Page 4 of The Bourbon Bet
Sebastian’s words from a few months ago echo in my head. I’d confessed my fears to him about running an independent bookstore in the age of e-books and online giants. He’d reassured me. “You’ve created more than just a place to shop and get books; you’ve built a community,” he’d said, his expression earnest. “That’s not something that can be easily replicated or replaced.”
And like a fool, I’d swooned over the sexy, kind billionaire, believing he understood me. That he might actually see me as more than just his tenant, but reality comes crashing down. To him, I’m a line item on a spreadsheet. Sebastian’s never had to choose between paying rent or owning a car.
The coffee date invitation takes on a new, sinister meaning. Was he planning to soften me up? Make the blow of losing my store easier to take?
I move through the rest of the afternoon on autopilot, somehow managing to host the book club while my mind churns with possibilities, none of them good. The women and men notice my distraction but attribute it to Sebastian’s visit, teasing me good-naturedly about my crush.
If only they knew my crush was crushing my soul.
After they leave, I flip the gorgeous hand-carved sign my dad made from OPEN to CLOSED, resting my forehead against the cool glass and letting a few tears fall. Dad had remortgaged his home to help me get a loan I needed for the upfront costs of turning this former tasting room into a bookstore. How in the hell will I be able to keep paying on my current oneandget another for a new location?
Dragging my tired feet to the checkout counter, I pull out my laptop and type “tenant rights Kentucky small business” into the search bar. Maybe there’s something, anything, that could help me. But as I scroll through legal jargon and complicated statutes, my stomach sinks further. Without money for a lawyer to interpret all this, I’m at a serious disadvantage.
I sigh, looking out onto Whiskey Row. The historic buildings that once housed bourbon empires mock me. All the trendy bars and restaurants are packed with people spending money without a second thought.
The Blackstone name is everywhere. A distillery tour bus with their logo passes by. The sleek office building at the end of the street is theirs. A few blocks away, the historic courthouse bore a plaque thanking the Blackstone family for funding its restoration.
I should have gotten Sebastian’s number when he’d asked me out. I’d call him and…and, what? What would I say if he were standing in front of me right now? What good would confronting him do? In his world, business is just business. Nothing personal.
Except it is personal to me. This store isn’t just my livelihood, it’s my dream. The apartment above isn’t just a place to sleep. After living under Mom’s roof for years and then my ex’s, where I couldn't even hang a picture without his permission, having my own sanctuary means everything.
And now the Blackstones are about to rip it all away from me.
Novel Idea isn’t just a bookstore. It’s where kids like Jake discover the magic of reading, where the lonely can find community, and where stories bring people together. It’s that and so much more.
But I can’t afford to pay off the current loan for this building and get another for a new space. The romance novels I’d so carefully arranged earlier catch my eye; their illustrated covers promise happy endings and fairy tale romances. I almost laugh at the bitter irony. Here I was, buying into the fantasy that someone like Sebastian Blackstone could be interested in someone like me.
Reality check: I’m not the heroine of a romantic novel. I’m another small business owner about to be crushed under the wheel of progress and profit margins.
My computer buzzes with a notification, and I turn from the window to the screen. Instagram. A post from a Kentucky social account I follow. Sebastian and his brother stare back at me from a photo taken at a charity gala. They’re both in tuxedos with champagne flutes in hand and perfect smiles for the camera. The caption reads:
“Are the Blackstone brothers mending their rift to support the Children’s Hospital Foundation?” #GivingBack #BlackstoneFamily
The differences between them are striking. Thorne stands with the confident swagger of old money, his smile practiced and sharp, like a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wants. I’d heard the rumors about the elder Blackstone. The reckless deals, the high-stakes gambles that somehow always paid off. The tabloids called him “The Bourbon Gambler” for a reason. Unlike his more measured brother, Thorne seemed to thrive on risk, making him both feared and respected in Kentucky business circles.
And then there’s Sebastian, whose eyes still manage to look kind even in this posed shot. Where Thorne dominates space, Sebastian inhabits it with quiet authority. The articles I’d read describe him as the steady hand of Blackstone Bourbon, the master distiller whose innovations had breathed new life into the family brand while respecting its heritage. The bourbon world revered him for his palate and vision; the business world, for his integrity.
On my screen, they raise glasses worth more than my daily sales, “giving back” through charity. Meanwhile, I’m about to lose everything, including the free literacy program I run that actually changes lives. The cruel irony would be almost laughable if it weren’t crushing me.
The coffee date looms in my mind. He’ll walk through that door, all charm and dimples, expecting to take me for coffee while his company prepares to wipe everything I’ve worked for. A part of me wants to throw his hot drinkin his perfect face. How pathetic am I: the bookstore owner attracted to the villain of her own story.
Come Tuesday, I’ll have to decide whether this story ends with the heroine’s fiery confrontation, her humiliating surrender, or her dignified silence. But tonight, I let myself mourn the ending I never saw coming.
ChapterThree
Sebastian
The early sun glints off the polished Bentley as we roll to a stop, the shadow stretching across the weathered cobblestone driveway of Blackstone Distillery. My driver, Tom, parks in front of the office. The elegant structure of dark red brick, black trim, and large, imposing windows is more of a home to me than any of my actualhouses.
I end a call at the same time my car door opens. Tom stands beside it. He’s a short white man, nearly as broad as he is tall, who looks more like a bouncer than a driver, but he moves quickly.
Grabbing my sister’s book I bought yesterday from the seat, I step from the car and stretch my legs, stifling a yawn. “Today will be long. I’ll call this afternoon with my end time,” I tell him. Derby season’s obligations always dominate my spring schedule, starting with sponsor meetings and culminating in the Blackstone Bourbon Classic party that is still two months away.
“Okay. Have a good one, Mr. Blackstone.”
“You too,” I reply.
My polished black Oxfords strike the weathered stones of the path with steady, unhurried steps. At the entrance of the main building, the metal door handle feels smooth against my palm, cool enough to briefly ground me. I love what I do. There’s an almost meditative precision in detecting the subtle differences between barrels, selecting the ideal blend of vanilla and oak, caramel and spice, that will define our signature bourbons for generations. I don’t even mind the meetings and power plays in the boardrooms. But with the rifts in our family and everyone watching, waiting for a Blackstone to break, work doesn’t provide me the peace it once did.
