Page 71 of The Bourbon Bet
She slips, jolting my hand that’s holding hers. My heart slams against my ribs as panic shoots through me.
“Ow, Sebastian,” she gasps.
Oh, shit. I loosen my hold, my face heating. “Sorry, I—are you okay?” I ask, pulling her closer to the center of the trail, needing her away from any potential drops.
“From tripping? Yes. But I think my fingers are broken,” she teases.
I manage a weak smile, still rattled.
Before I can apologize again, she asks, “When is Lillianna returning from Thailand?”
“It’ll be a while. At least a year. She’s moved on to Cambodia to teach. Besides English, she speaks French and Spanish. She’ll spend a year or two at a school before moving on.”
“That’s so cool. What an adventure!” Rosalia gushes. “She didn’t want to work for the family business? Or is it a guy’s-only club?”
“Kind of. My father wanted her to run marketing and public relations. He said she’d be the ‘face’ of the company. She refused, so I got stuck with that job.”
Rosalia grins. “Good thing you have such a pretty face for it.”
I laugh. “I’ve been called a lot of things. Pretty isn’t one of them.”
“Well, I’m saying it, and it’s true.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Anyway, since he retired and I took over, I’m changing things. Last year, the stillman and mashman I hired were women.”
Rosalia snorts and it’s the cutest damn sound. “Did you hire them to prove a point: the two titles with a man in thename are women?”
I laugh. “No. They are the best in the field. And I guess I should call them distillers and mash operators. Anyway, the point is that I want the best working for me; female, male, and non-binary don’t fit into the hiring equation, only skill. I’ve tried to get Lillianna to come back now that Dad’s retired, but so far, no luck.” The trail widens, and I slow my steps until we are side by side, but I don’t let go of Rosalia’s hand. “She loves the vagabond life and has never been interested in the family business. Although I’m not ready to give up. I miss her, and she’d be an asset.”
“What would’ve happened if you also hadn’t been interested in taking over?”
“My brother would be living his best life.” I frown, unhappy that Thorne has snaked into our conversation.
“He wanted to be master…” She snaps her fingers. “Um, master bourbon man.”
I chuckle. “Master distiller. Yes.”
She nods, continuing to the steep trail that will take us to the top. I’m not sure if the mention of Thorne has dried up our conversation or if she’s focused on the hike, but I wish she’d keep talking. Her steady chatter keeps my mind off our final destination. The sandstone arch is only around sixty-five feet from the ground, but the height still makes my limbs tingle and my pulse race.
We reach the top all too soon. Natural Bridge stretches before us, a graceful arch of ancient sandstone spanning the gap between cliff faces. My stomach tightens as I take in other visitors scattered along the bridge. To my left, a family is taking photos near the edge. Past them, a couple of rock climbers are casually pointing out routes on the distant cliffs far below. The view opens up to reveal the rolling hills of the Daniel Boone National Forest stretching endlessly toward the horizon, painted in the fresh greens of early spring, but all I can focus on is the dizzying drop.
I point to the center. “Want to sit and rest?”
Shaking her head, she moves to the edge, toward the drop. My stomach dives while she merrily removes her phone from a side pocket and snaps pictures.
My feet are glued to the rock, but I reach toward her. “Rosalia, could you not do that?” I hate that my voice holds a slight quiver.
She looks at me, her cell poised in front of her. “Do what?”
A cold sweat breaks out as I move toward her, keeping to the center of the bridge, refusing to look over the sides and ignoring the way my legs tingle. “Please, don’t go so close to the edge.”
She tilts her head, her brow furrowing. “Are you afraid of heights?”
“I’m not a fan of them.”
“Oh…” Her eyes widen as understanding dawns. “Is that why you were facing away from the window elevator at the Galt?” She pauses, then adds more softly, “And why you won't ride in Blackstone’s balloon?”
I drag my sweaty palms down the thighs of my cargo pants. “Guilty.”
