Page 102 of The Bourbon Bet
“That’s different.”
His brows shoot up. “Why? Because your distillery is massive and your dream job holds a higher value than hers? She sells more than books; Rosalia’s built a community. People depend on her bookshop. It’s a safe haven, a refuge.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, letting my vision blur. In that darkness, fragments of Rosalia solidify. She kneels to help a shy kid find the perfect dragon book, her hand lingering on the cover as she shares something about the author. Or how she always remembers everyone’s names, their children’s ages, what they’d read last.
Regret winds tightly behind my sternum, like a spring coiling, ready to snap. I measured importance in balance sheets and workforce numbers. By every metric I valued, my work simply mattered more.
I dismissed her work as quaint. Decorative. Less than.
“Shit,” I whisper, the truth punching me.
The distillery is my dream, but it is just that—mydream. I never once considered how her store stitched together the frayed edges of our city. Never saw how she built something I couldn’t blueprint or replicate, something that existed in the space between people.
“And she’s not the only person you were testing,” Daniel says, forcing open my eyes and pulling me from my thoughts. “You’re testing Thorne.”
I bristle. “What test could I possibly want from him? There’s no trust left between us.”
“Maybe you hoped he’d see what he’s become and change, stop being such an asshole.” He scoots to the edge of his chair. “Look, you have over thirty years of history with him. Things only went to shit in the last decade. I didn’t know you before college, but I’ve heard the stories—you two were inseparable. Even after everything, I’m sure you miss him.”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “If that’s the case, he failed me miserably. Again.”
“No arguing there.”
I drum my fingers against the desk, considering my brother and all he’s done and also what he might have done. “I think Thorne was blocking her loan applications around town.”
Daniel’s eyes widen. “What makes you say that?”
“I had lunch with Marcus from First Kentucky yesterday. I’d mentioned Rosalia. And, not only did he know her name, which is unusual for a small business owner he’s never worked with, but he got twitchy and muttered something about how he’d heard she was a poor investment.”
“That’s not just petty. It’s illegal,” Daniel sits up straighter. “Interfering with someone’s business like that.”
“And that surprises you?” I scoff. “This bet was extortion, you and I know it.”
“True,” he nods. “And knowing Thorne, he probably made sure the banks understood the consequences of helping her, just like he did with you.”
Unable to sit, I move to the window. My reflection startles me. The dark circles under my eyes, the stubble I haven’t bothered to shave. I barely recognize myself. Three days feel like three years, and I wonder if this hollow feeling is permanent.
I refocus on the Kentucky skyline that usually calms me, but today it offers no solace. “None of that matters now. I’ve made such a mess of everything.” My words come out clipped, tinged with frustration.
“Maybe, but it’s not too late to clean it up,” Daniel says from behind me. “Not to play your therapist—”
I snort. “I thought it was your side hustle. How did I get so lucky? I get a friend, lawyer, and therapist all in one smart-ass package.”
Daniel laughs. “Well, at least you admit to me being your friend.”
I shake my head, surprised that I’m amused. “Don’t let it go to your head. The bar’s pretty low these days.”
“Low bar, high standards. You’re more complicated than you let on.” He clears his throat. “Now back to playing your therapist. In the years we’ve known each other, I’ve seen your dad wear different hats—father, businessman... He’s undeniably brilliant in the boardroom, but he’s a bit of an asshole.”
“A bit?” I snort. Daniel isn’t telling me anything I don’t know.
“Alright,” he concedes. “I was being generous because he’s your old man. Anyway, I get the need to build a wall around him. To keephimat arm’s length, but you do it to anyone who has the potential to hurt you. Hell, that’s probably why you married Tiffany.”
“Oh, do tell me your full diagnosis of me, Dr. Daniel.”
Just like in college, he ignores my snark, he continues. “Tiffany’s a perfect match socially. Beautiful, from the right family, but way too much like your father—all scheming and narcissism. Someone you could never truly love.”
I bristle, a defensive retort on the tip of my tongue. But even as I open my mouth to argue, doubts stop me. Could he be right? I turn from the window. “Exactly how many psychology classes did you take at university?”
