Page 103 of The Bourbon Bet
“My minor was in psychology.”
I rub my face. “Christ. Maybe you should have made it your major.”
Daniel chuckles. “I think that’s my cue to leave to do some lawyerly stuff.” He stands and heads toward the door. “I’ll make your anonymous donation to Rosalia’s fundraiser.”
“Thank you.”
The door clicks shut behind Daniel, but his words remain. Each one chips away at the walls I’ve so carefully constructed. I return my attention to the sprawling vista outside my window. I can’t change the past, but I can damn well fight for a better future.
Which means I need to make things right with Rosalia. But how? How can I prove to her that I’m willing to change to be the man she deserves? The thought of baring my soul, of letting her see the vulnerable parts of myself, terrifies me. Yet, it also fills me with a strange sense of hope.
I open the bottom drawer and pull out an old framed photo of my family from years ago. Thorne and I stood shoulder to shoulder before everything fell apart. There’s unfinished business that keeps casting shadows over everything in my life, including what happened with Rosalia.
Before I can move forward, I need to deal with the past. I pick up my phone and dial my brother’s number. He answers on the fourth ring.
“Sebastian?” His voice is weary.
“We need to talk,” I say, keeping my voice even. “There are things that need to be said. Face to face.”
A pause stretches between us that feels heavy with years of resentment and recent betrayal. “Where?”
“My place.” After our fight at The Mansion made headlines in every local paper, the last thing either of us needs is another public spectacle. “Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.” That’d give me some time to prepare what I need to say.
Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing his options, calculating risks and advantages like he always does.
“Fine,” he finally says. “Ten o’clock.”
I end the call without another word. The wall clock ticks, each second a reminder of time wasted on anger and mistrust. Tomorrow I’ll confront my brother, unravel the knots between us. Only then can I stand before Rosalia with nothing held back—no games, no tests, no armor. Just a man asking for one more chance.
Chapter Forty
Rosalia
I lock the door of my bookstore and flip the sign to “Closed.” The street outside is mostly empty, with only a few people braving the rain. I prepare a mug of ginger and turmeric tea and carry it to the checkout counter. The warmth and aroma comfort me. Settling onto a stool and opening my laptop, a surge of hope ripples through me.
Refusing to let Sebastian’s betrayal and Thorne’s cruelty rob my dreams, I’ve thrown myself into work, planning events and brainstorming ideas for thefuture. Saving my Novel Idea has become my singular focus, which is what I need to avoid dwelling on my heartache.
I glance at my phone’s bank notification and vindication flares in my chest. A week of intense fundraisers has paid off—literally. Author readings and book signings haven’t just brought literature lovers through my doors; they’ve brought financial salvation. I’ve got enough money to buy a vacant storefront down the street. It’s not as nice as this place, but at least the move will be easier. The bookshop will truly be mine now, bought not rented, with enough left over to start dreaming bigger.
Clicking open my spreadsheet, I take in the numbers that once seemed impossible to reach. I’ve proven to myself these past weeks that I can solve my problems without anyone else’s rescue. The Blackstone brothers’ machinations forced me to discover a resilience I didn't know I had. If only I’d understood my own capabilities before they entered my life, perhaps my heart wouldn’t be quite so battered now.
And that’s the most infuriating thing: since I walked away from Sebastian, I miss him more, not less. It’s a constant internal fight not to call him. I’ve deleted and restored his number three times now. The memory of his laugh when I’d recommended that ridiculous mystery novel haunts me, along with the way his eyes had crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a genuine smile, not the practiced one he used in business meetings.
Was any of it real? It felt so genuine. But was each shared moment calculated, part of a strategy to win a bet I hadn’t even known existed?
“Focus on what’s important,” I mutter, turning my attention back to my laptop.
A sharp rap on the locked door jolts me so hard that tea sloshes from my cup onto the counter. I should be used to it by now. Most nights, bar revelers on Whiskey Row mistake Novel Idea for some literary-themed bar.
But the person isn’t a stranger. It’s Sebastian’s lawyer, Daniel, who waves at me with the hand not holding an umbrella. With the other, he’s pointing for me to unlock the door.
I consider hiding under the counter. But given that we’ve made eye contact, I’d look like a weirdo.
Sighing, I walk to the door and twist the lock. A quiet clunk reverberates through the store. Pulling on the knob, the pleasant, earthy scent of petrichor fills my lungs. I ask over the rain, “Can I help you?”
“I apologize. I didn’t realize your store would be closed,” he says.
“The weather will keep customers away, so I decided to close early and get caught up on paperwork.” I'd also hosted a children's event earlier today that was immensely successful, but the strain of being on my feet all day had drained me.
