Page 11 of The Bourbon Bet
Dad’s worried voice plays on repeat in my mind. “Rosie, honey, are you sure you can handle this?” I’d been ridiculously confident when I called him with my grand plan three short years ago. So sure that moving to Louisville and opening a bookstore was exactly what I needed. I’d convinced him I could do this, and he’d believed in me enough to put his house on the line for my loan. Now I can’t even look at his number in my phone without feeling like I might throw up. How do I tell him that in two months, I might cost him everything?
Last night I stayed up until three in the morning running numbers, calculating and recalculating, hoping I’d find some magical formula that would make everything work. First month’s rent, last month’s rent, security deposit, moving company, new shelving, signage, permits—the total kept climbing to an impossible sum. My store brings in steady money, but not nearly enough for this kind of financial hit. Not while I’m still paying off the original loan for the bookstore and helping Dad with his remortgaged home payments.
Pushing my worry aside, I leave the checkout counter for a much-needed caffeine boost. At the beverage cubby, I start a pot of coffee. The rich aroma fills the air. I close my eyes and lean against the counter, savoring the moment of calm before a busy day.
I look up at the sound of footsteps on the threshold. “Good morning,” I say automatically.
A man who looks a little familiar strides toward me, wearing a suit that practically gleams at the seams. Even my untrained eye can tell that nothing on him is off the rack. His light brown hair is neatly styled and looks as expensive as his suit. He is incredibly good-looking and moves with a calculated grace, but his handsomeness is marred by clinical detachment in his gaze.
“Good Morning.” He extends a hand, his cufflinks glinting. His voice is smooth, as if accustomed to commanding attention. “I’m Thorne Blackstone.”
The name hits me like a blow. Blackstone.
Sebastian’s brother. I should’ve recognized him from the papers and social media. His eyes and hair are lighter, but there’s no mistaking that perfect jawline, full lips, and Greek nose.
I start to reach for his hand, then pause. The calculating assessment in those cold blue eyes makes my skin prickle with warning that goes deeper than just his last name. His eyebrow arches slightly at my hesitation, and his smile sharpens. I force myself to complete the handshake, but his grip is like a trap closing.
“A Blackstone in my bookstore. What did I do to deserve the honor?” I ask dryly.
He chuckles. “Do I sense sarcasm?”
“I’ll admit, I tend to like people better when they aren’t tossing me out onto the street.”
“I take it you received the lease non-renewal notice.” Concern cloaks his words, but there’s a predatory gleam in his eyes, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
“My sixty days aren’t up yet.” Keeping the tinge of desperation from my voice is impossible. I run my fingers down the plastic buttons of my powder blue rayon blouse, acutely aware of how it's faded from too many washes. Betweenthe scuffed flats and worn heels, this outfit is like a physical manifestation of my dismal bank account.
He holds up his hands. “I’m not here to lock the doors early. In fact, the opposite. I have a proposition.”
I rub my eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.” Whatever deal he’s about to offer, I’m certain it won’t come cheap. To make matters worse, I suspect he knows exactly how few cards I have left to play.
“More like a gift horse. Perfect for Kentucky, right?”
“Depends on the gift.” I move behind the check-out counter. For reasons I can’t name, I need a barrier between us.
“How about a new lease? Five years, locked in rate.”
I step back. “Why would you offer that when your company sent me an eviction notice two days ago?”
“Let’s just say I have my reasons.” His smile is practiced, hollow.
“And those reasons are?” I press, not willing to take the bait so easily.
“Does it matter?” He shrugs one expensive shoulder. “You need a place for your books, I can provide one.”
“That’s not an answer,” I press.
“Why,” he shoots back. “You should focus on what matters. Saving your store.”
His evasiveness bothers me, but desperation makes me swallow the rest of my questions. “You’d put it in writing that I get to stay?”
“Learned a lesson about getting things in writing, did you?”
Embarrassment curls in my stomach. “Yes.”
“I’ll have my lawyer draft the contract today.”
“Will your lawyer be the same one who told me to get out?”
