Page 39 of The Bourbon Bet
“You know how to drive?” My joke is feeble, but he snorts. “Stay and visit with your friend. The Blackstone lawyer,” I can’t help but tack on.
The rain has turned into a drizzle, and I’ll get wet, but I need to get away. It’s time to leave and be alone with my thoughts. However, I don’t make it far before he catches up with me. “I’ll tell Tom to pick you up here so you don’t get wet.” He pulls out his cell and makes the call.
After hanging up, he waits with me. The silence is oppressive.
He breaks it. “Daniel is a friend from college. That’s why he’s here. Blackstone has a lot of lawyers, and they don’t all report to me.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand to know if Daniel does, but again, I’m not innocent, so why demand Sebastian’s truths? Instead, I ask, “He’s a close friend?”
The Bentley pulls to the barn’s imposing carriage doors and Tom starts to get out, but Sebastian holds up a hand and opens the car door for me. “I don’t have close friends.”
“Why not?”
“They are a liability.”
Wow. I’m not sure if his answer makes me feel better or worse. He might not know about the bet, but that was the answer of either a heartless or very lonely man.
Which is Sebastian Blackstone?
Chapter Seventeen
Sebastian
I tilt my face toward the heavy rain clouds blanketing the sky. They match my mood. My gaze shifts from the darkening sky to Rosalia, and I catch the shadows of the storm playing across her face. The hard lines of her anger have softened, but her eyes are distant and troubled.
Silence stretches between us. I’m afraid to break it with the questions hovering on the tip of my tongue, so I swallow them back with the fear of what the answers might draginto the light.
If she learns about the bet, she’ll hate me. Given that she’s here only because of Thorne’s deal should bother me, but all I feel is guilt for putting her in this situation.
I take her hand. “Are we okay?”
Her lips curve into a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She nods and turns to get into the car. I watch her leave, unease keeping me rooted until the Bentley becomes a tiny dot in my long, tree-lined driveway. I shake myself and head toward the house.
As the soles of my riding boots hit the bottom step of the front porch, Alex, my housekeeper, opens the door. Twain rushes out, circling me with his tail wagging joyfully. Scratching behind his ears, I find comfort in his simple devotion. He doesn’t want anything from me, doesn’t judge, doesn’t have an agenda. I can’t remember the last time I had that with a person.
Twain and I take a right at the marble foyer with the double staircase, his nails clicking as we walk through the sitting room with its dark oak floors, past the large bay window. A familiar pang of loneliness fills me. The vast rooms and hallways are like ghosts haunting the expansive space. I rarely use most of the house, confining myself to my bedroom, study, and the barns. The thought of moving has crossed my mind, but it’d be too hard on the horses. Plus, the security and privacy the estate provides are invaluable. I’ve never had anyone take my photo when I’m out on my walks with Twain or riding my horses.
I turn left and step into the library, although the name is a misnomer. This room is for guests. My real reading material is strewn on my nightstand and in the sitting room of my master bedroom. Besides a few collector books, the library’s shelves are lined with rare bottles of Blackstone Bourbon.
Daniel sits in a black leather chair next to the ornate and empty fireplace. his other leg crossed over his knee, clad in perfectly pressed linen slacks
He sits casually, one leg crossed over the other, his perfectly pressed linen slacks sharp against the dark leather. A Glencairn glass rests in his hand, and seeing me, he holds it up in a salute.
Twain trots past me to his bed beside the built-in liquor cabinet. I follow him and lean down to pet him before straightening up and pouring my favorite single-barrel. The rich, caramel aroma wafts from the glass, inviting me to take a sip. “Great for Blackstone. A long evening for me.”
It’s the curse of all master distillers to stay until closing at all major events. I don’t mind talking craft. In fact, I love it. But being rich and single makes me more popular than my bourbon. Especially later in the evening when drinks have lowered inhibitions.
I sit on the other side of the fireplace, opposite Daniel. The supple leather creaks slightly as I settle into the chair. We clink glasses.
“Was that Rosalia Manchester?” he asks.
I lower my drink and nod.
Daniel taps the portfolio on the side table. “When I called her to terminate the lease, I had never felt so much like the villain.”
I open the folder and scan the familiar terms that have haunted my sleep while Rosalia goes about her life completely unaware that her heart is being wagered like poker chips. “We’re all villains in this story,” I sigh.
Daniel’s brow furrows. “Even her?”
