Page 25 of The Bourbon Bet
Hell, no. I shake my head. “Together, please. We’ll take a bottle each of your house white and red.”
After he leaves to fill our drink order, Rosalia shifts in her seat. “I really should pay for my meal.” She hesitates, then adds more quietly, “It’s important to me.”
She seems genuinely uncomfortable taking my money. A flicker of hope sparksin my chest. Maybe she won’t go through with it.
“But I invited you to dinner, so it’s my treat,” I reply.
“Your company is payment enough,” she says, but her smile is strained, like she’s forcing the politeness. I suspect she’d rather dine with the man who’d almost run her over than me.
“I’ve already asked to put the checks together,” I counter.
“I’ll Venmo or Apple Pay you.”
I nod, pretending I’m giving in. “If you wish. But, if I’m getting myself an appetizer or two, will you share them with me?”
She tilts her head, tucking in a corner of her mouth. The expression is cute. “Okay,” she concedes.
The waiter returns with the two wine bottles, opens and pours a glass of each, then waits. I ask Rosalia, “Red or white?”
“I was going to have water…”
“You don’t drink?” I probably should have asked before ordering.
“I do, but had planned on skipping tonight.”
“I won’t push, but if I drink both the whispers around us will get louder. My PA, Hanna, told me one of the most recent rumors is that I don’t go out because I’m passed out drunk by six every night. Which is odd, given that I usually work until well after dark.” I tap my chin. “Maybe that’s why the other current rumor is more popular.”
There’s a playful light in her eyes. “What’s the other?”
“I’ll tell you if you help me dispel rumors.” I point to the two bottles.
She shakes her head, laughing, and tells the waiter, “I’ll have white.”
I nod, and after tasting the wine and giving our approval, I order every appetizer. After the waiter leaves, Rosalia tips her chin, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “All of them?”
I shrug, “I can’t pick. You’ll help, right?”
Her smile breaks free and knocks me in the chest. “I shouldn’t.” She pushes her wine glass toward me. “And I should give this back to you. Let the gossips call you a gluttonanda drunk.”
I laugh, idly wondering when I stopped seeing this dinner as a chore. I’m no longer pretending to enjoy myself. “Please don’t,” I groan. “There’s already plenty of fuel for the gossip fire.”
“Because you’re a hermit,” she teases.
“I’m not a hermit.” I pause to reconsider, then tilt my head from side to side. “Well, maybe a little.”
Shit, I’ve smiled more tonight than I have all year. I need to remember why I’m here. This is about winning the bet, not actually enjoying myself.
“Why don’t you go out more?”
Why would I? My work is satisfying and doesn’t let me down like family, friends, and love. I don’t bother to share my morose outlook. “The distillery keeps me busy.”
“I get it. I’m not running a world-famous distillery,” she muses. “But my little bookstore and its programs take a lot from me. And what little bit of free time I have, I prefer to spend it relaxing alone with a book or with a close friend.”
“Not a partier, huh?” I ask. It is refreshing to meet someone like me who needs solitary time to recharge.
“As you might have guessed from my overly personal questions, small talk isn’t my strong suit,” she says with a shy smile. Then it widens. “Which reminds me, you said there were two popular rumors, what’s the other?”
I laugh again. “That my ex left me when she discovered me in bed. With a man.”
