Page 34 of The Bourbon Bet
The wrought-iron gates part for us, revealing a world so far removed from mine that it might as well be a different planet. I swear the house grows larger with every passing second. Marble columns rise three stories high. Every window gleams like it was polished this morning.
I sit in the car for a long moment, staring at the front door. Everything I taught myself about integrity feels very far away right now.
Opening the door, I step out. My boot heels sink into the perfectly manicured lawn. Unease wraps around me. There’s no backing out now.
ChapterFifteen
Sebastian
Closing the back door, I take the terrace steps two at a time, hating how much I’m looking forward to seeing Rosalia. I walk past the granite pool that Tiffany insisted on having but never swam in during our brief marriage. The damn thing is a monument to poor judgment.
The late March sun still manages to peek through the gathering storm clouds as I pull my phone from my back pocket. I text Tom while walkingto the barn, asking him to have Rosalia meet me there, knowing I’m walking straight into whatever trap we’ve set for each other.
Before I put my phone away, it rings. Thorne. My brother’s timing is impeccable when it comes to stirring up trouble. I hit “Ignore.” Seconds later, a text buzzes. Can’t he take a hint?
I visited your bookworm earlier this week. She tells me you two are meeting at your place.
Why are you visiting her?
Just because this is my brother’s game doesn’t mean he won’t cheat to win.
She and I made a deal. It’d be odd if I didn’t stop by.
Though unwelcome, the reality check is needed. I enjoyed my dinner date with Rosalia too much. I have to keep reminding myself this isn't real.
Your point?
You might want to see if our Tennessee distillery needs a master distiller.
Piss off. I’ll be keeping my job.
My steps slow on the damp grass as I resist the urge to throw my phone.
She’s more devious than I thought. I suspect she is going to play us both.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. But doubt creeps in like poison, and I hate myself for it. This is exactly what happened with Tiffany and others in my past. It started with small questions, tiny inconsistencies, until I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Am I seeing patterns that aren’t there, or ignoring what’s clearly there?
How?
Why deal with me when her new billionaire boyfriend can buy her a bookstore?
Thetightness in my chest eases, and I continue walking. Rosalia had pushed back at me paying for her meal, so I highly doubt she’ll ask me to buy her a building. And here I thought my brother would be more subtle in his attempts to sow discord.
I reach the barn and shove my phone in my pocket. Stepping inside, I nod at John, my stablehand, who’s getting Goliath and Cinnamon ready. I walk along the stalls, checking on my other horses. The light scent of silage, wood, and earthy manure never fail to soothe me.
A flash of auburn fur streaks into the barn, skidding to a stop next to me. “I’d wondered where you’d run off, Twain.” I stroke the silky and, thankfully, dry coat. “And I’m glad it wasn’t into the pond.”
The Irish Setter’s tail wags so hard that his whole back end swings like a pendulum. He stills, and his head cocks toward the open door at the opposite end of the barn. His long ears perk up, and then he takes off after a sound only he can hear.
“Mr. Blackstone,” calls John, “Goliath is ready. How would you like me to saddle Cinnamon?”
“If those are the names of the horses we will be riding, I hope Cinnamon is mine,” comes a velvet-smooth voice who has visited too many of my recent late-night fantasies.
Rosalia stands at the open exterior doors. Her gaze bounces around the barn, lips parting slightly as she takes in the horses, then the polished leather tack hanging on the walls. But then her posture straightens, her face smooths into something more guarded. “Your place is lovely,” she says, sounding oddly formal.
“Thank you,” I reply, moving closer. “But not nearly as beautiful as the company.” The flirtation falls easily from my lips, too easily. I’m supposed to be charming her, but this feels less like strategy and more like instinct.
“Smooth.” She smiles, but the tension lingers in her eyes. She clears her throat, looking past my shoulder to the pastures where horses graze in clusters, then takes in the row of stalls. “You must have what, twenty horses out there? Thirty?” Theawe in her words makes my skin crawl. “That’s… that’s quite the collection. Quite the investment.”
