Page 63 of Whiskey Kisses

“Haha,” I deadpan, looking over the assortment of veggies she brought. “Now, what can I do?”

“You can find a cutting board and a knife.” She nods at the knife set. “And start chopping.”

Topping off our wine, I do just that, carefully dicing an onion and then moving on to cloves of garlic as Opal catches me up on the latest at work. She’s an adjunct professor over at SCAD, teaching a visual anthropology class, so there’s always something interesting going on. Unlike me, she’s been able to make a career out of doing what she truly loves.

“And what about you?” she asks, glancing at me curiously. “How’re you enjoying being a kept woman?”

Wrinkling my nose, I scrape the garlic into a little bowl and rinse the cutting board in the sink. “It’s fine, I guess. I feel like I’ve barely had a minute to think between losing my job and then finding out about this house, and then moving in, and …” I trail off, unsure of how to broach the topic of Tristan. Everything about Tristan. His work, our marriage—nothing is straightforward with us, with him.

“Is he treating you well?” asks Opal.

I nod. “Yeah. He’s great.”

“But?”

Peeking through the window above the kitchen sink, I spy Tristan and the boys lounging around the covered part of the patio. This is their thing most evenings, drinking or smoking once the sun starts going down and it’s not too hot. Tristan doesn’t smoke as much as the others—he says he needs to keep his wits about him—but he’s been a little high-strung today, so I’m not surprised to see him indulging now.

“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?” Opal says with a sigh. “Don’t deny it. I know how you act when you’re in a relationship and you look at that guy like he hangs the damn moon. He’s turned into a caveman with you, too, keeping you hidden back here.” She tuts like her mama, shaking her head.

“Do you need me for this conversation, or should I just listen to your monologue?” I shake my wet hands at her.

“Shush and give me details,” she says with a laugh.

“Well … he’s great in bed.”

Opal smirks, nodding. “No surprise there.”

“But tomorrow he’s going to talk to Daddy.” The worry that’s been nagging at me flares, giving me a stomachache. I know how ruthless Tristan can be when it comes to business. He’ll take what’s owed to him no matter what. “It’s my father’s last chance to either give up the distillery or have it taken away.”

“You said he owes Tristan’s family, right?” Opal says, adding the garlic to a saucepan on the stove. “A lot of money?”

I nod, my shoulders slumping as I lean back against the counter. “Several loans over the years. Between Daddy’s gambling and always biting off more than he can chew, he’s really painted himself into a corner. And not just with the Kellys, either.”

Opal shakes her head. “Some people just don’t know when to say when.”

Sighing, I glance outside again at Tristan. He’s smiling at something one of the guys said, the dying sunlight glinting gold off his hair. My heart squeezes at how beautiful he is. He’s so full of light and laughter, you’d never know he had a dark side.

And yet, I feel safe with him. I know what darkness unchecked looks like, and that isn’t Tristan.

“I’m hoping Daddy will be reasonable,” I say softly. “But I’m not holding my breath. He’s so stubborn, you know? The distillery is everything to him.”

“I know, baby, but …” She shrugs. She’s never liked my dad, and why should she? “He gambles, he cheats. He drove your mama away, and now you too. Always taking and never giving back. There’s only so long you can live like that before it catches up to you.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, the sizzling garlic the only sound in the kitchen. Opal’s sobering words shouldn’t make me feel better, but oddly, they do. They’re freeing. Sometimes I still find myself mourning a relationship I never had with my dad, but none of it is my fault. Not the distance between us, and not what’s happening with the distillery.

“I wishI could cook like Opal.” Yawning, I snuggle down deeper into my new, soft comforter on the bed. Dinner, and the nice, long bubble bath I took after the boys dropped Opal home has me feeling content and lazy.

Tristan, looking edible in yet another pair of low-slung sweatpants, is sitting beside me, propped against the headboard as he taps lightly against the surface of his phone, lost in whatever he’s looking at. “Yeah, dinner was incredible,” he says after a moment. “She’s a good cook.”

“Bet you wish I could cook like that,” I provoke, running my fingers over his side. His skin is smooth and hard under my fingertips, making me want to explore more of him.

His gaze flickers toward me briefly before returning to his phone. He strokes my hair absently for a second, frowning at the screen. I dance my fingers down a tattoo, pausing at the top of his sweatpants before sliding farther, resting my hand over the bulge of his dick at rest. Even flaccid, it’s impressive, and I stroke it the way he’s been stroking my hair: feather soft.

Only, his stroking pauses. I watch a smile play at his lips until he puts that stupid phone down and looks down at me. “Evie,” he says, amused even as he grows thick and hard beneath my touch. “Are you propositioning me?” The hand in my hair tightens then slides down to my face so he can tilt my chin up. He doesn’t have to—I’ve had my eyes on him since we climbed into bed—but I give him my attention anyway, my heartbeat picking up as tension grows between us. I’m still sore from last night, but all I want is him on top of me, inside of me. Looking at me.

All I want is him.

“Where’ve you been all day?” I ask instead, the question materializing from the thin air of my subconscious.

---