Page 89 of The Bourbon Bet
“Not this one,” Thorne says with a dry chuckle, swirling his drink. “Don’t you remember, I always preferred the darker magical beings in my stories?”
A spark of what we used to have stabs my heart. Those nights as kids, we’d fight over shows. One of us wanted action, the other horror. We’d usually end up watching both, along with another that our sister had picked.
The memories hurt but I don’t push them away, hoping the connection will help with my case. As if sensing my ploy, his features harden. “And you can’t back out. You’ve read the fine print, right?”
“Yeah, you automatically win. Or we could end the bet.” I sip my bourbon. It warms my throat but does little to calm me. “No winner, no loser. Neither of us leaves the distillery.”
“No winner or loser, huh?” he scoffs. “Says the man who’ll still be master distiller.”
“I don’t get it. You’re great at acquisitions. Why do you want my job?” None of what I’ve said is bullshit. I can’t understand my brother’s motivation.
Thorne’s chin juts in that stubborn way of his, which means he’s digging in his heels. “This is the main family distillery. The largest. I am the oldest son.Ishould be running it, not you.”
“That was Dad’s choice, not mine.” I hate giving our father any credit. He might not know us as his children, but he understands our business value. “And I’ve come here appealing to you as my brother. I like Rosalia, but your machinations are a noose around our relationship.”
His brows raise. “Oh, you two are in a relationship?”
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, staring at it. “Hell, I don’t know. But I like her. A lot,” I tell him honestly.
He finishes his drink and sets the glass on the nearby rick. “You’re looking at this from the wrong angle. This bet is a gift for you.” He sounds like he believes what he’s saying.
I eye my older brother. He’s always had a way of finding loopholes, of turning any situation to his advantage. “In what twisted way is this a good thing?”
“This is the ultimate litmus test, a perfect opportunity to see if she’s with you, for you,” he remarks. The words hang in the air between many rows of barrels.
I fall silent. A test of Rosalia’s devotion. Is that what this is? I can’t deny I’d love ironclad reassurance of her feelings, but the knot in my stomach tells me this is wrong. “No,” I say, at last, meeting Thorne’s gaze. “Forcing her hand like this...backing her into a corner, is cruel.”
“But if she doesn’t take your precious portfolio, you know she really cares about you.”
“Giving up the store she loves is too steep a price.” That store isn’t merely a business to her. It’s her legacy, something she built from nothing. The way her face lights up when she walks customers through the shelves, sharing stories old and new. Taking that away would crush her.
Thorne rolls his eyes. “If I lose, we both know that’s not happening. With your white-knight complex, you’ll renew her lease or give her the damn building.”
I would, and she deserves more for the hell they’re forcing onto her. I try again. “She doesn’t know anything about this wager between us.”
“Again,good,” he shoots back. “You say she’s better than your ex-wife. Better than me. Let her prove it.”
All remnants of my goodwill vanish, replaced by bitter hostility. “Don’t bring Tiffany into this,” I warn.
Thorne slams his palm on top of the barrel. “She’s the reason for the bet. The reason you hate me.”
“No. You’re the reason I hate you. You knew my marriage was struggling, and how did you choose to have your brother’s back? By trying to get my wife on hers!”
“We were drunk,” he shrugs. “She came on to me. And it’s not like we slept together.”
My blood boils. He always has an excuse at the ready. “That’s only because I walked in the fucking living room of ourparents’ housebefore it happened.”
“That proves none of it was planned. And that we weren’t sober.” He jerks his head to the side. “Seriously, it was a fucking New Year’s party…”
I crash into his personal space, the tension damn near suffocating as if the room can barely contain the weight of my anger. “You knew we’d fought before the party. You used it to your advantage.”
“No, I didn’t. But it does explain why she was so drunk, begging for attention. I know first-hand how you cut off people you supposedly love when upset.”
“Well, it’s a good thing she had you to comfort her,” I snarl. How dare the fucker claim it’s my fault. Classic Thorne, twisting everything around.
The muscles in my brother’s jaw twitch. “Why do you place all the blame on me?” he grits out.
“Why can’t you take any of it?” And that’s what bothers me. Tiffany probably holds more fault. I don’t doubt that she came on to Thorne. Like our dad, she seemed to like watching us fight. However, the way my brother refuses to acknowledge his part makes forgiveness impossible.
