Page 53 of The Bourbon Bet
“Dad,” Sebastian growls.
“Son,” Louis replies, and a sardonic chuckle follows. “I only mean that the first store is always precarious.”
“That is the truth,” agrees the man next to him. “Opening that initial business takes a daunting leap of faith that is fraught with uncertainty and potential pitfalls.”
Louis shifts in his seat, his brow rising. It’s a mirror expression of Sebastian when he’s amused. “Did you start a new venture? Your ice cream parlors have been a Kentucky staple since your granddaddy opened during Prohibition.”
The man’s smile is crooked and charming. “Good thing too, since it allowedyourgranddaddy to hide his moonshine in the empty ice cream containers.” He turns to me. “I was speaking of my daughter. She opened a shoe store about five years ago, specializing in handmade riding and style boots. She struggled at first, but now her business is booming. She just opened her fourth store last month.”
The pride on his face makes me smile, yet beneath the surface, the tendrils of jealousy stir. The luxury of a safety net is a privilege I’ve never known.
When the server arrives with our entrées, I notice the sprigs of cilantro decorating the rim of Sebastian’s plate. Before he can react, I reach over with my fork and remove the offending herb, transferring it to my plate.
He catches my eye, and a look of surprise and warmth fills them. “You remembered,” he murmurs.
I shrug lightly. “You’d scraped it off your steak at Fantastic Fusion.” The memory of him pushing aside the herb with obvious distaste was a casual moment I’d filed away without realizing.
“It tastes like dish soap.” His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that sends a current of recognition through me. In this room full of people vying for his attention, he looks at me like I’m the only one who truly sees him.
The rest of dinner passes more pleasantly with Louis turning his attention to the ice cream parlor owners. Sebastian occasionally catches my eye across the rim of his bourbon glass, and those brief moments of connection anchor me.
As the servers clear our dinner plates, Sebastian’s mom steps to the microphone, gently tapping it. A hush falls over the room as heads swivel toward the stage, conversations trailing off into expectant silence. She gives a short speech, and one by one, the major donors take their turns at the podium, talking over the crowd’s murmurs. Then Sebastian is called to speak.
His tall frame commands attention on the stage, shoulders broad under his perfectly tailored suit. The spotlight catches in his dark hair as he speaks passionately about the racing horses, his hazel eyes flashing with intensity. He’s magnetic like this—not merely handsome, but alive with conviction, drawing everyone’s gaze.
When his speech draws to a close, everyone erupts in applause, the energy palpable. His mom joins him on the stage, announcing that dessert will be served shortly, followed by drinks in the main room and dancing in the ballroom.
Sebastian returns to our table, and admirers immediately surround him. He acknowledges them politely but keeps his focus on me as we’re served our dessert.Everyone at our table receives elegant crystal dishes of panna cotta with berry compote. Everyone except me. The server places a different plate before me: a perfect slice of chocolate Sacher torte.
“There seems to be a mistake,” I begin, looking up at the server.
“No mistake, ma’am,” he replies with a discreet smile, nodding his chin toward Sebastian.
I turn to find him watching my reaction with barely contained pleasure. Looking between him and my dessert, a warmth spreads through me that he’d noted such a small detail.
“You did this?” I ask.
A hint of vulnerability flickers across his features, mingling with the quiet pride in his eyes. “I might have made a special request.”
“You remembered from that conversation we had about desserts? When I told you about my grandmother making this for my birthdays?”
He dismisses the gesture with a tilt of his head, but the thoughtfulness behind it resonates louder than any grand declaration. “Try it,” he encourages, leaning forward slightly. “See if it measures up.”
Louis and Thorne exchange curious glances at my unique dessert, but I’m too touched by the gesture to care about their scrutiny.
I take the first bite. The rich chocolate and subtle sweetness of apricot transport me back to my grandmother’s kitchen. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring both the flavor and the thoughtfulness behind it.
“So good,” I moan. “It’s almost as good as hers.” I offer him a taste from my fork, our eyes lock, and something shifts between us. This small moment feels more intimate than an embrace.
Around us, guests rise from their tables as dessert ends. The gentle notes of a string quartet drift from the ballroom, drawing guests toward the sound.
Sebastian leans closer, his voice low and meant only for me. “I believe I was promised a dance.”
The way he says it, somewhere between a question and a statement, sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. “I believe you were,” I reply, setting my napkin beside my now-empty dessert plate.
He stands and offers his hand. I place mine in his, and the warmth of his fingers is a promise. A few attempt to pull him away to talk business, but like earlier, he is polite but firm, telling them he’s promised me a dance. The gazes of strangers press into me, and the flash of the cameras follow us, but I ignore them all, falling under the spell of my date.
When we reach the dancefloor, the song transitions to something slower. His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, fingers splaying against the fabric of my dress. Each point of contact sends a wave of heat through me. We sway to the music, and I’m lost in the dark hazel depths of his eyes as he draws me closer with gentle insistence.
