Page 14 of The Bourbon Bet
“My store is doing just fine,” I retort, lifting my chin. “I’ve built a loyal customer base, and my sales are steady. I’d have been fine if your company had stuck to its agreement.”
“What agreement? I’ve read the contract. There’s no mention of letting you rent indefinitely.”
The earlier cold turns to heat that creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. I’d been so excited about finding the perfect spot on Whiskey Row that I’d signed the rental agreement without a lawyer. The Blackstone’s leasing agent had assured me that as long as I was a good tenant, renewals would be automatic. I’d believed her and never thought to get it in writing.
“It was a verbal agreement,” I say, the words sounding pathetic even to my ears.
Thorne’s eyebrow arches slightly as he grins. It’s a look of pure condescension, as if I’ve confirmed every assumption he’s made about my intelligence. “Regardless, you don’t have enough to cover a move and your debts. Not in the time frame you need. Face it. Without my help, you’ll lose everything you’ve worked so hard for. Your father will lose his house.”
I rub my clammy palms on my shirt. He might be right. My financial position is precarious, and his offer could be my only chance to save my store. But, again, the cost is too high.
“No.” I fight back the tears that threaten to spill. “I don’t need your pity or your condescension. I’ll find a way to save Novel Idea without your help.”
Thorne drums his fingers on the counter, glancing around the store as if bored. “Fine, call around, see if you can find another place without my help. If it doesn’t work, give me a call.” He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a card from a small gold case. “Hell, I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you look all the way up until the Derby party, and if you find something, then back out of our deal. Leave one of the most popular streets in Louisville. No hard feelings.”
He strolls toward the exit. Before passing through the door, he reaches up, hitting the antique bell. Its cheerful jingle now sounds more like a warning bell. The desolate tone pierces me.
His broad form moves down the street and from my view. I turn the thick cardstock over in my hands, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. His bold signature mocks me.
Is he actually giving me an out? It sounds too good to be true. Thorne Blackstone doesn’t strike me as the type to make genuine concessions. More likely, he’s confident I'll fail, which isn't great for my confidence. Not that it matters. I have to try.
I lean back and hold the card over the garbage. That’s where it belongs. But I can’t seem to let it fall.
Chapter Six
Rosalia
I look around Novel Idea, taking in the quirky shelves and lovingly stacked books. These walls hold so many stories—stories that might soon fade into silence, along with my dream of expanding the reading and working here until I’m old and gray.
A long, weary sigh escapes from me. Setting my cell on the beautiful counter made with love and books, I run my hand over the smooth wood top. Each grain is a testament to the hours my dad spent sanding and varnishing it. Webuilt the rest together. When I left Michigan and moved here, our weekends were spent at thrift stores and digging through free bins for old books to build this counter.
I’d told him about the lease issue, but downplayed how serious it was. He’d offered to help again, but I couldn’t let him. Dad’s heart might be bigger than Kentucky, but his house is already on the line for my first loan. There is no way I’d ask or take more.
At least I had the sense not to tell him about Thorne’s offer. It was not an option. Instead, I pretended to have options to keep my father from worrying and doing something drastic.
Quitting isn’t on the table. At thirty-two years old, I shouldn’t still need to ask my parents for money. And Dad has already done more than enough. I could ask Mom for a modest loan to get a small shop somewhere off the beaten path that will be a lot cheaper than this place. But the thought of asking her made my stomach churn. I knew exactly what would happen. She’d swoop in, take over, and manage every aspect of my life again.
My inbox is full of unanswered emails to banks, and my call log shows a dozen outgoing calls with no returns. It’s been two days since Thorne’s visit, and I’ve reached out to every financial institution within fifty miles, but so far, I’ve received nothing but silence. Surely one of them would see the potential in my bookstore and get back to me?
Tapping my phone against the counter, I watch dust motes drift through the afternoon light. The peaceful scene mocks me. Time to stop stalling.
I dial Mom’s number. “Is everything okay, sweetie?” she answers, her voice tinged with perennial worry.
She is kind and caring, but her love is a suffocating embrace. Normally, I respond to her catastrophe-ready greetings with sarcasm and jokes, but today the words catch in my throat, heavy with unspoken fears. “No, things aren’t good.”
“What happened? Let me help.” There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, the telltale pause that her anxiety is growing.
A knot forms in my stomach. She’s probably mentally packing her bags to rescue me because that’s who she is, a first responder to my every crisis. But at thirty-two, I should be handling this alone, not feeding her anxiety.
Yet, I’m only two years into my business venture and I’m begging for help. But asking for a small loan is better than returning to Michigan a complete failure, so broke I’d have to move back in with my mom. It’s so easy to picture myself hunched on the fold-out couch in Mom’s basement, surrounded by cardboard boxes and childhood memorabilia, while she calls down the stairs each morning to ask what I want for breakfast.
“Rosalia? Are you still there?”
I swallow the lump of desperation lodged in my throat. “Sorry, Mom. It’s the bookstore…” I give her the edited version—lease troubles, financial strain—and hint that I might need help.
“Let me see what I can do, honey. But I’m not sure there’s much. We haven’t talked in a while, so you don't know this…” She sighs, and I hear what’s unsaid: I’m all alone and my daughter rarely calls.
“Mom, we talked last week.”
