Page 14 of Bourbon and Proof

I uncork the bottle of unlabeled bourbon. For Jimmy’s sake, I hope it’s not one of the important years. Giving myself a luxury-level pour so it’ll last me a little while, I then ask in a serious tone, “Is that what you think?”

Flirting is one of my favorite pastimes. Charming people feels like the easiest way to connect with someone, and in my line of work, I do it often. It’s far easier to find distraction in the handsome Viking-like man sitting next to me than to spiral.

But when my phone buzzes in my hands and another unknown number flashes across the top of my screen, the message is like a gut punch.

UNKNOWN

You can expect a visit, little birdie, if you can’t settle the debts. Ignoring us will only make it hurt more.

“You look awfully serious,” the stranger says playfully.

“I don’t know you,” I say, sizing him up as I swallow down the nerves that just engulfed me. “But you look familiar.” I pause, thinking about how I recognize him. “A couple of years ago, at the distillery, in Ace’s office.” Tonight, he’s wearing dark jeans and a Henley, a leather holster-style harness that has no purpose other than to just add to the sex appeal that leaks from his pores. It isn’t exactly cocktail party attire, but I wonder if he isn’t here to celebrate Lincoln or Faye. Maybe he's here for someone else.

He leans on the bar, crossing his arms in front of him. “You’re Hadley, right?” he asks, circling his finger around the rim of his glass. “Ace has told me about you. And I pay attention to the details.” Without offering more, he sips his bourbon.

I mimic him and take a sip of my drink, letting it warm my chest and calm my jittering senses. “And what details might those be?” Tilting my head, I lock my eyes with his and lift my eyebrows.

He leans in so close that his chest brushes my exposed shoulders. “I think you know exactly which details I mean.” A smile quirks his lips. “The kind that’ll garner me a slap across the face if I say them out loud.”

This man flirts his way through just about whatever he wants, I imagine. But my curiosity is piqued, and I wonder what the hell Ace would be saying about me to this man. I look athis hands, covered in more rings than most men here would normally wear, as he fidgets with a coin. There’s something different about him. I can’t see him being friends with Ace. He’s closer to my age, far more casual than the typical businessmen that Ace calls acquaintances. Men like him are noticeable, and they don’t fade into backgrounds. I turn my body toward him and give him a teasing grin, one that speaks for my interest. He seems like someone I could get lost with for a little while. “I promise, I won’t slap you. Unless you ask me to.”

But our private conversation is interrupted by a clearing throat. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know by smell alone who it is—oak and oranges. I hate how my body recognizes it with only a breath. Sighing my annoyance, I turn slightly to find Ace standing behind me, with an almost angry look painted across his face.What the hell does he have to be pissed about?His jaw is tight, as if he was biting down on something—or biting back whatever it is he’s just dying to say. I feel his gaze along every inch of my skin—abrasive like flint and ready to catch fire. And it’s instant, like some kind of perimenopausal hot flash or just my severe lack of sexual gratification.

His attention zeroes in on me first, and then flicks to the man sitting next to me. Ace shifts his body, crowding closer as he speaks into my ear. “I need to have a word with you.”

I nearly laugh. “Pass. I’m having a very nice conversation with my new friend...” I respond easily, keeping my eyes on my stranger and leaving it open-ended for him to insert his name. But instead, the curious stranger keeps quiet, seemingly holding back a smirk as he keeps his eyes on Ace.

“You’re not,” Ace clips out. “Let's go. I need to talk to you. Privately.”

I spin fully on the bar stool, uncrossing my legs and standing to face him. The stilettos give me a bit more height to meet his glare. My chest grazes his, the gold sequins of my dress draggingalong his suit jacket. Stepping closer to the bar, I wiggle my fingers at Jimmy to signal for him to come back over.

“There’s not a single thing I want to do with you right now, Atticus.” I turn my head to the side when I say, “Publicly or privately.”

I’m not interested in hearing a damn word out of his mouth. I need to get away from him before I say something I’ll regret. Kicking back what's left in my glass, I completely ignore my plan to nurse it. It burns the whole way down.

A rumble sounds from Ace’s throat as he steps closer, leaning into me, his chest against my back. “Hadley, I’m not fucking around.” Warm fingers brush the exposed skin of my back, making me shiver. It isn’t the first time he’s ever touched me casually, acting like it’s nothing, but it’s the first time I want to ignore it.

Catching only the outline of his white dress shirt with his untied bow tie hanging beside the collar in my peripheral, I note he’s changed from earlier when he was at Midnight Proof. AndJesus, he looks even better.

“Too bad,” I say with a smile.

I left like he so rudely demanded, and now he wants to talk?Fuck that.I’m a smart woman. My mind is always moving. I can think of at least a handful of things at once, balance about a dozen more, and then plan all the little details in between. The devil’s always in the details. Or maybe my devil is in crisp black suit pants and white shirt with the top two buttons forgotten, and a square jawline that always looked like it’s a bite away from cracking molars.Mydevil is a Kentucky bourbon boy but, goddesses, he’s always looked like a man. The kind of man that isn’t simply handsome. No, he’s downright beautiful. My devil makes bourbon, rides horses, and makes sure his family comes first. There have been moments when I feel included in that, but tonight isn’t one of them.

“You’re pushing it, and this isn’t something—” His words cut off from the arm I snake behind me. I turn my wrist, my fingers finding the outline of his dick. I’ve had quite enough of him today.

He doesn’t pull away or jump back.Of course he doesn’t.I’ve been pushing his buttons for many years now, and only lately, I’ve been able to get a rise out of him. But I’ve overestimated and I’ve forgotten who I’m playing with. I forget the reason why I’ve been slightly obsessed with him for most of my life: the dangerous confidence that lingers around him like an aura. The assertive energy that isn’t learned or earned; it just exists. He moves closer, his fingertips at my back gliding along my waist as his arm gathers me closer.

I swallow past a lump in my throat, trying to wade through the haze of my heavy pour, his body pressed against mine, and my decision to touch him in a way I never have. The taste of bourbon still lingers on my tongue, and with it, a wave of boldness rolls through me again. I flex my fingers, and I’m rewarded, or maybe punished, with the knowledge that Atticus Foxx is instantly hard. Large and thick, just as I imagined. And that confirmation sends a wave of panic and excitement through me, warring for priority. This move wasn’t meant to be seductive. I wanted him to submit, to stop speaking, to surprise him into silence. I’ve wildly missed the mark.

With as much confidence as I can wrangle, I say quietly, “You don’t have the privilege of telling me what to do, Ace.”

His mouth hovers lower, so close that his lips brush ever-so-slightly along the curve of my ear. “You sure about that, sugar?” His hips press forward, trapping the arm I have between our bodies. The grip of my hand is unwavering as he lets out an audible exhale, speaking so softly that it sounds like words dragging slowly along dirt and gravel. “I’ve been deciding what you get to do for a long time now.”

A breath falls from my mouth, along with a small and traitorous sound.

Laughter from the other end of the bar snaps me back to reality. I blink and refocus on the outdoor space—the cool night air, the low music, the crowd. People are occupied with their own conversations, but the stranger at the bar is still there, smirking to himself. He witnessed this.

Somewhere in this exchange, everything else fell away. And like he’s made the same realization as me, the warmth of Ace’s body disappears as quickly as it came. When I turn to see where he went, feeling dizzy and wound tight, it’s like he was never here at all.

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