't matter at all you don't say anything about it. "Which one is yours?" The question is out of your mouth before you realize how exactly it sounds, and your eyes go wide with embarrassment just a split second later.

Tequila grins at you, sending you a small wink. “Come on, darlin’.” He drawls playfully. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” He knows you don’t mean it how it sounds, but he can’t resist teasing you. He moseys down the path and points to one of the small cabins. “That one there is mine.” He tells you proudly,

"It looks comfy." True to bachelor form, which you expected, the curtains hung in the windows are dark and 'masculine' in a deep shade of green, and a glimpse through into the garage reveals a large, shiny pick up truck that is probably his pride and joy.

“It’s where I hang my hat.” Tequila looks at the cabin fondly. It was probably the most secure he’s ever been in his life and he risks his neck on every mission. “And there’s where you’re stayin’.” He points at a newly built one off to the left, nearer to Jack’s. “It’ll be yours if you get the job. It’s furnished.” He rushes out. “So you won’t be sleeping on the floor or nothing.”

"We'd be neighbors," you laugh, as if everybody here doesn't live in the same neighborhood. It's a company town without feeling creepy or oppressive. This is the end of the road, both literally and figuratively, and you offer the man beside you a smile. "Thank you for the tour. And for being so friendly today. I've been nerve wracked since 9am, but whether you knew it or not, you helped calm me down. I appreciate it."

“No problem at all.” Tequila senses that you aren’t going to invite him in and while he’s disappointed, he’s not going to complain. Some women need to be wooed and you seem like the type to like the effort. “There’s a fresh bottle of the ‘93 in there, made sure of it. Lighter, but it’ll put you to sleep just like a baby.”

“Thank you.” There’s a hesitation, and though you can’t quite put your finger on why it’s there, you listen to your gut and squeeze his arm gently before slipping your hand out of it. You’ve never been one to fall into bed on a first date - and nothing about this very odd but fun day was ever a date to begin with. And hell, if you actually do get hired here, that could be a hell of an awkward situation. “Hopefully,” you shrug, feeling like if you don’t at least say something you’ll regret it later on. “I’ll see you again. Fingers crossed, and all that.” It’s so stupid when it comes out of your mouth that you almost wince. “I’m gonna retreat,” you announce, huffing at your own awkwardness and pointing a thumb toward the door of the little house you’re meant to stay in. “Before I embarrass myself or say something dumbass. Good night, Tex.”

“Goodnight, darlin’.” He sends you a wink and steps back from the cabin steps that you two had managed to drift towards. “Let me know if you need anything but I’m sure they put everything by you need in there.”

“I’ll come knock on your door if I need a cup of sugar,” you joke, reaching for the doorknob. Dumbass. You waited too long and said something dumbass. Chuckling instead of wincing, you say another good night and go inside. Time to call your family and tell them everything that happened today.

******

Jack tells himself that he is just making sure that you are safe. You are technically his responsibility now. At least until someone in the universe realizes they fucked up. Guilt is another reason why he’s standing in the shadow of the large oak tree, watching you walk into the cabin and close the door behind you. Tequila turns and strides towards his own cabin, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath and Jack sighs in relief when he doesn’t spot him.

The house is gorgeous. It’s simply decorated but welcoming, clean and crisp and clearly unlived in. The kitchen has a spectacular range and a huge fridge, which currently stands empty but has a map of the Statesman campus stuck to it with a Stetson-shaped magnet and there is a bottle of ‘93 on the counter as promised. Deciding to call home after you have a drink, you pour two fingers of single malt into a glass from the cupboard and continue to wander around the ground floor.

“You could always go talk to her.” Jack doesn’t react when Champ steps up next to him beside the tree. His own gaze fixed on the newly built cabin. “Can’t be more than thirty steps to her door.”

Jack purses his lips, unhappy that his friend is in his mind. “Champ…” He warns, not wanting to be pushed right now.

“Well,” the older man shrugs, a small smile on his face as always. Champ perpetually looks as if he’s up to no good - mostly because he is. “Somebody should tell her she’s got the job. Don’t see why she should be twistin’ til tomorrow morning.”

“You’re really going to do this? Open up some tea time type thing?” He huffs, unable to believe such a thing would go over well in the whiskey distillery. Even if you are an amazing baker. “Just to keep her here?”

“It’s a restaurant.” Champ reasons, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he watches you appear in an upstairs window. You’re on the phone now. “I wanted a steakhouse for the place, but Diana said it was boring.” He laughs, knowing his wife was probably right. “She’ll make a good run of the place, and she’s got a mind for expanding it to do weddings.” He glances down at Jack but doesn’t push the point. “Good head for business is what she’s got. We’d be lucky to snag her even if she weren’t who she is.” Or what you are to Jack.

Jack sighs, resigned to the fact that you will be here. He’s not opposed to the idea, he likes anything that makes money. But he knows this was catered to you so you would stay. “She’s gonna hate me.” Jack predicts, guilt hanging around his shoulders again.

“Maybe.” Though Champ chuckles affectionately. “Hell, you’re my best friend and even I hate you sometimes. But…she might surprise ya, Jack. Can’t know unless you try.”

“She’s not Abigail, Champ.” Jack whispers the words softly, almost shamed by them but he can’t help his feelings. He never expected to have another soulmate…ever.

“Of course not.” He answers immediately, brow furrowed over the very idea. “Nor should she be. You’re not the same man you were back then.”

“I– I don’t know how to be a soulmate anymore.” That’s his biggest fear. That he would be horrible at it, or God forbid, lose someone again. Jack is scared of nothing, but this has his heart hammering in his chest.

Champ sighs, softly and hopefully not enough for Jack to hear. “How about just bein’ her friend?” He suggests, wondering how in the hell this thing with Tequila was going to play out alongside Jack’s fears. You might end up being trouble for Statesman, he can’t know yet. “For all you know, this second soulmate of yours could be platonic and you’re worryin’ over nothing.”

Jack chuckles and it’s a harsh sound. “Have you ever known anything about me and another woman as pretty as her to be platonic? Few exceptions of course.”

“Only gorgeous woman you’ve ever been strictly friends with is Ginger.” Champ admits, snorting in amusement. “But I’d like to watch her wife whoop you for tryin’.”

This time, Jack’s laugh is lighter, more genuine. It was true that while Gabriella looks innocent, the woman could - and would - knock a grown man on his ass. He’s witnessed it at the bar more than once. “One if she crushes me with her thighs.” He jokes.

“I’m sure she’d oblige if you asked.” The two men laugh, feeling the tension dissipate a little, and Champ claps his hands on Jack’s shoulder in that brotherly way he’s become accustomed to do. “Tonight or tomorrow,” he tells Jack. “Tell her when you’re ready. But she’s goin’ home on the jet tomorrow to pack, not to leave for good.”

Sighing, Jack turns and watches Champ wander back towards his own house, Diana no doubt waiting for him. He should tell you tonight. Not let you wallow in misery and suspense. After you get off the phone, he’ll go knock on the door.

******

“I don’t know how it’s all going to turn out, but…I kind of love the people I’ve met so far,” you admit to your mother, sinking down in the window seat that faces the backyard of the little cabin that someone will soon be living in. The guest room has a beautiful reading chair and end table in it, but the master bedroom has a window seat so plush and comfortable that you could just sleep right here. “It’s beautiful here, too. It really is.”

“You said they loved it, that has to mean you are going to get the position.” As disappointed as she will be to have you move away, she knows that it would be fantastic for your career. “Your own restaurant! Just imagine what you could do without having to pander to someone else’s ego.”

“Dad will be thrilled to know the house has a guest room,” you joke, feeling hope flutter in your chest and staring out into the backyard with the now-empty glass still in your other hand. “And the yard could have room for a garden if I wanted.” You sigh, leaning back against the wall and wishing you didn’t have to wait until morning to find out. “If I don’t get it, we should bring him down here for his next birthday. Celebrate sixty-five with a distillery tour and a trip to Dollywood. It’s only a couple of hours from here.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” She promises, smiling at the wistful hope in your voice. You want this position, that much is obvious. “Tell me – how did the coconut cupcakes go over?”

“Like gangbusters.” And your giggle is nearly triumphant. “The owner’s wife joked that it’s good enough to get a proposal so I told the story about grandma and grandpa, and…” you grin to yourself thinking of Jack’s ecstatic reaction. “There was one guy at the tasting who doesn’t even like coconut who was completely in love with them. I think I may have converted him.”

“You know…your grandpa didn’t like coconut either.” Your mother practically cackles. “Said she won him over. Only coconut thing he would ever eat.”

“Seriously?” That makes you laugh a little harder, and you wish you had just one more sip of whiskey in the bottom of that glass. “I don’t want to jinx it,” you tell her finally. “But I have a really good feeling about this place.”

“Good feelings inspire good outcomes.” She hums, hoping that you will call her with good news tomorrow. “I can’t see them not hiring you after sending a private jet.”

“I hope so.” You really, truly hope so with everything you’ve got. “Either way, I’ll be home tomorrow. Either to pack or to wallow in disappointment.”

“Either way, we are going to celebrate.” If there was one thing that was taught in the household you grew up in, it is that even losses are celebrated. Because it meant you tried, and it would make you try again.

“Okay.” Nodding against your phone, you sigh softly again and roll your shoulders back against the wall. “I’m going to pour myself another drink and watch a movie until I’m ready to go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Relax, sweetheart.” Your mother murmurs softly. “See if they have a soaker tub to lay in. You managed to work on your day off too.” She tells you that she loves you and ends the call.

She’s right, but you decide that whiskey and a movie sounds better than a bath and you wander downstairs again. The bugs sound different here. Kentucky air smells different from New Hampshire air. But still, somehow, it could very easily become home.

Jack sighs when he sees you walk back into the living room, phone not pinned to your ear. He should go talk to you. The first step seems to take forever - the length of time it takes you to pour a drink - before he starts slowly walking towards your house.

The knock is unexpected, and part of you wonders who you hope is on the other side of that door - Champ with his decision or Tex offering company. Or even Jack, handsome and slightly sad Jack, though you can’t figure out why he would visit you. “Coming!” You call out, leaving your drink on the kitchen counter and hustling through the living room. A split second before pulling open the door you decide you’re hoping it’s Champ more than anymore, but when you see Jack standing on the front step instead, your heart jumps a little. “Jack!” It makes your voice jump, too, and you groan inwardly about being awkward around him yet again. “I—I wasn’t expecting anyone. What do you…” Be polite, dammit. “Would you like to come in?”

Swallowing, Jack gives a small nod as he curses himself for being a fool. It’s talking to a lady, something he had no problems with. It didn’t matter that he is wearin’ your ink. “It’s not too late, I hope? I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Not at all. I was just going to have a drink and relax.” There’s no reason on earth he should make you so nervous, but he does, and you bite the inside of your lip. “Would you like to join me?”

“Sure.” He’s not going to turn down some whiskey, even though they should have left you a ‘82. Better year in his opinion.

You pace back to the kitchen, pour a second glass, and bring it back to Jack with a thick swallow. “To what do I owe the visit?” If it were actually your house, or even a hotel room, you would feel so much more comfortable and be more at ease as you motion for him to sit. As it is, you just feel like you’re trespassing in somebody else’s home.

“Wanted to see if you liked the place.” Small talk is a good place to start, he guesses. Taking the glass with a nod of appreciation, he looks around. “Not just the cabin but Statesman itself. The whole shebang.”

"Honestly?" Sitting on the edge of the sofa isn't exactly relaxed, but you perch there with your glass in your hands. "I kind of love it. I mean I'm trying not to get too attached until I know what's going to happen with the job, but...I really like it. Everyone's been so nice and the whole place is so welcoming." It's silly to feel that way, you know that. But even after only a few hours, you can't deny it. "I have kind of an instinct about places, most of the time. And I have a really good feeling about this one."

“That’s good, sugar.” The endearment slips out, not the first time, but he realizes it this time. “Would you accept, if you’re offered it?” He’s curious to know what you are leaving behind, what you might balk at. Maybe you don’t believe in soulmates and have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.

This isn't the time to get all emotional over manners. Southern men using pet names is normal, not something to get you all flustered. Even though it does - as evidenced by the stack of cowboy themed romance novels on your bookshelf at home. "I think I would," you nod, letting yourself take a steadying sip of your drink. "It's...pretty literally my dream job, if I'm honest."

Jack nods, swallowing a mouthful of the whiskey, enjoying the burn of the liquid. He’s hesitating and it annoys him. “Then I guess that it’s a good thing you’ll get to live out your dreams, sugar.” He tells you with a whimsical smile. “The job is yours for the takin’.”

"Wait." Your eyes dart up to his, going from staring down into your cup to blown wide and hopeful in less than a second. "A–are you serious? Is that why you came?" It would be entirely inappropriate to start crying in front of a complete stranger, but you're instantly so excited you could burst.

“Champ’ll want you to sign papers in the morning, but I’m serious.” He nods and gives a small shrug. “Figured I’d bring you the good news so you didn’t have to worry all night. I always sleep like shit if I’m ponderin’ something.”

"Oh my god." Your heart is pounding and you feel like the blood pounding in your ears is so loud that he can hear it too, but frankly you're just glad that you manage to put your glass down on the side table without spilling it all over yourself. "Oh– oh my god." The way you practically squeak with glee makes you clamp both hands over your mouth in embarrassment despite the excitement glistening in your eyes. "I'm sorry, I just... really? Champ said yes?"

The genuine excitement and happiness that fills your face and eyes has Jack grinning despite himself. Your little squeak was full of joy and he can feel you vibrate with energy from where he’s sitting. “Champ said yes.” He confirms. “Hell, I think he’d be a fool not to say yes.” Maybe a bit of an embellishment on his part, but that’s because he knows you would be offered a chance to stay regardless of your skills. However, you truly are talented and Champ wants to make this tea room a reality.

“That’s so kind of you.” Your hands slip down, resting over your heart as you try to contain your excitement. If this wasn’t a complete stranger in front of you, you would be literally dancing with joy right now. “That’s so unbelievably kind of you Jack and I—” Breathe. Don’t get so breathless that you embarrass yourself. “I swear I won’t let any of you down.”

His heart clenches, knowing you will be saying something far different if you knew what he had done. There wouldn’t be a sort of hero worship he sees in your eyes even though he just delivered the good news. “Sugar, you make sweets.” He jokes. “There’s no way you could let us down. Unless the cake don’t rise.”

You laugh, charmed slightly at the term of endearment that is in almost every one of your cowboy novels but somehow seems even more appropriate now that it’s be used pointedly with you as a baker. “I would never let that happen,” you promise him, crossing one finger over your heart like a solemn oath. “My Grandma Jane would sense it somehow, rise up, and come down from New Hampshire to see me straight.”

Of course you would be from New Hampshire. Jack manages to not react and instead he gives a small chuckle like he was supposed to. “Now you should be able to sleep like a baby.” He considers it for a second and shrugs. “Or not sleep at all because you’re excited. This will be your house by the way. So imagine how you’re going to move things around.”

“I might not sleep because I’ll be rearranging things.” You’re brimming over, practically giggling and tearing up as your heart pounds with excitement. “This is…it’s…” The breath you blow out comes with another barely contained squeak. “I feel like I want to celebrate but I have no idea where to go around here.”

Jack lifts a brow, surprised you don’t want to get back on the phone but he chuckles. “Well, there’s Shootouts, about five miles down the road.” He tilts his head. “It’s a rowdy place most nights. But it’s fun.”

“Rowdy sounds fun.” Most of the time, the dive bar you frequented at home was full of locals having shouting matches and screaming at the hockey game on tv or bitching at each other over a shot at the pool table. Working in kitchens, rowdy is par for the course. Most people just don’t expect that of you when they find out you make dainty little cakes for a living. “Do you…” you tilt your head at him slightly, wondering why your chest clenches at the thought. “Would you want to come with? Or do you have someone to get back to?” That big house of his must be lonely if he lives there all alone.

He shouldn’t but he also can’t leave you on your own at Shootouts. He could see that being a disaster in the making. “Warning.” He cautions. “They sell beer and whiskey, no mixers or cocktails.”

“You say that like you think I’m going to fan myself or be scandalized.” Which is what most people who don’t know you assume, so you can’t blame him. “But whiskey’s always been my favourite flavor.”

Jack smirks, automatically coming up with a dirty come back but he doesn’t say it. Flirting would be wrong, even if you are beautiful. Instead he tilts his head towards the door. “Get your jacket then, sugar.” He tells you. “We’ll take my Bronco.”

Glasses abandoned to side tables, you grab your leather jacket off the rack by the door and pat the pockets to make sure your cash and cards are inside before following him out the door. His house is a mere five minute walk from the – from your house – and you marvel excitedly at the neighborhood around you when you step outside again. This is it. Your new home.

“Don’t eat the bar nuts.” Jack chuckles as he motions you towards the Bronco. “Think they’ve been there since the 40s. Let me grab the keys and we’ll go.”

“Got it.” You chuckle as he heads into his house. It gives you a moment to quickly pull out your phone, tapping out a text to the family text thread to let everyone know you’re going out celebrating your brand new job.

Jack changes from his sports jacket into a black leather one that would be better suited for the bar. Unconsciously matching you slightly with your own leather jacket. He grabs his keys and heads out the door and jogs over the Bronco, showing off by hopping in rather than opening the door.

“So is Shootouts where you usually go to hang out?” Tucking your phone away, you slide into the Bronco’s soft leather seats and buckle up. Now that you know you’re staying here, you want to know absolutely everything.

“It’s been known to be taken over by Statesman personnel.” Jack grins. “The locals can be a bit much but they are half drunk most of the time.”

“I’ve spent years hanging out with line cooks,” you tell him honestly, settling back in the comfortable seat as he pulls out of his driveway. “So that sounds pretty relaxing to me.”

“From what I know about kitchens, that checks out.” Jack laughs as he starts driving down the road to lead out of the Statesman property.

The ride is cordial, and fairly short. You mostly listen to the radio together, comparing notes on mutual favourite classic rock bands and talking about Kentucky in general. Finding out that Jack isn’t actually from here surprises you initially, but it’s a fond reassurance that this is a place that people grow to love and feel at home in. Something that you’re already starting to do after just a few hours.

Pulling into the gravel parking lot, Jack throws the Bronco into park and turns towards you. “If it ain’t your style, lemme know and we’ll get outta here.” The jukebox is cranking out a country rock song and the noise from the bar reaches all the way past the shine of the neon light.

“Don’t worry about me.” You assure him. Jack is funny and sweet, you’ve discovered, when he doesn’t have resting sad face. You lend him a grin and point your thumb at the bar. “I like a good country tune and a little line dancing now and then.” It’s an understatement, considering how much you love to dance, but you’re trying not to be overeager or infodump.

“Oh you’re gonna be like a tornado in a trailer park, ain’t cha?” Jack huffs and he hops out of the Bronco and walks around to help you out.

“Maybe.” You grin, tip of your tongue between your teeth and nose wrinkled on a grin when he comes around to the other side of the truck. “Very gentlemanly of you.” It’s simple, and polite, but when you put your hand in Jack’s to accept his help in climbing out of the Bronco you nearly shiver at the contact.

Jack’s mouth is suddenly dry and he needs a drink. The tingling of your skin against his is subtle, so much that he swears he’s imagining it. “Right,” he clears his throat and closes the door behind you. “Let’s celebrate.”

It’s loud inside, raucous patrons and well-placed speakers blasting country rock as a few people dance and some play pool; but most are gathered in booths and around tables talking and laughing and having a good time. “I like it,” you declare unequivocally, sensing immediately that this place is full of the best kind of fun.

Jack smirks, appreciating that you can enjoy the lack of fussiness. It’s a rustic place and some, especially the women who came here from big cities, didn’t care for its appeal. “Then let’s get a drink.”

You’re not an unrealistic person, and no matter how often Jack or the crew from Statesman might come here, almost nothing gets a bartender’s attention faster than being flirted with, so you pull on the front of your blouse just enough to deepen the vee of the neck and sidle up to the bar. The man behind the bar makes the expected beeline for the unknown pretty woman batting her eyelashes at him. “Statesman Red Label for me, and a glass of whatever my friend wants,” you tell him, motioning to Jack just beside you.

Snorting in amusement at how fast the bartender’s eyes drop down to your cleavage before even giving him a second look, Jack raises his brow. “Just gimme a beer.” He tells him, knowing that he should pace himself, especially given how rowdy the place will work itself up to as the night goes on.

“What kind of beer do you drink down here?” Even as you all the question, you’re checking out the tap handles to see if there’s any you don’t recognize. After all, local beers change region to region. You’re not exactly betting they’ll have Sam Adam’s Summer Ale here when the weather gets warmer.

“They have all the domestic.” Jack tells you as he nods towards the draft handles. “But they also keep the Kentucky Bourbon Ale on draft.” He chuckles, knowing that it’s a bit of a cliche. “Best damn beer you’ll ever have.”

"That will have to be drink number two," you tell him, taking the recommendation seriously considering he - and you now - work for a distillery. You'll pace yourself, of course, but you're celebrating and can drink most line cooks you've known under the table. Two drinks is nothing. "The Red Label is always my celebratory drink. Well...normally it's a Red Label Manhattan, but you said they don't mix drinks here."

“We’ll have to make sure you have a bottle of Red Label then.” Jack leans against the bar and decides that it’s only polite to ask a question. “So Statesman isn’t a new whiskey to you, huh? Do you drink it often?”

"It's my dad's favourite. And became mine, too." He smells clean and woodsy and there's something musky like surprisingly high end cologne coming from him that makes you want to just curl into him and sigh in comfort - but that's a goddamn weird thing to think, so you just enjoy the sort of halo around him. "Today is definitely not the first day I've used Statesman in my baking. I just never knew much about the company before." You shrug slightly, trying to seem relaxed instead of like a damn cavewoman with goosebumps from being so close to him. "I guess that's going to change pretty quickly."

“Considering you can go into the distillery and draw some straight from the barrel to put into your cakes and pies, I’d say so.” Jack groans as he imagines it. “If you make bourbon soaked peach cobbler with vanilla bourbon cream, I’d sit up and beg.”

"That sounds like a hell of a twist to my peach cobbler. Bourbon soaked grilled peach cobbler with vanilla bourbon ice cream that also uses Bourbon vanilla." You hum a little, digging for your credit card when the bartender reappears with your drinks.

“Now you really expect to pay?” Jack might have his moments, but he’s a gentleman. “Put that away. Drinks are on me.” He tells you, turning to the bartender. “Put them on my tab.”

"As long as you let me pay next time we go out." You shouldn't get a little thrill at the idea, but Jack is the spitting image of every single cowboy love interest in every one of your books - or at least the way you picture them. Even if he's just a friendly face you see from time to time, you're damn well going to enjoy it.

He frowns but doesn’t say no. It’s hard to let someone else pay, especially when it was a woman. Not because he was sexist or some shit, but because his daddy would roll out of his grave and whoop his ass for letting a woman pay while she was out with him. Instead of making it a thing, he picks up his beer. “To new jobs and delicious sweets.” He toasts. “Cheers, sugar.”

"Cheers." The rim of your glass taps the neck of his beer bottle and you smile before taking your first sip, loving the familiar burn and cherry-caramel tones of this particular bourbon. There's a reason it's your favourite. "So tell me about Statesman," you ask, turning and leaning against the bar to face Jack. "How long have you worked there?"

Jack hums, thinking about it. “Since ‘99.” Champ had come around the year after Abigail had…. “So you can say I’ve been there awhile.” He interrupts his sad train of thought and quickly takes another swallow of his beer. “It’s turned from a two bit operation into what it is now.”

Since ‘99? You blanch a little thinking about how young you were then but decide not to say anything since it hardly matters anymore. Grown ass adults are grown ass adults. "Tex said you used to work security?"

He can't answer that. Or, doesn't want to so he merely grunts and gives a quasi nod. Delving into his background would reveal too much that he doesn't want you to see. Champ still hasn't told him what kind of security clearance you will have, if any, and it wouldn't be right to start unfolding how Jack had been recruited to the agency.

Okay…maybe not talking about work, then? He seems reticent and you don’t want to accidentally upset the man you came out with - for various reasons. Not the least of which is that you do not like being the reason people are upset. “He, uh– Tex speaks very highly of you,” you try again, steering it in a slightly different direction.

Snorting, Jack sends you a look of amusement and lifts his beer up before taking another sip. "He should, I got him the job." He tells you, remember the skirmish that he had gotten into and been surprised when the rodeo clown had been very cool under pressure.

“Yeah?” That would definitely account for some of the way Tex talked about his older coworker, and you have to wonder if more people at Statesman have close working relationships or if these two men are outliers. “That must be a good story.”

"Not much of one." Jack hums, giving another slight shrug. "Way he tells it is that I was having my ass handed to me and he had to come save the day. But I was holding my own. It was eight to one." He smirks and sends you a small, cocky wink.

It is extremely cavewoman of you to find that so sexy, you tell yourself, burying the way you have to bite your lip behind your glass to keep from saying something suggestive, and taking a sip. “What did you do piss off eight guys?” You ask instead, trying to look only mildly curious instead of on the edge of your seat.

He can't tell you that he was running down a human trafficking ring so he just sends you a small smirk. "They were pissed off that I hit on one of their girlfriends." He boasts, figuring it was as good of a story as any. The real story was that he had managed to get one of the women out and they hadn't been happy when they stumbled upon them leaving.

“Scoundrel.” It’s just teasing, and you don’t hear how much like flirting it really sounds as you shake your head at him in amusement. “I hope she was worth fighting over.” It occurs to you for the first time that he might have somebody waiting for him in that house on the edge of Statesman grounds and your stomach twists unpleasantly.

"Comes with the territory." He looks around for a moment, trying to ignore how your lopsided grin makes his pulse tick up. "You bringin' someone special with you?" He asks, telling himself he's just asking so he can assuage this guilt over killing your soulmate.

“Oh, sure.” You know what he means, but it isn’t the case. There hasn’t been much time for dating lately and with the disappearance of your soulmate’s marks, you’ve been processing the disappointment in knowing that true love is officially off the table - which might make you feel dumb sometimes but at least you’re honest with yourself about being disappointed to have to live without it. “I think my goldfish is really going to like the new house.”

Not sure if he’s relieved or even more guilty, Jack nods. “Sure think Goldy would like the eastern window, huh?” He asks, chuckling to himself as you take a sip of your drink. You’re easy to get along with and if it weren’t for who you are, he can’t even deny he’d be doing his damndest to take you back to his bed tonight.

“Yes, the Doormouse will love the eastern window,” you over-exaggerate, laughing as you think of walking your little fish tank around the house presenting the goldfish with multiple options for a view. “He’ll insist on a stroll around the garden each day, I’m sure.”

“You should build him an outdoor swimming hole.” He chuckles, leaning into the idea. “Maybe a stream so he can pretend he’s free.”

“I think the backyard of the house is too small.” It’s not something that bothers you at all, since you hadn’t even thought of it yet, but you hum over the image and let yourself indulge in the fantasy. “A pond with a little stream and a garden of flowers and herbs. That’s what he’ll get to adventure through one day. But maybe not yet.”

“Hell, that sounds like a good little adventure to me.” Jack muses, an amused little smile on his face.

“Should I call you the Doormouse, too?” You tease, even though you have a feeling that grin of his makes him more like a troublesome Cheshire Cat.

He realizes that you are making a reference to Alice in Wonderland and for a brief second, his mark - your mark - seems to burn. “Like the movie or the book?” He asks casually.

“Well…the Doormouse is in pretty much any adaptation of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or Alice Through the Looking Glass.” The fact that he recognizes the character isn’t exactly niche, but it’s certainly not like you called him a Mad Hatter or something. “They’re…they’re my favorite stories. They have been since I was a kid.” As if to prove it, you pull up your right shirt sleeve and show him the tattoo on your arm. “I guess you can blame my obsession with tea parties on it, too, honestly.”

He learns a little bit about you, probably more than he would have if he guessed. “What’s the appeal?” He asks, curious as to why a child’s story has carried into adulthood.

“Haven’t you ever felt terribly ordinary?” To you, it seems like it must be a universal experience. Everyone, at some point in their life, has felt like the least extraordinary person in the world. “Maybe it’s juvenile, I don’t know. But the idea that Alice feels so entirely ordinary in her existence, and then falls into someplace entirely wonderful…even if it’s scary at first? It seems like that’s something everyone deserves. To find the place and the people that make them feel that life is extraordinary.”

“Have you found your wonderful place yet?” He can’t fault your logic, understanding now the ink that is in his own skin. “Or are you still looking?”

“I’m still looking.” Shifting your sleeve back into place, you shrug half-heartedly. You had thought that finding your soulmate would help you to that extraordinary life, but now that will never happen. If anything, you feel farther from it than ever. Although you’re not the sort to give up hope. “But who knows? Maybe it will be Statesman.”

“Statesman has a way of collecting a ragtag bunch of people.” Jack confides, knowing he is better because of his involvement with the organization. He would have been dead by now if Champ hadn’t come along. “And we have whiskey.” He adds, sending you a wink.

“And now you have crawfish sandwiches and coconut cake, too.” A little wink shouldn’t be anything to fluster over, but you can feel your cheeks heat instantly.

“For someone who said they are a baker, you make a mean crawfish salad.” Jack groans, wishing he had some right now.

“They’re even better when they’re on fresh baked bread.” You tell him, maybe a little smug even though you’re just being honest. “Champ said I get to design my own full menu, so I promise they’ll be on there.”

“I’ll be swinging by everyday for lunch if you’ll let employees eat.” Jack promises, lifting his beer to his lips again. “Have to start running again. Or beat the shit out of Tex in the boxing ring some more.”

That makes you snort - as inelegant a laugh as it is - and you’re just lucky you hadn’t taken another sip of whiskey yet. “What did the poor boy ever do to deserve a beating?” You plead his case for him since he isn’t here to do it himself. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were brothers with that kind of threat.”

For a split second, jealousy rears its ugly head before Jack tamps it down. The defense of the younger man has him puffing up his chest slightly and he exhales on a laugh. “Near as, I guess. But I’m the older, more handsome of the two.”

Well…he isn’t wrong, and you’re not going to contradict him. Instead, you down the last sip of whiskey in your glass with a tip of your head and hold out your hand. The jukebox is playing good music and you’re feeling bold. “C’mon, older and more handsome.” You put your hand out to him, praying you’re not making a mistake. “Can’t celebrate without dancing a little.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate, but he’s cautious. Sure that he’s going to fumble and reveal something. “Don’t complain if I stomp on your feet.” He teases with a grin.

“I might be a bull in a China shop ” you tease, thrilled that he didn’t turn you down as you step away from the bar together. “Only one way to find out.”

“Only one way.” Jack murmurs, remembering Champ's words about getting to know you as he turns around and walks backwards onto the floor holding your hand. Before he pulls you into his arms, he twirls you around to the beat of the music.

You practically squeal with glee at the surprise of being spun around, expecting that he would be able to dance but not necessarily expecting he could move. Stevie Ray Vaughan is blasting out of the jukebox and you’re suddenly glad that one boyfriend in culinary school had been into swing dancing, because Jack definitely knows what he’s doing on a dance floor. He has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room while you’re talking - which they also say about politicians and other charismatic characters - and it’s magnified when he dances. There’s something carefree about him like this, or maybe it’s that he makes you feel carefree. Either way, each time he spins you back into his arms or slides his hand around your back, you swear you hold on just a little bit tighter.

It’s been a long time since Jack has danced for the pure pleasure of it. For a mission, to seduce - he’s put himself out on the dance floor. But he’s not on a mission and he has no intention of seducing you so this is almost carefree. Making him grin when you give a throaty laugh as he swings you around again.

The song changes but the tempo doesn’t, and you’re having so much fun that you barely notice the other couples that have gravitated to the dance floor with the magnetic energy you and Jack are giving off in waves. ’Sharp Dressed Man’ seems like an anthem for the men of Statesman from everything you’ve seen, and you laugh happily at the whooping and hollering from the other patrons of the bar. As long as you’re attached to Jack somehow, everything else in the world just drips away.

There’s a softness in your laugh, the way you toss your head back that makes Jack relax. Right now he’s not thinking about soulmates or his sins. Just the pure pleasure of dancing with you. There are no ulterior motives here, no games. Nothing but joy and exactly what you came here for - celebration. But when Jack spins you back into his body and your arms fall around his shoulders to hold him to you on the last beats of the song, you swear your heart has leapt to your throat.

There’s a two second change from the songs. Suddenly slowing things down and the laughter of the moment gives way as your features settle, making Jack clear his throat. “Um, uh, you want to play some pool?” He asks, knowing that it wouldn’t be a safe bet asking him to slow dance with you. He can’t get pulled into the moment and he feels like that would happen.

“I—um…sure.” Disappointment. That’s what the bitter taste in your mouth is, you realize once you process the complete hundred and eighty degree turn the moment just took. It could not be more loud and clear if he had said it in words: Jack has no romantic or sexual interest in you whatsoever. Well, fine. If that’s the way he feels about it then you’ll just compartmentalize for now and deal with it later, as your disappointment definitely is a sign that you were on your way to feeling something. You step back, not wanting to crowd him and make him uncomfortable, and nod awkwardly as you wipe your damp hands on your jeans. “Let me just…grab us another round?” You can still be friendly, after all. There’s no harm in that.

“You go pick a table sugar, I told you that you ain’t paying for drinks tonight.” Jack gives you a friendly grin, seeing the disappointment in your eyes. It echoes the same sentiment that is beating in his chest, although he knows you would feel different if you knew the truth. “You want a beer this time?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” you nod, assuming he won’t have shitty taste in beer. Not if he works for a distillery.

“Be right back.” He can’t help himself, hand reaching out and squeezing your hip reassuringly before he turns to head towards the bar to get the beers. Maybe have a shot too.

Blowing out a gruff, annoyed-at-yourself breath, you turn in the opposite direction to find a pool table like Jack suggested. There’s a group of a half dozen or so men milling around with cues and drinks and you can’t quite tell which tables they’re occupying, so you figure it’s just easiest to ask. “Either of these tables free, fellas?” You ask, shoulders tipped back with your hands in your back pockets, figuring that tits subtly on display is just an easier way to cut into the conversation. It worked with the bartender, didn’t it?

The self appointed leader of the group, a tall, burly biker complete with leather riding vest and an American flag bandana on his head, looks you up and down and chuckles. “Do you want us to teach you, baby doll?” He asks, the thread of mocking obvious in his tone. Holding up his pool stick, he points to it. “You hit the balls with this. It’s a pool stick.” The other men laugh and snicker along with him.

“I’m sure you boys don’t wanna be bothered with some girl in the way, so I’ll just grab the other table for me and my friend.” It’s not worth explaining to these Neanderthals that you know how to play. That your first cooking job was in a bowling alley and pool hall that served the most amazing burgers and sandwiches of all time. The other line cooks and the chef had all been fans of the games and taught you all their tricks.

Chuckling again, he places his que on the floor and leans in. “How about you play with us, sweetheart?” He asks, grinning. “We’ll only bet small amounts.”

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. They’re assuming you can’t play and you’re absolutely certain you can hold your own — if not downright wipe the floor with them. But your pride is stinging a little from feeling like Jack rejected you, so you flick your eyes up to the leader of the group and shift your weight into one hip. “How small is small?”

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, the group of men seem to crowd around you. The talkative one rubs his chin and pretends to consider for a moment. “We’ll say…hundred bucks a ball?” He offers, like is the deal of a lifetime.

It's too good. They're too cocky and too blinded by their own ridiculous posturing to see that you have given them absolutely no reason to think you can't play. But hey - you started the morning playing patty cake with your niece, punctuated it by flying on a private jet and being offered your dream job, and now you're about to end it by whooping these idiots' asses. What does it matter that one handsome brand-new acquaintance didn't want to slow dance with you? This isn't middle school. Shaking off the urge to smirk, you put out your hand with full confidence. "You got yourself a deal."

Jack whistles to himself when he comes over, two beers and two shots in hand to see that you are around a table with the Broncos Bike Club. Assholes when they get beat and sore winners when they don’t. “Well sugar, I see we are in for some fun tonight.” He drawls as he sets the beers down on the side of the table and hands you a shot. “You know what you’re doin’?” He asks quietly.

"I wouldn't get sucked in on a hundred bucks a ball if I didn't," you whisper back, tapping your shot glass against his before downing the liquor and sighing happily at the burn. That definitely wasn't Red Label, but it was good. You'll have to remember to ask Jack what it was later.

Jack grins and gives you a small chuckle. “Lemme guess, they think you don’t know what a pool cue is? Did they call it a stick?”

"A pool stick." Nodding solemnly to keep from giggling, you pick up the beer that Jack brought you and take a sip. The choice earns a happy hum from you, and you reach for a cue and chalk from the rack on the wall. "All I did was ask if one of the tables was free."

“Morons.” Jack huffs before he moves closer and leans down towards your ear. He knows what the outcome will be but he encourages you anyway. “Kick their asses, sugar.”

"Oh, I will." Playful instinct tells you to smack a kiss to his cheek but you don't, figuring that there's no use in anything affectionate like that if he has no interest. And though you might be playful or casually flirtatious with your friends most of the time, you don't yet know if he is - so it's better to just not. Instead you chalk up your cue and turn to face the table. At a hundred dollars a ball, this is going to be a hell of a game.

“Well boys.” Jack puts his hands on his hips and chuckles. “Rack ‘em up.”

They make a big show of it, condescendingly pointing out the order of the numbers on the balls and laughing amongst themselves, and you swear it just makes you wish you were wearing heels so you could grind them into the floor with the spikes. "Are you gonna keep running your mouth or do you actually want to play?" You ask, leaning against the pool table with your beer in one hand and the cue in the other. At this point they're bordering on pissing you off.

Buster, the leader of the group, sends you a condescending smile and motions to the table. “Lady’s first.” He chuckles and looks back at his buddies. “Bet she can’t even break properly.”

Jack huffs, watching as you take a large swallow of your beer and set it down on the edge. Leaning over the table as you line up your cue, he can’t help but glance at your ass. Lord have mercy, you have a nice one. You set up on the right of the Baulk line and look up at him right before you take your shot. “Stripes.” You call before the cue ball even strikes the group and Jack watches as the 9 and 11 balls drop into the corner pocket.

“Damn.” Jack whistles, grinning at the sour looks on the boy’s faces. “Lucky break.”

"Beginner's luck," grumbles one of the other men, leaning back on a nearby table with his beer in one hand and several empty glasses nearby.

"No givin' her pointers," demands another, pointing at Jack threateningly. He saw the dandy checking you out when you bent over to break and dancing together before that. And he ain't an idiot.

Jack holds his hands up and makes a face of compliance. He’s not going to try to sway the outcome of this game, although he knows how it’s going to end up. Luckily, the bartenders and bouncers are used to Statesman agents quelling bar fights, or starting them only to finish them, so they never interfered. “Lady’s game.” He promises, watching as you walk around the table, analyzing your next shot before deciding that you would bank the cue ball off the left corner of the table to drop it into the right pocket. Jack sips his beer as you do exactly that.

Buster shifts the way he's standing with affected laziness, seeming as though he is barely paying you any attention while he actually watches to make sure you're not cheating. "At least do us the favour of bendin' further over the table when you shoot, babydoll." He chuckles, not giving a single goddamn ounce of care for manners. He takes what he wants, and right now he wants a view. You roll your eyes subtly at Jack, letting him know that you're not bothered, and intentionally squat at the table instead of bending as you check out the angle for your next shot.

Jack huffs in amusement, a small smirk on his face when he watches you sink the next two striped balls without so much as brushing by the solids.

One after the next, the striped balls drop into the pockets on command, and the men around you grow more and more flustered with every shot. By the time only the 8 ball remains, there is practically steam pouring out of their ears and one of them has all but literally thrown his hat on the ground, but you remain placid. No gloating or teasing that will make their moods worse is due here. The satisfaction of proving them wrong by winning is all you're aiming for.

“Now, if I ain’t mistaken things….” Jack drawls, rubbing his chin and staring at the table. “She sinks this, she wins. Right? Or are you wantin’ her to clear the table?”

The deliberation happens in grunts and glances, as Buster's minions decide that the best way to teach you a lesson is to have you do more of what you have amply proven that you're good at. They only need you to fuck up once for them to run you off the table with insults and heckling. "Clear it." Buster insists, somehow managing to follow the string of unintelligible sounds that the men around him made.

The smirk Jack gives you is smug and he nods. “You heard ‘em sugar.” He chortles. “You gotta clear the board to win. 15 balls.” It’s obvious that the numbskulls didn’t think about the fact that they would have to pay you an additional $700 for that, but Jack did. He sends you a small wink and an encouraging nod.

If, one day many years in the future, you're ever a famous enough chef for there to be a film of your life, you're going to insist that this pool game be a part of it. Each ball is its own geometric problem to solve, but you do it carefully, and you do it well. The expressions of sheer and utter dismay on each man's face turn to ruddy anger as you call “Eight ball, corner pocket” and sink the very last ball with a tiny tap, sending it spinning into the corner pocket that it was sitting next to. "Well, boys," you lean against the table with a satisfied grin and rest one hand on your cue. "Looks to me like this empty table is going to end up emptying some wallets."

Jack finishes the rest of his beer with a sigh, draining the mug and setting it down on the high top table a few steps from the pool tables. He knows what’s about to happen and his lasso and whip are tucked away behind his jacket, ready to go.

“You tricked us, you bitch!” Buster growls, backed up by the agreeing ‘yeah’s from the motley crew behind him. “You said you couldn’t play pool.”

“Did I?” Sure you’ve hustled a few times in your life, but you definitely didn’t tonight. Your head ticks to one side and you lean against the table easily. “Or did you just assume, because I’m a girl?”

From the way his face blanks for a moment, buddy boy knows that’s the truth but when it passes, there’s a decidedly mean look on his face. “I’m not payin’ a fucking hustling whore a fucking dime unless she’s sucking my dick.” He growls, making Jack’s jaw instantly tighten.

“Now Buster,” Jack slowly drawls out, turning their attention from you to where he is standing with his hand on his hip as he shakes his head. “You kiss your momma with that mouth?” He asks. “You owe the lady an apology and fifteen hundred dollars. Fair is fair.”

“She ain’t play fair!” The scrawniest of the group points at you like he’s about to accuse you of witchcraft. “Schemin’ cunt don’t deserve anythin’ but a lesson.”

There’s a lot of talk that Jack will let slide, especially in a rough and tumble place like this, but the boys don’t know they just fucked up. His eyes darken and go flat, the edge of a smirk on his lips has no humor in it. “You might want to take that back, Junior.” He spits, fingers itching to grab his whip. “No need for that or I’ll be teachin’ the lesson.”

“Jack…” Glancing back at the man you came here with, you can feel the change in the air here without hesitation. While it would not in any way be your first bar fight, you’re not sure that these are the kind of fellas you ever want to throw the first punch against. Not because you’re afraid of getting your ass handed to you, but because you don’t like the prospect of spending your first night in Louisville getting arrested.

“What the fuck are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?” The scrawny one - the one Jack called Junior - drawls as he reaches into his pocket. Out comes his hand again a second later, now adorned with brass knuckles. “Only thing you oughtta even be considerin’ is gettin’ this dried up cunt bitch out of our sight before we make her regret lyin’ to us.”

His chuckle is low, rusty and his own hand reaches behind his back to pull out the butt of his retractable whip. “Manners maketh man, Junior.” Jack hums. “That’s the lesson today.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Scoffs another man in the group - the broadest of all of them - as he cracks his knuckles in your direction.

“It means a Kentucky ass-whooping.” Jack declares, right before Junior decides to launch himself at Jack. With the single press of a button, the whip spirals out from the handle of the whip and Jack wastes no time cracking it through the air to wrap around the man’s throat as he yanks back on it to send the burly biker careening past him and into the table right behind Jack.

It all happens in a split second, and you’re smart enough and quick enough to dive behind Jack right before it does. You can defend yourself. You absolutely can, and have on multiple occasions. But fuck if seeing Jack step in for your honor isn’t one of the goddamn sexiest things you’ve ever experienced. Two of the bikers throw themselves at him on command, with just a glance from Buster, as Junior’s face comes into collision with the flat of the table.

A fight is like a well coordinated dance. Timing and footwork are everything. Jack flicks his wrist and the whip unwinds from around Junior’s neck to slash around and strike one of the two across the cheek, slicing open the skin as neatly as any knife. Causing the man to howl in pain and stop in his tracks as he grabs his face. The other keeps coming, making Jack smirk as he pulls back the whip and tucks it away before pulling out his lasso. He might be showing off as he twirls the rope, but he doesn’t look over for your reaction as the man charges towards him.

A barfight it’s not supposed to be sexy, you lecture yourself sternly, finding that you’re too mesmerized to even hide. The men clearly don’t feel the need to fight you, only Jack, so you’re left standing with your back to the nearest wall in awe of how fucking agile he is. But where did he—? Is that a lasso? What in the hell…

When Jack ropes the man, he drags him towards him. His fist coming out as he strikes him directly in the nose with one, two, three rapid punches.

“Fuckin pretty boy city slicker and your hustlin’ whore!” Buster’s patience has worn thin, watching his minions drop around Jack like so many fruit flies. He charges at the two of you like a bull, and for a second you’re certain he’s aiming to ram his head right into your stomach against the wall.

Jack looks over, whirling his lasso over his head now that the other man has crumpled to the floor at his feet. Snagging the table, Jack rocks back on his heel and heaves, the momentum dragging the lightweight table up and hurling it through the air towards Buster.

Ducking to your right, you dive out of the way just a second before the table connects with Buster’s side. It sends him in the other direction, propelling him into the wall and crumpling in a heap on his side as he clutches his bleeding head and howls in pain - bandana’d skull connecting with the sturdy wooden walls instead of with your abdomen and compounded with the force of splintering wood on his back.

There are two more that had decided that the better part of valor was staying out of it and Jack raises a brow at them to ask if they wanted to try their hand at him.

The older of the two remaining men clears his throat and straightens his back, knowing he doesn’t have a dog in this fight to begin with. “Pay the lady,” he orders his friend, a little under his breath.

Jack watches warily, coiling his lasso up as the other one begrudgingly pulls out a stack of bills. “Lay the bills out on the table and then get your friends out of here. They’re done for the night.” He tells them sternly. He doesn’t trust them not to try to cheat you out of the full amount and it’s also a lesson in humility.

The younger man bristles at having to be the one to pay, but he begrudgingly does as he’s ordered. Fifteen hundred dollar bills all lined up on the felt would be a big enough adrenaline rush even without everything that had just happened, and you watch him count them out carefully. Once the total you’re owed is sitting in plain sight you reach for the bills, tucking them into the front pocket of your jeans. “Well?” You nod your head toward the crumpled, groaning masses of their friends. “Pick ‘em up.”

Only when they turn to their friends and the atmosphere of the bar has turned friendlier as other patrons return to their drinks or conversations does Jack grin at you. “Weeeewh.” He huffs, reaching up and readjusting his cowboy hat with a cocky jaunt. “Kinda feelin’ like a tornado in a trailer park.” He jokes before he cocks his head towards the bar. “Want another round?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoyed that.” One eyebrow ticks up at Jack as you look around at the mess you made. One broken chair and one smashed table, with other things out of place - it could be much worse. You can’t help the way his sheepish smirk makes you smile, relieved laughter bubbling out of you. “Yeah,” you agree, feeling the pulse of excitement and attraction. Even if he’s not into you, you absolutely can’t deny being into him after that Purebred Cowboy display. “Let’s get another round. And I can give some of that cash to the bartender to pay for what we broke.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head. “It’ll go on the bill to Statesman.” He promises. “This ain’t the first rodeo in this place.”

“Hell of a first impression to make on my new employers,” you grumble ruefully, although you’re still grinning. “Or was that some kind of rite of passage I didn’t know about?”

Jack considers it for a moment and chuckles. “I guess it could be.” He shakes his head and leans against the bar again, lifting his hand to the bartender.

“You causin’ trouble again, Jack?” The bartender eyes him suspiciously. “Or did they deserve it?” He knows damn well those bikers are always trouble, but they drink their body weight and always pay, so he usually doesn’t fuss.

“They wanted to call the lady four dollar words and didn’t want to pay when they got beat at their own game.” He tells him, giving him a small shrug. “So I taught them some manners.”

“Long as they deserved it.” The bartender brushes it off. “Another round?”

Jack looks over at you for confirmation and when you nod he does as well as he turns back to the bartender. "Let's do another round of shots and beers." He tells him. "She worked up a thirst beating their asses at pool and I worked one up beating their asses."

The feel of being very pleased with yourself rolls down your spine like a drop of sweat and you sit up just a little bit taller on your barstool. Jack’s smug expression says that he’s just as proud of himself as he is of you, and you raise your shot glass to him in salute when it’s set down in front of you. “I am definitely going to like it here.”

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