Page 39 of Whiskey Kisses

“Not against you,” I argue, my heart already pounding at just the thought of rolling around with him.

Tristan assumes a starting stance, legs apart and bent, and offers his fist for a bump. “You can either get ready and participate, or you can stand there and make excuses while I take you down. Your choice.”

“Tristan.” I laugh uneasily, but he’s got this determined sparkle in his eye that I know all too well. It used to mean noogies or shoving me into the water at the beach. Now it means he’s going to engage, whether I want to or not. I mirror his stance, bumping his fist.

We move around each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up. I try to grab his lapel a few times, but he evades me with ease. Right as Imove in to try again, he lunges and executes an arm drag that goes right into a leg sweep. In seconds, I’m on my back and he’s on top of me, but I manage to keep my wits about me long enough to avoid getting sucked into the fastest hold of all time.

He’s taking it easy on me, though. I’ve seen Tristan spar; in no reality would I be able to hold him off for this long. Because that’s all I got—defense. He gives me just enough room to “escape” his holds, but never enough to actually make any headway. After seven or eight minutes of this, my muscles start going shaky from exertion.

“Don’t give up on me now, Doyle,” he taunts, his mouth so close that I feel the vibration of his voice as much as I hear it. He pops up into a full mount, which means he’s sitting astride my torso, his Herculean legs hemming me in. Then he leans forward slightly, his hands on either side of my head.

“My last name is Kelly,” I grunt.

Blinking in surprise, he lobs a crooked smile down at me, and I can tell he’s lost focus. Taking advantage of that, I scoot my hips to the side and trap his left ankle with mine as I grab his right arm. I bridge my hips, look back over my shoulder like I’m going to roll, and then turn, flipping Tristan onto his back. The whole thing takes maybe three seconds.

He laughs, tapping my hips. “Nice, Evie. That was good.”

My heart, which is already pounding, dips deeply. I don’t know what’s better: Tristan’s praise or the feel of his solid body beneath mine.Aaand that’s enough of that. “Thanks. I think I’m done, though. I can’t feel my arms anymore.”

Standing on wobbly legs, I extend my hand to him, and with a grin, he takes it.

The soundof a lawn mower pulls me out of the light sleep I’ve been trying to hold onto for the past hour or so. Opening my eyes, I roll onto my side and stare at the moving boxes lining the wall. I haven’t had the chance to unpack them, nor have I had the desire. Poppy looks at me from a box beneath the window, her new perch. She and Juniper have already jacked up the blinds in their obsession with seeing outside.

“Happy birthday, Evie,” I whisper past the lump in my throat. This isn’t how I thought I’d greet twenty-three.

How did I get here?I feel like my life has been tossed into a blender. Things weren’t perfect before, but they were pretty good. I had a well-paying job that I was great at and a nice apartment—even if it was obnoxiously close to Daddy.

But all that’s gone now. It’s tempting to blame Tristan, who blew into town like a hurricane, but really, things were starting to change before he got here. Daddy had been getting pushier in his attempts to bring me on at the distillery and, unbeknownst to me, sliding further and further into debt. If Tristan hadn’t come down, I could be married to Cole Deschamps right now.Ugh.

Maybe I should be counting my blessings.

I’m having coffee and attempting to make pancakes from a box mix when my phone rings, an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. I ignore it and flip the blobby pancakes on the skillet, pleased to see they aren’t burnt.Nice. Maybe I can make Tristan breakfast for once.

My phone blinks with a new voicemail, so I rest the spatula on the countertop and give it a listen.

Hello, this is a message for Miss Evelyn Doyle.

This is Francesca Bianchi, the executrix of Mrs. Myrtle Ann Campbell’s estate. I’d like to meet with you at your earliest convenience. Please give me a call back at 555-810-6655.

Thank you.

My throat closes, and I close my eyes.Aunt Myrtle. Today would have been her birthday, too—September twenty third. It’d almost slipped my mind. She died a few years ago, days after her one hundred and third birthday. We’d always celebrated our birthdays together, but I was still at Agnes Scott then, so a phone call had sufficed. That is, until I got news that she’d passed. I’ve never quite gotten over the fact that I missed our last “special day.”

Because Aunt Myrtle never had children, there was no one to claim her property—though I sometimes wondered if maybe she’d have left it to my mama had she not died so young.

No one has lived at the estate since Myrtle passed, but I know it’s not abandoned. The house is old, so I always assumed she’d left it to the historical society or something.

Bewildered by the voicemail, I call Ms. Bianchi back right away. The call connects after three rings. “Francesca Bianchi speaking.”

“Hi, Ms. Bianchi? This is Evie—Evelyn—Doyle. I just received a voicemail from you.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for calling back,” she says brusquely. “I have something of utmost importance to discuss with you. When can we meet? I have two openings this morning. Otherwise, I can meet on Thursday, in the afternoon.”

“I can meet this morning,” I say, because my schedule is wide-open for the unforeseeable future.

Tristan wanders into the kitchen, shirtless, confused and yawning, his hair adorably messy. Rubbing his eyes, he glances behind me at the stove. “Is something burning?”

An hour later, Tristan—who insisted on tagging along—and I walk up to the front door of Ms. Bianchi’s fiduciary firm, which she runs from a lovely, historical house right off Warren Square.

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