Page 23 of The Bourbon Bet
She knocks my shoulders gently, laughing. “I’m sure there’s more. They just don’t hang out with me.”
“That proves my point,” I say. “They’re an exclusive club that doesn’t let people like us in.”
Paige lifts a brow. “You’re in.”
“No. I’m a toy to amuse at least one of them. I really don’t think Sebastian knows any part of this.”
Paige taps the handlebars of my bike. “He couldn’t bother to pick you up? Hell, even if he’s busy, I’m sure he has a driver or three.
“He had offered, but I refused.” I point to my apartment above the bookstore. “And I’d rather he didn’t know where I live.”
“Blackstone owns the building; don’t you think he knows?”
“He asked for my address so he could pick me up for this date,” I point out. Though it could be manipulation, a small part of me whispers that maybe he doesn’t know about my lease issues—that he actually likes me. I’m not sure which is worse.
“Do you want to borrow my car?” Paige asks. “You could drop me off at home on the way to the restaurant.”
A tightness grips my throat. “You are the best, kindest friend in the whole world. And thanks, but I’ll pass. The exercise and fresh air will do me good. They’ll help me think of questions to ask him. I’m going to figure out what's really going on. Maybe I can tell if he knows anything, or if this is real to him.”
“Have you considered that he asked you out because you’re hot, and all this is a coincidence?”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Yes, hot, successful billionaires are lining up to date the plain bookworm.”
“You aren’t plain.”
“You have to say that. You’re my friend.” I hop on my bike and wave bye before she can argue.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pedaling along one of those quaint streets with flower baskets hanging from lampposts and art galleries tucked between restaurants. The blue and gray sign of Fantastic Fusion is only a few shops down.
Good, I’ll be a few minutes early. A deafening horn blares behind me, the sound ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. My heart leaps into my throat. I glance over my shoulder. My pulse explodes. A massive, gleaming SUV is barreling toward me, its engine roaring like an enraged beast.
Before I can swerve out of the way, the SUV swings around me, so close that the heat of the metal grazes my skin. Then its back bumper clips my front tire. The impact jolts me, wrenching my handlebars from my grip. My stomach drops, followed by my body. This is going to hurt.
Gravel bites into my arm. My ribs slam down. The sharp scent of hot pavement fills my nose as my bag bursts, spilling everything. A lipstick tube bounces off my knee. Quarters dance and ping around me before rolling into silence.
My chest heaves, and my heart pounds against my ribs like a caged mouse desperate for escape. Slowly, I push into a sitting position, wincing. I glance at my arm. There’s road rash but, thankfully, neither my shirt nor slacks are torn. Talk about lucky.
The SUV squeals to a stop in an open spot near the bike rack, its tires scraping against the curb. The driver’s door opens, and a tall, lanky man emerges, his linen slacks and polo shirt rustling in the breeze.
He cast a dismissive glance at me, his lips curling into a sneer. “The road’s for cars, not bikes,” he drawls.
My blood boils. I push myself from the ground on trembling legs. “I was in the designated bike path, you ignorant jerk,” I shout.
He flips me off, heading for the restaurant where I’m supposed to meet Sebastian. The rude driver reaches for the door, but Sebastian pushes through. He looks like a violent storm ready to destroy everything in his path.
ChapterTen
Sebastian
My pulse pounds and my hands curl into fists. I stare down the lanky man who almost ran over Rosalia. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I don't shout, but my quiet fury reverberates through me, hitting him like a fist. He pales.
The guy swallows, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat. “Mr. Blackstone. You know her? I’m sorry.”
Oh, now she’s important. This guy’s an asshole. I lean into his personal space. “Don’t tell me.Tell her.”
He turns in Rosalia’s general direction and snivels, “I’m sorry, miss.”
She nods, picking up a gray shoe from the sidewalk. After the jerk scurries inside the restaurant, my attention snaps back to her. She looks relatively unharmed but shaken, collecting her belongings and sitting on a nearby bench. I sit beside her. “Are you hurt?”
