Page 26 of The Bourbon Bet
Her lips twitch. “So, which would be the bigger scandal, that you’re killing your liver with wine instead of liquor, or that you prefer men?”
“Definitely the first. This is bourbon country after all.” I lean in closer over our small intimate table for two. The scent of vanilla and wildflowers draws me in, and I lose my train of thought.
“And you’re the owner of the largest bourbon distillery. Fine,” she sighs, taking my hand. Her simple touch zings through me. “Good thing I saved your reputation by drinking with you.”
My gaze is fixed on our hands. Mine is larger and has a deeper hue, contrasting with her paler one. After a few beats, she lets go.
“Anyway, I love chatting with my bookstore visitors and friends, but I prefer them over groups of acquaintances and such. And my absolute favorites are my fictional adventurers I meet in books,” she says.
“I one hundred percent understand.” A big part of my job requires socializing, and while I do it, the task is draining. I’d rather be at home, out with my horses, or reading a book. What other interests might we share? I quickly push the question away. Getting sidetracked and forgetting her deal with Thorne isn’t smart, no matter how engaging she might be. “Did you grow up in Louisville?” I ask, returning to mundane questions.
“No, I’m from Michigan. Though I spent most of my childhood summers here. My dad’s family lives outside of Lexington.”
“The Great Lakes are beautiful. At least Superior and Michigan are; I haven’t seen the others,” I say, refilling her wine glass. I tell myself my interest in her personal life is just polite dinner conversation, and not because I find her alluring and want to know more about her.
“You’ve been?” she asks.
I nod. “I travel to Chicago often for work. Early morning runs along Lake Michigan are my favorite part of visiting. Well, that and the pizza.”
“When were you at Lake Superior?” she asks.
“A while back, between my sophomore and junior years of high school, Thorne decided to get his pilot’s license, so we flew to Marquette for a weekend at the end of summer.” The reminder of the good times cut through me like a jagged blade, leaving behind a wound that refuses to heal. I sip on my drink, letting it wash away the bitter taste of unresolved pain. “We rented motorcycles and rode them to Pictured Rocks. Have you been there?”
Pushing away her wine, she shakes her head, “No. I’m from the Detroit area. The farthest up north I’ve made it is Traverse City.”
Her eyes have turned distant and her shoulders are suddenly rigid. Shit, she’s withdrawing. Was it the mention of Thorne, the reminder of her deal with him?Am I seeing the first cracks in her certainty? A small ember of hope warms my chest. Maybe she’s reconsidering.
Afraid pushing the topic might backfire, I switch subjects. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
She outlines her plans for expanding the bookstore and creating a larger community outreach program—here and, possibly, in Michigan. I love the way her eyes sparkle with ambition. “I started a reading mentor program pairing adults with children, but that’s only the beginning,” she explains. “I want books to transform lives, to reach people who’ve never had regular access to literature before.”
Her hands animate her words, drawing invisible shapes in the air between us. A flush colors her cheeks as she speaks, and I can’t help but lean closer, drawn in by the genuine passion in her voice. Her passion for her literacy programs seemsgenuine, but I’ve been fooled by passionate speeches before. Still, the way her eyes light up when she talks about the kids is hard to fake.
She pauses to take a sip of wine, and I notice a small dimple appear and disappear at the corner of her mouth. It’s another detail to add to my growing collection.
I find myself asking question after question until our food arrives, gradually relaxing as we talk. Every time Rosalia laughs, her expression lights up with genuine amusement. It's a dangerous pull that grabs me. I can almost see more evenings like this, learning the map of her expressions, discovering what else we might share. But I rein in the thought before it can fully form. It's too soon, too complicated by Thorne's interference and the web of secrets between us. Still, the glimpse of possibility lingers, unwanted but undeniable.
A brief and comfortable silence falls between us and, despite my better judgment, I find myself studying her, cataloging more details. My gaze traces the graceful line of her collarbone visible above her neckline, the way the restaurant’s soft lighting casts shadows that accentuate her features. Looking away before she notices, I remind myself why we’re here. I can’t help resenting Thorne for his interference. His poisonous meddling killed any chance for something real to grow between us.
I draw a deep breath and focus on the nearly empty plate before me, pushing away thoughts of what-ifs and maybes. The waiter takes our empty dishes at the same time Rosalia’s phone dings from its resting spot on the table. She glances at it. Her fingers curl momentarily before she loosens her grip and tucks the device away.
“Everything okay?” I ask, though the way she won’t meet my eyes gives me the answer.
“Yes. I was checking the time.” She finally looks at me, but the openness from moments ago is replaced with something more guarded. “I enjoyed dinner.” Her tone is formal, distant.
We’re suddenly strangers again. Our brief camaraderie has evaporated like the angel’s share from my aging whiskey barrels, gone without a trace, claimed by whatever was on that phone.
“It wasn’t what I expected,” I admit. The truth, at least partially.
Her eyes find mine in the dim lighting, searching. “What did you expect, Sebastian?”
I could lie, deflect, or try to charm my way past the question. Instead, I say, “I’m still figuring that out.”
She nods, then says quietly, “I should probably get going soon. Early day at the bookstore tomorrow. And riding home in the dark will take a little longer.”
I should ask for the bill. For a few hours, I’d almost forgotten the web of bets and lies between us. But the reminder doesn’t stop me from asking, “Any interest in dessert?”
Her gaze darts toward the sweets display before she shakes her head. “I shouldn’t…”
