Page 19 of The Bourbon Bet
So will I. “No rush,” I reply, aiming for casual but landing somewherenear stiff.
Paige slides off her stool. “Text me when you get home.” She gathers her purse from behind the counter and gives me another once-over as she passes.
Rosalia turns to the group of kids at the table. “I’m sorry, but the shop’s closing in ten minutes. Do you need help finding anything before you go?”
A girl with thick glasses looks up. “We’re good, Ms. Rosalia. Thank you for letting us work on our science fair planning here.”
“Anytime. Your project is on renewable energy, right?” Rosalia asks.
A boy nods enthusiastically, shoving a book into his already stuffed backpack. “We’re going to build a working solar panel!”
“Sounds impressive,” Rosalia smiles.
“Thank you,” chant several voices on their way to the exit.
The easy way she connects with the teenagers doesn’t feel calculated. But then again, Tiffany had been good with kids too, when it served her purposes. I want to believe this is different, but wanting something doesn't make it true.
I stand awkwardly by a new releases display, pretending to examine a hardcover while she moves through her closing ritual. She counts the register, powers down the computer, and adjusts displays that don’t need adjusting.
“It’ll just be a few more minutes,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes as she flips through a ledger, making final notations.
“Take your time,” I reply, studying her methodical movements. Is she dragging this out to avoid being alone with me? Or just being thorough?
Finally, she locks the cash drawer, grabs her purse from beneath the counter, and approaches the door. She flips the sign to “CLOSED” and turns the deadbolt with a decisive click.
“Ready for coffee?” she asks, still not quite looking at me directly.
Time to place our bets and play our games.
Chapter Eight
Sebastian
The silence between us stretches like a taut wire as we walk to the coffee shop. I’m certain Thorne manipulated the situation at least a little to get Rosalia to accept his twisted deal. My rational mind understands this, but my bruised ego doesn’t care about logic or my brother’s machinations. Despite everything, I’m still hurt that she agreed to use me as her pawn, and in turn making her mine.
Sure, we weren’t close, but we got along well. And I’m not imagining the attraction between us. Yet, she has no problem using me to save oninterest for a bank loan. It feels like another confirmation that my people skills end precisely where the boardroom door begins—another personal misread to add to my impressive collection.
Steam fogs the coffeehouse windows as we approach, reflecting my own clouded thoughts. I hold the door for Rosalia, and the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries wafts out. The cozy chatter inside creates a lively backdrop, a jarring counterpoint to the cold silence between us.
After she enters, two women exit while I’m still holding the door. One of them glances at me and then stops. I don’t recognize her. But she clearly knows who I am. She elbows her friend and mouths, “Blackstone.” They wheel around and go back inside.
I let out a low groan as the weight of unwanted attention settles upon me like a suffocating blanket. That damn “Most Eligible Bachelor” article that ran a month after my divorce still haunts me. Giving the woman my back, I ask Rosalia, “What do you want to drink?”
“I’ll get my coffee,” she tells me.
“How about I get it, and you find us a table?” I suggest.
“But—” She hesitates, then gives me a small smile. “That’s sweet of you, thanks.”
There’s the performance Thorne’s paying for. At least she’s good at it.
A flash goes off, and we turn in that direction. The woman who recognized me is sliding her phone into a coat pocket, looking resolutely in the opposite direction.
“Was she taking a photo of you?” Rosalia glances at the amateur paparazzi, then back at me. She bites her lip. Her tongue darts out, wetting the indentations. I can’t help but track the movement.
Forcing myself to look away, I say, “Probably. Let’s sit where she is not sitting.” I point to an empty table on the other side of the coffeehouse. “Want to grab that one?”
Rosalia nods and tells me her drink order before making her way to our spot. I take in her straight spine. Then glance to her ass, pausing way too long there. Giving myself a mental push, I turn to the counter and give the barista our order.
