Page 6 of The Bourbon Bet
“Ishould be in that meeting.Ishould be the master distiller,” Thorne grinds out, some of his cool detachment slipping.
“Well, you’re not. And we’ve been in our positions for years. When are you going to get over it?” I straighten my tie, a gesture that feels more like armor than adjustment.
And I honestly don’t understand why he wants my job or title. Thorne is good at what he does. He has a flair for acquiring valuable properties and turning even the most mundane business ventures into profitable investments that command attention.
“When I’m running the family business, as I should be as the oldest son. That’s when I’ll get over it.”
“That’s not today. So besides threatening my employees and handling coffee clients, is there anything else I should know?” I ask, making it clear I’m not impressed with his meddling.
Thorne has always been a gambler at heart. When he’d turned twenty-one, he’d wagered his entire inheritance advance on a single horse at the derby. Three years ago, he’d risked millions on a failing distillery outside Loretto that everyone said was beyond saving. Where I see hazards, he sees possibilities; where I calculate consequences, he rolls the dice. His willingness to bet big when the odds seem impossible is probably what makes him brilliant as Director of Acquisitions and what makes him terrifying as an enemy.
His eyes light up, and the bitterness that had been etching lines around his mouth moments ago suddenly vanishes. “Actually, yes,” he declares, his voice brimming with the same fervor I get when crafting a new bourbon blend. “I’ve been working on something big.”
I no longer like or even love my brother, but I admire his drive for the deal. He is fantastic as Director of Acquisitions. And, I can’t fathom why Thorne is so resentful of our father’s decision to name me master distiller. Dad is a bastard, but there is no denying he possesses a keen eye for recognizing people’s unique abilities and placing them in positions where they excel within Blackstone Bourbon.
“Then tell me,” I say.
“The Willows arefinallyputting their hotel up for sale. I want to grab it. The location couldn’t be more ideal. It’s on the iconic Whiskey Row and situated perfectly between the two major convention centers. The potential is endless. It could create a unique space for a tasting room or a trendy restaurant. Hell, I may even keep it as a little boutique hotel. Its vintage charm and our modern vision would make it a destination in its own right.”
The idea of acquiring The Willows is a good one. I can envision the potential transformation he paints.
“Sounds promising,” I nod. “Any obstacles?”
“Just one small thing,” Thorne says with a dismissive wave. “We’re not renewing the lease for that little bookstore next door. We need that space for my vision with The Willows.”
“Novel Idea? The bookstore?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Thorne’s eyes narrow, his attention laser-focused on me. “You know the place?” he asks, his voice deceptively casual.
Shit. I shift, keeping my expression neutral. “You know I like to read. I’ve been there a few times. She and I talk about books.”
He studies my face with the same intensity reserved for acquisition targets, and I hope like hell my mask is in place. Thorne has always possessed an uncanny ability to read people, to spot the smallest flicker of interest or hesitation, and use it to his advantage.
“Just books, huh?” he snatches up his phone, his fingers swiping across the screen. A moment later, he straightens in his seat, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He turns the cell towards me. The screen displays a photo of Rosalia beaming next to her one-of-a-kind book counter. He taps on the screen again, his eyes scanning like he’s reading. “Well, well, well. It seems Ms. Manchester is not only pretty but also single.” His voice drips with insinuation. “I bet you like more than her books, little brother.”
“Don’t be crass. Rosalia is a smart business person, and her shop is good for the community.” I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.
Something calculating flickers in his eyes. It’s so far from the person he was that summer in the rickhouse, miles away from the guy who helped me craft Lillianna’s special bottle of bourbon. “Rosalia, huh?”
Fuck. Thorne had always possessed an uncanny talent for locating vulnerabilities, for spotting the tell that would win him the hand. And he sees mine. Rosalia. The slight softening in my voice when I said her name was all it took. One momentary slip, and he was already calculating how to use it.
He continues to study me, tapping his fingers against his desk. Then a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Well, this is interesting,” he says, setting his phone down with deliberate care.
My coffee curdles in my stomach. Despite years of perfecting my poker face, I know Thorne can sense weakness. Our father taught us both how to hunt for it.
Thorne leans forward, his eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught a scent. “You know, Sebastian, I think our Whiskey Row property just became much more... personal.”
Chapter Four
Sebastian
“Leave Rosalia alone,” I tell my brother.
The command hangs between us, sharp as a broken bourbon glass. I stand rigid before Thorne’s mahogany desk, while he lounges in his executive chair. We’re two strangers who once shared rickhouse secrets and midnight bourbon raids. Now we share nothing but a last name and an ocean of resentment.
“You’re interested in her,” he says softly. Thorne has always been able to read my tells, even when we were kids playing poker with bottlecaps.
“I’m not,” I lie. The less my brother knows about my personal life, the better.
