Page 70 of Bourbon and Proof

“You’re thinking very loudly,” he says without even looking up from scrolling.

“That,” I say, looking at the messy bed across the room. “And this.” I watch his fingers skate slowly along the crease behind my knee. “Seems to be breaking, or at least bending, the rules we outlined for this marriage.”

But instead of entering my anxious thoughts, he asks, “What happened yesterday?” Taking a sip of his coffee, he nods his chin for me to feed him a bite of the croissant. The easiness of this moment feels too good not to enjoy.

“Hmm, well...” I give him a bite and then take one myself. “Holy hell, this is delicious. And should I be concerned about your memory? I’d like to think what we did was kind of memorable?—”

He pinches my side, and I can’t help the laughter that bubbles past my lips. “I might be older than you, sugar, but you’re the one who’s been moaning my name. I didn’t forget a single thing about it. And quit calling me old; I’m in my forties—you’ll be here soon enough.”

“It’s too early to make such mean jokes, Atticus.” I smile.

He doesn’t hesitate to move closer to me, nudging himself between my legs. Curling a piece of hair behind my ear, he looks more serious when he says, “At Loni’s yesterday. What happened?”

Ah, yes.“Hawk happened. He found out we got married, threw a bit of a nutty inside Loni’s, and it attracted an audience.” I tilt my head to the side, thinking through that piece more. “Actually, it was Vinny, Prue, Romey, and Marla who stepped in and told him to cool off. Then it was a series of questions that I’m not even sure I answered. You know how they all get?—”

“Was it over?” he asks as his hands move along the sides of my thighs, almost soothingly. “With Hawk. When you kissed me—asked me to marry you—was it over?”

“Our situation was never more than casual. It was over as of Lincoln and Faye’s wedding. I let that linger on for longer than it should have. But I was the asshole. I used him for sex. I just thought he knew that. I thought that was what he’d been doing too.”

“Do you think that’s what we’re doing now?” He clears his throat and leans back to look at me. “Using each other?”

I wrap my legs around the back of him to get him to stop moving away. “I think it’s how this started. Using each other to get what we needed. Maybe that’s how everything starts—people looking for something and trying to get it from another.”

His phone starts vibrating on the counter. When I glance at the time, it’s well past a typical morning for him.

Looking at his texts, he says, “Laney is cursing me out about a shipment, and Griz is whining about not having breakfast this morning.”

He doesn’t see it, not like I do, but he takes care of everyone in some way or another. And he’s been doing it for so long, I don’t even know if he realizes it.

“You have everyone fooled, you know. You’re not all that intimidating; you just care a whole helluva lot.”

“Is that what you think?” he asks as he pushes my hair behind my shoulders, dragging his lips along my jaw. “Don’t start thinking I’m a good guy here, Hadley. You’ll be disappointed.”

Doubtful. I’ve been near plenty of bad people throughout my life. I know the difference.

He frames his hands around my face as he says, “I want you in my bed tonight, wife.”

Smiling, and way too giddy, I lean in to kiss his disturbingly perfect lips. “People just do what you want, don’t they?”

The scruff along his chin and cheeks is thicker this morning, and all I can think about is how much I like the scrape of it against my skin. He hums as he leans into my neck, dragging his teeth while peppering kisses. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Chapter 29

Hadley

May: Charcuterie, a dirty martini, and a side of Griz

“Alright, Griz,” I sing-song as I pad down the stairs. Griz has an entire space down in the basement of the house. It’s a wine cellar that weaves into a finished theater room, and then off of that is Griz’s. The walls are lined with shelves of books and that messy clutter that feels more warm and cozy than hoarding and chaotic. When he said he didn’t want to go to the Oaks race this year, I was a little surprised. Every year since I can remember, Griswald Foxx would attend. He’d don a hat that reminded me of Newsies and wore his nicest pair of Wranglers and boots.

I stop short when I hear two voices. Before I turn the corner, the smell of cloves wafts from his office. He isn’t much of a smoker; sometimes, he’ll puff on a cigar for a special occasion, but even then, it’s rare.

“I’ve tied up as many loose ends as I can,” Griz says to someone. “It needs to be enough. I’m not getting any younger. And I’d like to finish out this life my own way.”

I swallow down the emotion that statement pulls from me. I haven’t thought much about Griz not being around. His age isn’t lost on me, but he’s healthy, and if you asked anyone, they'd confirm he looks more like he’s pushing sixty and not eighty.

A woman’s voice says quietly, “You know the deal with how this works, Griz. You can’t just pack up and go there.”

I’m clearly not supposed to be listening to this, so I move back upstairs quietly and take a look at the car that’s parked out front. An old truck, not one I recognize. I sit in the kitchen and wait for her to leave, neither of them seeing me sitting and sipping on a drink as she makes her way out the front door. Griz isn’t expecting me to be at the house right now. Ace is at the distillery, working through all of the last-minute Ditch the Derby prep with Laney and Lincoln. Everyone else is heading to Louisville for the day or taking it easy before the entirety of the Foxx properties is inundated with bourbon lovers and tourists.

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