Page 33 of The Bourbon Bet
My jaw drops at his intense reaction and his quick jump to such a conclusion. “Why would you say that? Sebastian and I are friends. That’s all.” The words are heavy, like stones in my mouth. Friends don’t use each other.
“You told me the building you’re leasing is owned by Blackstone. The lease they won’t renew. And now you’re being seen around town with him.”
“Isn’t it great?” Grandma Rose thrills in the background.
“No, Mom. It isn’t great.” I swear I can hear my dad grinding his teeth.
I glance at the front seat where Tom’s driving, grateful there’s plenty of space between us, and that I didn’t put my phone on speaker. “Dad, I promise it’s not what you think. He’s been coming to the store since it opened. We talk about books. I don’t think he even knows about the lease issue.”
“How could he not know? He’s a Blackstone.”
“He runs the distillery, not the real estate.” I bite my lip, unsure of the truth of my words.
Dad grumbles a reply I miss, then says, “Anyway, about your place. I can get a third mortgage on my house and land—”
“No. Absolutely not.” My breath hitches, and tears fill my eyes. “I have an appointment with the Small Business Administration. They promise to help.” I nearly choke on the lie. They had said no such thing.
“Calling the SBA was smart. You’re a fantastic businesswoman, Rosalia.”
I close my eyes; the praise is a heavy weight pressing on my chest. A good businesswoman wouldn’t have relied on a verbal promise or agreed to steal to save her store.
“But a friendship with a Blackstone is still a bad idea. They’re untouchable in this town,” he warns. “I’ve seen too many people crushed under their heels.”
I open my mouth to ask him about his animosity toward the Blackstones, but Tom stops at a red light and twists toward me. I quickly mute my phone.
“Ms. Manchester, we’re about fifteen minutes out.” Tom meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Blackstone wanted me to check if you’d like to stop for lunch.”
“Please, call me Rosalia. And no, thank you. I ate right before you arrived.”
Dad’s tinny voice comes through the phone, “Rosalia, are you there?”
“No worries,” I assure Tom. He nods and turns toward the road. I unmute the phone. “Sorry, I accidentally hit mute,” I say, adding another lie to my growing pile. Desperate for a subject change, I ask, “The Great Balloon Race is coming up next month. Want to go with me?”
“It’s on a Saturday. What about your store?”
“I’ll open after. After hearing all your stories, I need to go at least once.”
“It’s a date,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Speaking of derby stories, did I tell you about sneaking into the races when I was fifteen?”
Dad recounts his youthful antics, and laughter bubbles from my chest, easing the tension that has settled in my body. The warmth of his happiness spreads through me like a comforting balm, momentarily overshadowing my worries.
My giggles subside as the Bentley pulls next to an elegant guardhouse of a gated community. A woman steps from the booth and waves to Tom. Then the ornate gate slowly opens, the metal glinting in the afternoon sunlight.
The neighborhood is the epitome of opulence. As we drive, the homes grow larger, each surrounded by perfectly manicured acres and pristine black fences.
“Dad, I have to go.”
“Oh, you have plans on your early day?”
Of course, Dad would remember that the bookstore is only open until two on Sundays. My guilt returns, oozing through my heart like thick, black tar. “Yes, with Paige,” I lie, reasoning that this deception is for my dad’s peace of mind.
“Alright. Love you, honey,” he says warmly.
“Love you too.” I hang up, my frown reflected on the phone’s screen.
Tom drives for another five minutes, heading to the very back of the subdivision. We approach a mansion with more acres than I can count, complete with an imposing gate. Seriously, does Sebastian’s home have a gate inside a gated community? And what man needs that much house? Or that many horses? There are at least thirty grazing in the countless pastures.
My stomach flips as I consider what Thorne told me earlier in the week. Maybe he was right. The thought of stroking an already-inflated ego makes me queasy.
