Page 70 of Whiskey Kisses

“You probably know him better than I do by this point,” he quips, giving me a sly look. “If you know what I mean.”

I squint disapprovingly at him. Of course, they’ve figured out that Tristan and I have gotten physical. Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.

Shaking his head, he resumes the game. “You wanna know something, you need to ask him yourself.”

“How long have you known the Kellys?” I press.

“My whole life, pretty much.” Timmy shrugs a shoulder as he maneuvers his gun-toting character around a burning car. “My dad works for his dad.”

“Like, legally, or …?”

“Seriously, just talk to Tris yourself,” he mumbles. “I’m sure he’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”

“Why hasn’t he, then?” I ask, sinking back into the cushions.

Timmy kills two guys on screen in quick succession. “Have you asked him?”

“No,” I admit. “Have you ever killed somebody, Timmy?”

He points to the screen with a smirk. “Yeah, just now. Didn’t you see?”

When Maribelle’sname comes up on my phone, I let her call go to voicemail. It’s been so long since she called, I wasn’t sure she still had my number. I wait a few minutes before listening to her message.

Hi. I talked to Daddy this morning. He said the distillery now officially belongs to the Kellys. I don’t care how y’all figure it out, but you need to go ahead and give me my share, Evie. Call me back.

Putting my phone aside, I empty a box of fettuccine into a stock pot of boiling water—one of the few things I can cook. Maribelle’s not wrong. We do need to handle what would have been her inheritance. But what a headache. As the pasta bubbles, my thoughts drift to yesterday when Tristan told me the distillery was finally ours, or rather, his. He’d won the first and most significant battle of this war, but I thought I saw a flicker of regret in his eyes for what winning it costs everyone involved. I wonder if Maribelle understands that.

I’m sure she does. She just doesn’t care. This isn't just about her share, which she is absolutely entitled to; it’s about power.Winning. She’s just as ruthless as Tristan—maybe worse. It’s no wonder she tried to seduce him into partnering up with her when all of this started. Snorting derisively to myself, I reach for the colander and toss it into the sink. Maribelle’s affectionless voicemail was a cold reminder of how anemic our relationship has always been. She hates that I’ve “won” this round. I got the distillery and the guy.

Because yes, I think part of her does still want the guy. She accused me of pining for Tristan when we were younger, but I remember those days and she was just as bad. The difference was, he paid attention to her because she was pretty. But now the tables have turned, and it’s me that he’s chosen. Our marriage is kind of a sham, but our friendship isn’t. There is something real between us, even if it’s just mutual, platonic respect with a side of great sex.

I’m sautéing garlic in olive oil to toss the noodles in when the front door opens, and a cacophony of loud, male voices fills the house. My heart squeezes. I never thought I’d be the kind of girl waiting at home for her hubby, but somehow here I am.

But it takes Tristan so long to find his way into the kitchen that by the time he finally does, my giddiness has evaporated. Why do I feel so far away from him? And why do I have to care? He’s given me so much more than I ever could’ve imagined, but it’s never enough.

I must not be the only one feeling the distance because he doesn’t say anything as he walks over to watch me stir the pot of garlicky noodles. “How was your day?” I finally ask.

“Busy.”When I don’t respond beyond a nod, he shifts a little closer. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking.”

“About?” He leans against the counter, and I look up to find him watching me closely. Rainwater is dripping from his hair and his t-shirt’s all wet. He looks like the main love interest in a romantic music video.

I look away. “You should go dry off.”

“Evie.”

“Where do I even start?” I try to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “Everything. Us. This pretend-marriage. For all the time I’ve known you, I don’t actuallyknowyou. I don’t know what your life was like before you came to Savannah, or what your past relationships were like—the real ones—or what you want when this one’s over. All I have is this outdated understanding of who you are based on when we were kids, and even that’s falling apart.” Swallowing, I grab a wedge of parmesan and begin grating it with gusto. “I don’t know what you do all day. I’m an accessory to you and your life, and I can’t even be mad because that’s what I agreed to.”

His fingers are cold when he touches my arm. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” I shake my head, furiously squeezing back my stupid tears. “I’ve been telling myself I had no choice, but I did. I said yes to you because I saw a chance to have you for a little while and I took it.” My hand slips, and the grater scrapes against my knuckles, drawing blood. “Shit,” I whisper, bringing my hand to my mouth.

Grabbing my hand, Tristan turns on the faucet and begins rinsing my fingers. “You got Band-Aids upstairs?”

I nod, tugging, but he holds fast and leads me out of the kitchen. We pass the living room which is full of guys I don’t really know and go upstairs, where Tristan leans me against the bathroom counter. “Under here?” he asks, opening the cabinet beneath the sink.

“Yeah, there should be a box somewhere.”

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