Page 51 of The Bourbon Bet
His words resonate somewhere beneath my ribs, but then twist painfully. He may see what others glance past, but he’s blind to Thorne’s bargain. We might be able to move past our very different backgrounds, but my complications aren’t just complexities—they’re betrayals taking shape. My arrangement with his brother contaminates whatever might grow between us.
“You know,” I say, carefully stepping around the truth, my fingers nervously smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from my dress, “for someone born into such wealth, you move through the world with unusual awareness of others.”
He laughs. “Daniel might disagree.”
I smile. “Well, I see a man who rescues injured horses that vets had written off, and somehow had my bike fixed and delivered to my doorstep after the accident without making it seem like charity. You pay attention to things most people in your position wouldn’t bother with.”
He studies my face for a moment, a smile breaking across his features. “And you’ve turned your bookstore into something magical. You listen to people, really listen. Whether it’s a reluctant teenager or kids who light up when they see you, you make everyone feel seen.”
“That’s nothing,” I argue, but who am I kidding? I love his words.
His thumb brushes along my cheek, the touch light but deliberate. “Most people who meet me see dollar signs or a stepping stone. But you, you challenge me, question me, make me defend my opinions. When you listen, I know you’reactually hearing me, not just waiting for your turn to speak.” His voice softens. “Do you have any idea how rare that is? How refreshing?”
The intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. For a suspended moment, I forget about Thorne, about deadlines, about everything except the way Sebastian is looking at me as if I’m something precious he’s discovered unexpectedly.
I turn my face into his palm, nuzzling his skin. I want to memorize every detail of this moment, from his scent to his warmth, and the surprising rough calluses on his fingers. A perfect, fleeting snapshot of what could be, if only...
Almost of its own accord, my body sways forward. My lips graze his cheek, a ghost of a kiss. The contact ignites a fire in my blood, and a yearning so intense it steals my breath. I should pull away and put some distance between us. But I can’t move, can’t bear to shatter this fragile, charged moment.
Sebastian turns his head. His mouth is a hairsbreadth from mine, so close I can taste his exhale. The air crackles with tension, electric and palpable. My lips tingle in anticipation, and my body hums with a want so fierce it borders on pain.
I meet his gaze. The raw need, the hunger, the desperation sears my soul. “Rosalia…” His voice is rough and strained. “Could I..."
A sharp knock on the window shatters us apart. A camera lens is outside the window like a hungry Cyclops. When had the car stopped moving? “Who’s your date, Mr. Blackstone?” asks a reporter.
Sebastian ignores the chaos outside and tells me, “Wait. I’ll come around and open your door.”
He exits and my mind spins. We almost kissed. And I want it like my next breath. But I shouldn’t. Not until I find a way to save my store without Thorne’s “help.”
My pulse quickens as I brace for the night ahead. I can’t get swept up in this fantasy, no matter how tempting it may be. Yet with every touch, every smile, and every whispered word, my resolve crumbles. How long can I keep pushing him away when all I want is to pull him closer?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rosalia
The moment I enter the gala on Sebastian’s arm, the weight of curious gazes lands on me. The air hums with a mix of excitement and judgment. Whispers follow us across the marble floor, each click of my heels against the stone announcing my presence to people who silently question my right to be here.
The opulent room and high-society chatter remind me of the ever-present sense of being an outsider in such lavish surroundings. I’m stillthat girl with the wrong shoes and the wrong accent, trying desperately to blend into surroundings that seem designed to expose every way in which I don't belong.
I press my free hand into the torso of my dress, wishing I’d chosen something less loud. The red doesn’t feel elegant but garish under the glittering lights of the chandeliers. I glance at the other women, all sleek and sophisticated in muted tones. What had I been thinking? My grip tightens on Sebastian’s arm as nervous energy courses through my body.
“Hey,” he says softly, turning to face me. “You okay?”
I smile, but it probably lands more like a grimace. “I don’t belong here.”
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You belong with me,” he says firmly. “And I belong with you.”
His words settle over me like a warm blanket, easing my nerves. They can’t be true, not with my lies standing between us, but I’ll pretend. And, like in high school, I won’t let those who look down on me see me sweat.
I bite my bottom lip to keep my chin from trembling and nod. Hand in hand, we step further into the room, into the glitter and the glamour.
We mingle, and I find myself relaxing. Sebastian’s hand stays anchored at my side, providing comforting stability amidst the buzzing conversations where one person after another vies for his attention. When admirers approach, women and a few men attempt to flirt with him. He politely introduces me while pulling me close in a gesture that makes his interest clear.
An elegant older woman with black hair swept into a classic twist announces dinner will be served and asks everyone to find their table. I’m certain I’ve never met the lady, but she looks familiar.
In my three-inch red stilettos, I reach Sebastian’s ear and whisper, “Who’s the lady on stage?”
“My mother,” Sebastian says, offering his arm.
