I Was His Secret Genius, Now I’m His Biggest Regret Chapter 05

I Was His Secret Genius, Now I’m His Biggest Regret Chapter 05

“That injury on your arm…”

A gentle, older voice sounded beside her.

Ava turned. Her seatmate was an elderly man in a faded flannel shirt. His hands were calloused, and he was looking with concern at the gauze peeking out from under her sleeve.

“It’s nothing.” She instinctively drew her hand back. “I bumped it moving barrels.”

The old man nodded, as if he understood. “Those things don’t have eyes,” he said with a sigh. He took a strip of dark red jerky from a brown paper bag and offered it to her. “Want some? Smoked it myself. Hickory.”

Ava paused. She wanted to refuse, but the rich, smoky aroma had already reached her. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The old man grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco. “You look like all skin and bones. Goin’ to Nashville to make your way?”

Ava bit into the jerky. Its firm, rough texture and pure, savory saltiness burst across her tongue, instantly washing away the cloying, refined sweetness of Montgomery Estate that still lingered in her memory.

After a moment, she said softly, “To start a business.”

“Start a business?” The old man was interested. “What kind?”

“Open… a small distillery of my own.” As she said it, Ava felt a sense of unreality. It was the first time she had declared her future to a stranger.

The old man’s eyes lit up. He looked Ava up and down, his gaze full of undisguised admiration. “Makin’ liquor? Well, damn. Good for you. You got guts.”

Ava froze.

In the Montgomery family, her talent, her “golden palate,” had been treated as a family asset. Her love of distilling was considered mere craft, unfit for polite society. Clayton never praised her, the children were ashamed of her, and Savannah treated it as a mark of inferiority.

This was the first time anyone had so sincerely praised her for wanting to make her own whiskey, calling it courage.

“Thank you…” she said, her voice a little hoarse as she lowered her head.

“What are you thankin’ me for? You’re the one with the skill,” the old man laughed. “My grandson works in liquor in Nashville, too, but it’s all that newfangled stuff. Craft somethin’. I don’t get it.” He shook his head, as if muttering about a disobedient boy.

The bus began to slow, and a mechanical voice announced over the speakers.

“Next stop, Nashville, Tennessee. Please prepare your luggage. Thank you for riding Greyhound.”