Page 70 of The Bourbon Bet
She gestures toward the layered sandstone cliffs rising around us, their red and gold faces catching the afternoon light. A pair of hikers with climbing gear passes us on their way to the rock faces, nodding in greeting.
Her serenity strikes me. “You didn’t hike much back in Michigan?”
She turns to me. “Hike? No, more like leisurely strolls. Michigan’s pretty flat, at least where I’m from. Nothing like these hills.”
“No wonder you were excited to come out here.” I gesture to the trail ahead, a hint of a challenge in my voice. “Ready to tackle the hard part?”
She grins, her gaze glinting with determination. “Bring it on.”
I eye her tennis shoes, then offer my hand. “Those won’t have good traction. You might slip.”
“Thanks.” Her palm slides against mine and warmth spreads through me. Ignoring how much I enjoy the simple touch, I focus on the trail. “Where did you like hiking, sorry, walking, in Michigan?”
“I lived near an international wildlife refuge along the Detroit River. I’d walk there and other local trails at least once a week. And if I had a free day or two, I’d hop in my car and explore a new place. If I had more time, I’d head up north.”
“Alone?” I picture her in another sexy athletic outfit, walking in one of Michigan’s many forests.
“Not always. My mom would go sometimes. Or my ex. Though he wasn’t big into outdoor exercising. He liked the gym.” She looks away and mutters, “Probably because the egotistical jerk liked to look at himself in the many mirrored walls.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
She shakes her head, her lips twisting into a wry smile. “Oh, you know. Boy meets girl; boy confesses his love to her, and at least two other women…”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze, understanding that hurt all too well. “His loss.”
Her gaze softens. “What about you? Besides hiking and horses, what do you do on your days off?” she asks.
I go with the subject change, though I don’t have much to offer. “Days off? What’s that?”
She giggles. “You’ve been going out with me, so you must take time off.”
“Before you, I hadn’t in a long time. Hell, besides our outings, I can’t recall the last time I’d ridden or explored a new trail. Probably not since my sister was home,” I tell her.
I could convince myself that I’m making time for her because I want to win the bet, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I genuinely want to be with her. It’s unsettling how quickly she has become a priority. I, the notorious workaholic, am rearranging my schedule because I need to see her smile and hear her laugh.
“What about you?” I ask. “How does it feel to take Friday off instead of your usual Monday?”
She glances at the trail ahead of us. “Honestly, I can’t tell much difference since I stay local. But as much as I love the city, it feels great to get out in nature.” She takes a deep breath, as if to emphasize her point. “But I am really excited for Monday and Fest-a-Ville. It’s so close to my bookstore, so it’ll bring crowds my way. I’ve already sold out of the VIP seats for the local chef Q&A and book signings. And I’m certain the talented musicians coming to my store in the late afternoon and evening will bring people inside.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” I say, impressed by her business savvy.
The trail narrows as it begins its switchback climb up the ridge, hemmed in by towering walls of weathered sandstone. Moss clings to the shaded crevices, and small wildflowers peek out from between the rocks.
I grip her hand tightly as we navigate the uneven stone steps worn smooth by countless hikers.“Watch your step here.”
Her fingers warm against mine. I love how natural it feels, this simple connection between us.
We’re quiet, but it’s comfortable. I’m enjoying the rustling leaves and occasional birdsong. Rosalia seems lost in thought, glancing occasionally at the canopy of trees above us.
“Do you miss her?” she asks suddenly.
“Miss who?” The question seems to have materialized from thin air.
“Your sister,” she clarifies. “You mentioned riding with her earlier. And you must talk about books, if you’re sending them to her. Are you two close?”
Her question catches me off guard. We’d talked about Lillianna weeks ago at Novel Idea. I didn’t expect Rosalia to remember the conversation, let alone where my sister’s currently living.
The trail curves around a large boulder, revealing red and gold sandstone cliffs through the trees. Rosalia pauses, her attention drawn to the scenery. Her foot catches on an exposed root as she steps forward.
