Page 1 of The Bourbon Bet
ChapterOne
Rosalia
I run my hand along the spine of the limited-edition romance novel. Tonight’s book club is going to be so excited to see these. Setting it atop the others at my checkout counter, I accidentally bump a stack of monthly statements tucked beneath a framed photo. Both clatter to the floor. From the glass frame now resting at my feet, Dad and I smile up at me from the opening day of my bookstore. His proud grin beneath the “Novel Idea” sign he’d carved himself is as wideas mine.
The old brass bell we’d hung over the door to my store clangs. I set the dropped items on a shelf behind the counter and look toward the entrance. The world goes quiet like I’ve just opened a new book, and my pulse races like it wants to get to the good parts. This always happens when I see Sebastian Blackstone.
“Are you here for book club?” I joke, tapping the illustrated cover of a couple embracing.
His sporadic visits began days after my grand opening almost a year ago, and are always a treat. And not only because his looks rival my book-boyfriends, but because he’s interesting. Each time, he leaves with something unexpected I’ve recommended. Last month’s selection is tonight’s romance book club pick.
I stifle a laugh at the image of him in his custom three-piece suit and shiny Oxfords sitting in a folding plastic chair, sipping coffee from one of my chipped mugs. The man runs the largest bourbon distillery in Kentucky, and his family owns most of the state, including the building I’m leasing. Men like him frequent exclusive clubs for the privileged few, not indie book clubs.
“I did enjoy the small-town romance you suggested,” he says, his full lips pulling into a smile, revealing a dangerous dimple. “But I haven’t read much fiction lately.”
No way! He actuallyreadthe romance novel I recommended. I thought he was being polite buying it. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’m way too pleased. But who can blame me? He’s Kentucky royalty and movie star handsome, and took the time to read one of my book suggestions. And a romance novel.
“I—” My hand collides with a small stack of books on the counter, toppling them. Kneeling, I gather the scattered novels.
We reach for the same book, and our fingers touch. A current races up my arm. I glance up and catch him staring. Those eyes, the color of expensive bourbon, hold mine with an intensity that makes me forget how to breathe.
“Ms. Rosalia!” shouts a child, startling me. I nearly fall on my butt. Sebastian hands me the book with a smile before turning to the young boy.
Jake, one of the kids I tutor, barrels into me and wraps his arms around me. “I just finished that shark book. Do you have more? Do you like sharks, mister?” he asks Sebastian.
“This is Mr. Blackstone—”
“Are we back to that, Ms. Manchester?” asks Sebastian, his right brow quirks. Why is it so sexy?
“Sebastian,” I correct, then ruffle Jake’s hair. “This little guy is an amazing reader who loves adventure stories.”
The seven-year-old steps forward, holding out a hand. I look at his mom and see her proud smile. “I’m Jake. I love to read because of Ms. Rosalia. She makes it fun.”
A flush of warmth fills me at the little guy’s praise. They remind me of why I pour so much of myself into my fledgling bookstore and its community outreach, even in months when the budget is tight. “He’s in my reading program,” I explain.
Sebastian nods, then crouches slightly and shakes the small boy’s hand. The movement highlights his jawline, defined and sharp in profile. “What kind of adventures do you like to read about?” he asks.
“Sharks and dinosaurs and space!” Jake beams.
“A man of excellent taste,” Sebastian says with a nod that makes the little guy stand taller.
“Those are good subjects. Let’s see if I have some.” I lead them to the special shelf of donated books I reserve for my reading program students. As he carefully browses the titles, I glance at Sebastian, who’s hunched down, talking about books with Jake. And his mom is watching Sebastian with open appreciation. I can’t blame her.
I also can’t help cataloging the scene. The way Jake lights up when an adult takes his interests seriously, and how his mom relaxes seeing her son so engaged. It’s the kind of genuine connection I love reading about, where people surprise each other by caring about the small things. These are the moments that make the best stories, the ones where everyone discovers something unexpected about themselves.
A few minutes later, their arms are laden with books from the donation section, and Jake and his mother say their goodbyes. After they leave, I turn to Sebastian. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
His eyes meet mine, and I swear there’s a flicker of something deeper than mere politeness, maybe a hint of admiration, perhaps even attraction, shines in them. The man is unfairly gorgeous, with a presence that fills the entire bookstore. And yet, there’s a gentleness I don’t expect from someone so powerful.
“I believe you were about to recommend some books to me,” he says.
Book recommendations are my jam, and I rub my hands together, turning and walking backward toward the fiction section. Keeping my gaze on Sebastian, I say, “Are you in the mood for horror? There’s an amazing one I just read from a local author. There’s a haunted house, which I know is overdone, but not that way she does it,” I gush, then close my mouth.
I’m about to start babbling. He always makes me nervous and excited, turning me into someone who knocks things over and can’t stop talking
“It still surprises me—your love for romance and horror,” he says, amusement dancing across his features.
Picking up the haunted house book from the nearby shelf, I hand it to him. “I’ve read somewhere that there’s a thin line between love and hate. Pain and pleasure.”
