Page 54 of The Bourbon Bet
My breath catches. The space between us, once proper and formal, has disappeared. His cologne and something uniquely him envelops me, making my head swim with every inhale.
“I’m really glad you’re here with me tonight,” he whispers, his lips so close to my ear that his breath caresses my skin. The sensation sends a cascade of goosebumps down my neck, across my shoulders, and along my arms.
“Me too,” I manage to reply, my voice giving away my desire. My fingers curl against the nape of his neck, brushing against the soft hair there.
The music swells and he pulls me closer until our bodies are flush. My nerves come alive, mapping every exquisite point where we meet. The solid plane of his chest against mine, the strong thigh occasionally pressing between my legs as we move, the heat of his palm burning through the thin material of my dress. I feel his heartbeat—or is it mine?—racing beneath the layers of clothing.
His rhythm falters for just a moment when my fingers trace small circles at the base of his skull. His pupils dilate, and his grip on my waist tightens ever so slightly. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile meant only for me.
We’re barely dancing now, just swaying in place. The rest of the room fades until there is only Sebastian and me. My nipples tighten against my dress, andI arch toward him, seeking more contact. His hand slides lower on my back, decidedly possessive.
“Sebastian,” I breathe his name like a prayer, an invitation.
He draws closer, our breaths mingling. The hunger I see on his face matches the ache building between my legs. His gaze drops to my lips, and I lean in, drawn by an invisible force I neither can nor want to resist.
“Honey, there you are,” says a woman.
We turn, and I recognize his mother. Up close, she is even more glamorous, with the same dark hair and light brown eyes as Sebastian. Her slender frame appears delicate at first glance, but the determined set of her jaw reveals an inner strength that belies her fragile appearance.
“I wondered if you’d make time to say hi to your son,” Sebastian teases. “You know, the one you bullied into coming here. Mother, this is Rosalia.” He slides an arm around my waist and says, “Rosalia, this is my mother, Catherine.”
Catherine’s attention is fixed on where his hand rests on my hip, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. The intimate and relaxed way he touches me should be thrilling, but his mother’s disapproval drains all the pleasure from it.
She nods at me. “Pleasure.” Then, resting a delicate hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, she says, “For someone who didn’t want to be here, you seem to be enjoying yourself.” Her perfect peach lips press into a thin line as if she’s sipped bargain-bin bourbon.
Why wouldn’t she want her son to have a nice time? I look at Sebastian. His smile has vanished, replaced with a slight frown.
“Is there a problem?” he asks in a flat tone.
“Of course not.” She pats his arm in a placating gesture, but she glances at me with barely concealed bewilderment, as if puzzled why I’m with her son. Then she lowers her voice. “People are gossiping. They want to know who your date is, and if your ratherrisquédancing is—”
“We’re dancing close, not grinding on the damn dance floor.” Sebastian’s arm tightens around my waist, drawing me closer to his side as if physically shielding me from his mother’s judgment.
She leans in. “Some say it’s because Tiffany’s here.”
His head jerks up, scanning the room. “Why the hell is she here?” he hisses.
My stomach twists. Damn, first his brother. Then his cruel father and disapproving mom. Now his freaking ex-wife. Hell, maybe my gaslighting ex-boyfriend will make an appearance at the gala next?
“The Birchsky family bought a table and brought her as their guest,” Catherine says. “I’m sure for the entertainment factor.” Her attention settles on a middle-aged couple across the room. “This gala will be the last one they attend.”
Her words sound like a promise. I now see that her fragile appearance is definitely an illusion.
“And I will not be their entertainment,” Sebastian says. He turns to me. “Do you want to leave?”
I glance at him. He doesn’t look devastated, just annoyed. But his mother has gone pale, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of his potential departure is crushing her.
Against my better judgment, I say, “The music is great. Let’s stay a little longer?”
The ice in Catherine’s demeanor melts slightly, and a hint of a smile touches her lips. “I’m sorry, I missed your last name, Rosalia, was it? Please forgive my poor manners.”
“Manchester,” I reply.
Catherine’s brow furrows, but before she can inquire further, Sebastian says, “If you don’t mind, Mother, we’re going to step outside for some fresh air. I’d like to show Rosalia the rose garden.”
With a brief nod, she acquiesces. Relief ripples through my body as Sebastian guides me away from the probing questions and toward the promise of a moment alone together.
Leaving the ballroom, I tell him I need to visit the washroom. He steers me in that direction. Once inside, I run my fingertips under the cold water before rubbing them on my temples. The door behind me opens and a tall woman enters.
