Whiskey Words And A Shovel Series Novels & Stories

Whiskey + friends + secrets = big trouble coming, I literally saw her smirk. I walked down the dark hall to Jaxon’s room. The door creaked like it was laughing at me. I dropped to my knees, stuck my hand under the bed, and felt around. Bingo! An old school book with the middle cut out like a bad spy movie. Honestly I was dumb founded though, I had only watched these in movies and then read them in books. All these colleges from and movies from the earlier generations, life with boys, maybe It wasn't that bad, any way in side was a bottle of whiskey, golden and sloshing. My wolf perked up more, like “Ooh, what’s that?” I told it to calm down. “ Calm down girl I hate how you just get so curios

Ava I kept slamming shots like we had some sort of disagreement which lowkey? We did. The whiskey burned less with each one, which was either progress or a sign I was about to black out in a sticky booth. I Didn’t fucking care for real. The bartender, a guy with a neck tattoo of what looked like a crying clown kept pouring without asking questions. Smart man.

I was there for their entertainment and amusement. After pouring some ice into the cup, The whiskey flowed into the cup, its golden liquid pouring smoothly into the glass. The ice cubes softly clink, releasing a gentle sound. As the whiskey touches the glass, its aroma rises, filling the air with warmth. The liquid swirls, releasing its rich scent, and inviting the senses to savour the moment. I never appreciated pouring whiskey before but it was a way to distract myself. After filling the cup, I walked slowly to Mikhail. His blank gaze never leaves, and our skin grazes each other. His touch was as electrifying as I remembered it.

And in the middle of it all, a hand-painted sign hung between two oak trees: “The Whisked Away Festival, Love, Food, Family.” Inspired by the DiLorenzo Family. The Book .Amara’s second book, Whisked Away: A Love Story in Recipes, had just launched. Part memoir, part cookbook, it was filled with personal stories, recipes from both the villa and Bellwood Falls, and reflections on grief, single motherhood, second chances, and the healing power of pasta. The dedication read: For anyone who thought it was too late — love can still rise, even when the heat gets high.

Back when she used to come in late at night and curl on the stool next to me, stealing my drink and my peace and somehow making both better. The moment I got to it, I yanked the bottle of aged whiskey from the shelf… one of the expensive ones I’d been saving for a "good" day, and slammed it onto the counter. A crystal glass followed, and I poured without care, the amber liquid spilling slightly over the rim. I didn’t bother wiping it. I downed the first shot in one swift gulp. It burned its way down my throat, but it didn’t quiet the roar in my head.

Mason The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, but the pain was a welcome distraction. I slammed the empty glass down on the counter, nodding for the bartender to pour me another cup. He hesitated for a moment - probably wondering if I’d had enough - but he didn’t say anything. They never do. Not here. This was the kind of place where questions stayed locked behind pursed lips, where broken men came to drown themselves in cheap liquor and dim lighting.

I begin to chug the whiskey down. Funny, how I’m already guessing what the topic of the trending gossip would be in the house. I wonder if it will sound like this: “The unfilial mate.” “The shameless mate that challenged her mate.” I'm sure no one will probably think in this direction: “The once docile, obedient wife fights back because she can't take it anymore.” I pause and gulp another shot. My throat burns each time the whiskey passes. The sting from the whiskey also makes my stomach twist.

“This drink contains some of the best whiskey in the world. It also contains enough arsenic to kill a horse. Probably several horses, in reality. But you get the idea. I’ll do you this courtesy, Miss Cannon, out of professional admiration. You’ve done well. You don’t deserve to be alive while my brother prepares your body to deliver back to Sinclair. Charles has been watching serial killer documentaries for inspiration, I understand. You’ll be arranged on Sinclair’s bed. Well. The pieces of you. Right back where you got yourself into all this trouble.” Raven felt very, very cold. Christina extended the glass to her. “You’re welcome to decline the offer,” Christina added lightly. “I think Cha

[ZEKE] I let the whiskey burn the hollow in my throat and watch the way the light dies on the pool. Where there used to be glass—shards from that night when I shot it down to see if it would scare her—there’s a clean, whole pane now. They replaced it. They always replace what I break. It’s a habit. And it’s their job to polish surfaces to cover jagged business.

Perfect. Sliding onto a stool, I signaled the bartender. “Whiskey.” He barely glanced at me before pouring a glass and sliding it across the counter. I wrapped my fingers around it, letting the cool condensation seep into my skin. I shouldn’t be here. But for just a moment, I was allowing myself to pretend I belonged. I took a sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. Just one drink. Then I’d leave. Maybe. — The whiskey burned its way down my throat, spreading warmth through my chest. I let out a slow breath, tapping my fingers against the glass as I listened to the noise around me. Laughter, loud voices, the clinking of drinks—just another night for Dylan’s clan.