Page 88 of The Bourbon Bet
He presses a tender kiss to my forehead. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmurs. “But I swear, I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy, to be the man you deserve.”
I meet his gaze. His eyes are soft with affection and sated desire. A pang of longing hits me that is so sharp it steals my breath. It's not merely my livelihood on the line anymore, but my heart as well. Somehow, amidst all the secrets and lies, I’ve begun to fall for this man—his strength, his vulnerability, his unwavering passion. The thought of losing him, of walking away from what we’ve built together, cuts deep.
The weight of my impossible choice crushes down on me. Five days to decide: destroy the man I’m falling in love with, or watch everything I’ve built crumble.
I keep telling myself I could move locations, start fresh somewhere else, but that’s a comforting lie. Deep down, I know Novel Idea only exists because of the community, the relationships, and the roots I’ve worked so hard to establish over the past two years. I press my hand to my chest, feeling like I might actually break apart from the inside out.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sebastian
I open the heavy oak door of the limestone cellar. Cool air and the rich, caramel aroma of American oak barrels greet me. Following the sounds of footsteps and conversation, I find Thorne standing a little too close to our event marketing coordinator, Heather. There’s also a half-empty glass already in my brother’s hand, though it’s barely pasttwelve.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackstone,” Heather says to me, taking a step away from my brother. “I have the notes on all the tasting profiles for the Director’s Cut marketing materials, just as Thorne requested.”
“That’s Mr. Blackstone,” my brother corrects her sharply, shooting her a warning look. The momentary flash of hurt in her eyes suggests that my brother has been doing more than tasting bourbon with her.
Heather’s cheeks flush as she avoids my gaze. “Of course. I apologize, Mr. Blackstone.”
Thorne sets down his glass with a little more force than necessary and taps a barrel with a proprietary smile. “This one’s perfect. Rich mahogany notes with just the right amount of vanilla and spice.” He turns to me with barely concealed challenge in his eyes. “Don’t you think so, master distiller?”
The words are on the tip of my tongue to remind him that barrel selection is my domain, not his. But I swallow them back. I came here to ask him to drop the bet, and starting with a territorial pissing match won’t help my cause. I force my features into something resembling neutrality.
“I’d need to taste it myself before weighing in,” I say diplomatically, though the effort costs me. Thorne’s eyebrow lifts slightly, clearly surprised by my restraint. He knows me too well.
“This barrel’s perfect for the Blackstone’s Rose,” he continues, pressing his advantage. The name hits me like a sucker punch.
I shove my hands in the pockets of my slacks. “Interesting name choice.” Of course he’d choose a name that evokes my Rosalia.
My brother smirks. “It’s a play on Run for the Roses. Clever, huh?” I can see he’s lying, but I only nod.
“Should fetch a pretty price at the derby party auction,” he continues, turning to Heather. “Make sure the label emphasizes the limited quantity. Only two hundred bottles from this barrel.”
“Yes, sir,” Heather nods, making notes on her tablet.
“If you’re finished,” I say, “I’d like to speak with my brother. Alone.”
“Okay,” she says, a little too cheerfully as she backs toward the door. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything else.”
“You should have askedmeif I was done with her,” he seethes.
Christ, I’ve bruised his fragile ego. That’s not the best way to start a conversation where I want something from him. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I swallow the distaste of apologizing to my brother.
It seems to work. His stiff posture loosens and he bends, retrieving a Whiskey Thief and placing the sampling tube inside the barrel in question. I backtrack to a shelf holding Glencairn glasses, grabbing one. He fills his and then mine. After sealing the barrel, we look at each other over our glasses.
Thorne performs a proper tasting. He holds the glass up to the light, examining the amber color and how it clings to the sides. Then he inhales the fragrance, takes a small sip, and lets the flavor sit on his tongue before swallowing. He seems to consider the lingering notes that remain after the bourbon is gone.
“Let me guess, you want out of the bet,” he says.
He always could read me too well.
I take a sip from my glass. The liquid slides across my palate, velvety and complex. There’s a subtle smokiness that leaves me wanting another taste. Thorne may be a bastard, but he knows his bourbon.
“This isn’t fair to Rosalia,” I tell him.
“What are you talking about? Unless she magically finds someone willing to give her a massive loan, I’m her only option. I’m practically her fucking fairy godfather.”
I grunt and almost smile. “Aren’t fairies supposed to be benevolent?”
