Page 7 of The Bourbon Bet
“Then why do you care that we’re evicting her?”
“I merely appreciate what she’s doing for the community,” I tell him. “Novel Idea is more than a business.”
“Always a fucking bleeding heart for the underdog,” my brother mutters.
“Leave her alone,” I repeat.
Thorne leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Youareinterested in her. Are you fucking her?”
“Fuck off,” I say coolly. Each word is like ice despite the furnace building inside me.
“Stop grinding your teeth before you break one,” he sighs. “I’m asking as your older brother, not HR. No need to get your boxers in a twist.”
“Don’t give me that ‘brother’ bullshit,” I sneer. “We share a last name. That’s where the connection ends.”
Thorne’s smirk falters, and for a moment, his eyes betray a deep, aching hurt. But I’ve seen that look before. It’s a mirage that no longer touches me.
“Fair enough,” he replies. His vulnerability vanishes, replaced with his usual glacial demeanor. “I don’t give a rat’s ass who you’re screwing, as long as it doesn’t screw with Blackstone’s profits. And passing up the Willow’s place will.”
I press my teeth together so tightly that my jaw clicks. That’s what sucks about family, they know exactly which buttons to push. But mine has also given me plenty of opportunity to learn how to transform hot anger into something lethal and controlled, to freeze out those who shouldn’t matter—like a brother who betrays.
“She’s just... an acquaintance,” I say evenly. And it’s true. I don’t have friends. They’re a luxury I can’t afford, a weakness I refuse to indulge in. “Anyway, her shop doesn’t mess with the company’s profits. And she has great mentor programs, book clubs for kids and adults, and a lot of other stuff important to the community. Louisville needs more books, not bourbon.”
My brother snorts, folding his arms. “That’s not the best tagline for the face of Blackstone Bourbon.”
I shrug. “I’m talking to a family member, not the press.”
“Ah, so now I’m family.” Thorne narrows his eyes and stares at me as if trying to figure me out. “If we didn’t work at the same distillery, would you ever talk to me?”
“No. And don’t pretend you care.”
“I do,” he sighs, his gaze drifting to the floor for a moment before meeting my eyes again. “When will you forgive and forget?”
My body locks as tension ripples through my muscles. “I have a right to my anger,” I snarl, my words sharp and biting. “You crossed a line. Do you really expect me just to forgive and forget what you did?”
Thorne’s gaze darts to the side, and he shifts in his seat. His mouth opens, but only silence escapes, as if his words have disappeared into the hostile air between us. Then his expression hardens into a defensive scowl. “Stop blaming me.”
“Who should I blame? Myself? Because I trusted you to be alone in a room with my wife,” I sneer, “during a damn family Christmas party?”
It’s been two years and the memory still hits like the first inhale of cask-strength bourbon, burning all the way down. Dad always said the Blackstone men carry their pain like they carry their whiskey—neat, strong, and hidden behind a practiced smile. But some betrayals cut too deep to mask.
“She never should have been yours.” Thorn’s eyes flash with resentment. “But you think everything of mine is yours to take. Dad handed you the master distiller position, even though I’m his eldest son. And if that wasn’t enough, you had to go and steal Tiffany from me too. You couldn’t let me have even one fucking thing, could you?”
I hold my brother’s gaze, my anger distilling into something colder. “Father made his choice based on what he thought was best for the company. And I didn’t steal Tiffany. She picked me.”
He shoots up from his chair, sending it clattering to the floor. He leans across the table and the sharp smell of bourbon and coffee on his breath assaults me. Spittle lands on the desk between us as his voice rises. “Tiffany was mine first!” hebellows, veins standing out on his neck. “You had no right to come between us and you know it.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “You think you own any woman who crosses your path, regardless of whether she actually wants you or not.” The chasm between us opened when Dad named me head of Blackstone Bourbon, then widened the night I met Tiffany.
“She’d come to the party with me,” he snarls.
I inhale deeply and exhale through my nose. “And I’ve told you countless times that she never mentioned you that night. I didn’t know you had a thing for her. I didn’t know until I brought her home a month later.”
Thorne’s face reddens and he jabs a finger at my chest. “Bullshit. I told you about her before the party.”
“Not her name. Only that she was blonde with—” I straighten and hold up a hand. I’m done with this pointless argument. “Believe what you want, but you’re still the asshole in this story. You did what you did when I wasmarriedto Tiffany.” I slam my mouth shut and silently count to ten. Then count back down.
“Like I’ve said a million damn times, that wasn’t my fault. Tiffany pursued me. She’s the one who didn’t care about her marriage vows or your feelings.” His words come out rehearsed, like he’s repeated this explanation so many times he’s worn the edges smooth. But they still cut me.
