Page 74 of Promise Not To Fall

1 part bourbon

1 part Southern Comfort®

1 part orange juice

1 part orgeat syrup

½ part fresh lime juice

1 dash Angostura bitters

Mix all ingredients together with ice, serve in a double rocks glass, garnish with an orange peel.

Jake Pierce is a lot of things I’m not. Complicated, undefined, things I will never be out of fear losing control. I say “fear” because I want to be like him. I want that freedom, but it terrifies me. There’s something so devastatingly beautiful about him.

Where one of us is scared, the other wasn’t. In a lot of ways, we balance each other, and that’s strange for me to understand because I’m the type of woman who doesn’t need anything to balance me. I balance myself.

The only problem is—you can’t keep those thoughts from your mind. Before I met Jake, I’d never known this feeling. I never knew it was possible to feel these things and break in the ways I have. I never knew what it felt like to feel a touch like his, a strong, addicting grip you would beg for, something you needed to breathe in the dark and guide you back to the emotional places being with him took you.

I spend the afternoon packing first, knowing I won’t have time later, and then getting ready for my evening with Jake. He wouldn’t tell me where he’s taking me, and part of me—okay, all of me—is nervous.

It’s the longest two hours ever as I wait for seven to come. I shower, shave, pluck hairs, and then work on my hair. Which is useless, considering as soon as I step outside, it will be ruined.

It’s like I’m getting ready for prom, constantly checking myself in the mirror obsessively and watching the clock. I stare at myself for a while in the huge mirror in the bathroom, wondering who I am. I look different in my eyes. My skin is a little more sun-kissed, as well as my heart. But you know who I don’t see? That isolated and overprotected girl I’d been growing up, and I have Jake to thank for that.

He sends me a text when he’s in the lobby, and I hurry downstairs. He’s waiting outside in the pull-through drive, and when I spot him, I can’t breathe. It’s worse because, like something out of a James Dean movie, he leans against the side of the car and crosses his arms over his chest. Jake knows when to be sexy and when to turn the appeal up a notch. Like now.

Relaxed against the side of the car, he has his right hand in the pocket of his black slacks and his left hand holding a cigarette to his lips. His white dress shirt has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattoos, as well as the ones on his chest, since he’d left the top few buttons on his shirt open.

I blink a few times, unnerved by the fact that I’m leaving this tomorrow. Is he trying to make it harder for me? Oh, yeah. He’s getting even with me, I’m sure.

Walking to the car, I slip when my heel catches a rock, naturally. But Jake catches me, holding onto my elbows.

“I got you,” he whispers, pulling me into him, the smell of smoke and cologne surrounding me.

Oh, yeah. He has me, all right. He has me wrapped around his heart and body, forever.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” a bellboy asks, rushing to my side. I wave him off and keep my eyes on Jake.

Jake smiles, his eyes sad. “You look beautiful.”

“So do you.” I run my hand over the coarseness of his scruff.

Winking, he helps me to the car, where he opens the door to the jet-black Mercedes.

“Where the hell did you get this?”

He shrugs. “Stole it.”

“You did not.” I laugh, taking a seat. One by one I position my legs inside.

“So I tell you I stole a car—” he chuckles, holding back a smile, his eyes on my legs, “—and you call me a liar. How’s that right?”

“Because you wouldn’t steal a car.”

“You’re right. It’s my dad’s.”

Jogging around the other side, he gets in. He leaves the windows down as we drive. The air is warm and saturated, heavy, just like my heart.

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