Page 24 of The Bourbon Bet
“I’m fine,” she says, but her hands shake as she changes from her tennis shoes to the flats. The need to do something roars in me. I kneel beside her, gently holding her shoe steady. She slips her foot in and her eyes meet mine briefly.
There’s no Hollywood moment, no time stopping, but the opposite. Everything accelerates: my thoughts, my heartbeat, the city noise around us. I take in the asymmetry of her pupils in the sunlight, a distinctive feature I want to catalog alongside all the other things that make her beautiful. She looks away first, not with embarrassment but with wariness.
My mood is different from ten minutes ago when I was sitting at the table, lost in thought. I’d been holding onto reasons to keep my distance from her. All week I’d been cultivating them like thorny barriers, and they’d kept me company until Rosalia came pedaling up on a damn bike.
What adult still rode a bicycle? Sure, in the gym, with a trainer, but not on the street where dickheads could run her over and make me forget I’m not supposed to feel anything for her.
“Ready?” I stand, offering my hand.
She takes it and a spark of electricity passes between us when her soft fingers intertwine with mine, sending a wave of warmth up my arm. Her wide gaze flashes to mine. A faint blush colors her cheeks. Then she lets go of me and steps toward the restaurant.
I follow, reminding myself why I’m here. Not for a pleasant evening, but to win Thorne’s bet. I need to charm her into choosing me over my brother’s deal, without letting her charmmeinto forgetting what she’s really here for. It’s a fine line to walk.
Holding open the door for her, I glance around the restaurant. It’s the typical Kentucky décor of plush leather booths and walls painted in earthy tones ofgreens and creams. I steer us past a section of old bourbon barrels converted into standing tables to the dining area. All the while ignoring the people watching us. A few whisper discreetly, others not so much.
Rosalia side-eyes a nearby group who is staring at us. “How do you stand it?”
I lean in and breathe through my mouth so her inviting scent doesn’t distract me. “They’ll soon forget we’re here. Once the novelty wears off,” I tell her quietly.
“But why is the two of us going to dinner gossip worthy?” She’s walking ahead of me, and I take in her tense shoulders. The way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for another impact. “Is it my spectacular arrival when my bike fought—and lost—to an SUV?” she jokes, but her laugh comes out shaky.
I search for the careless SUV asshole but can’t spot him. Reaching our table, I pull out her chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“The scare was worse than the hit.” Sitting, she arranges her silverware and then fiddles with the menu. “Sorry if my embarrassing spill caused you unwanted attention.”
The urge to reach for and comfort her is strong, but my brain screams to keep my distance. The tug-of-war is a damn nuisance.
I won’t touch her, but I can’t resist alleviating some of her discomfort. “Don’t worry about it. It’s usually like this when I go out.”
Her lips twitch. “Jerk drivers follow in your wake? You could have warned me. I’d have worn body armor.”
I grin at her quick wit. “Unfortunately, asshole drivers are everywhere. I meant the attention in public.”
“Ah, like your lady fans at the coffeehouse.”
I scratch the back of my neck. The attention is embarrassing as hell. “Yes, like that. And it has gotten worse since my divorce.” Why, I can’t understand. I’m a businessman for shits-sake, not some movie star.
“That was a year ago, right?”
“Almost two.” I shift my attention to the menu and hopefully away from the topic of Tiffany. “What looks good to you?” I ask.
“Were you heartbroken?”
My gaze shoots to hers. Damn, that’s direct. And nothing I want to talk about. “Um. That’s complicated. She and I…” I’d craved a family and home, believing Tiffany was both. But neither is meant for me. “I’d rather not discuss my ex.”
Her cheeks flush pink and she looks at her menu. “Oh, um, I’m so sorry. That was way too personal.” A cute, nervous giggle escapes between her pretty lips. “I can’t believe I asked that. And we haven’t even had an appetizer.”
I smile. “We should order one or two. What would you like?”
“I’ll get the soup.”
“As an appetizer?”
“No. My meal.”
My brows furrow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she repeats. Our waiter arrives and she smiles at him. “Separate checks, please.” The words come out fast and she looks down at her napkin.
