Page 61 of The Bourbon Bet
Rosalia’s shoulders draw up, and she shifts closer to the elevator wall. I move closer to her, positioning myself between her and the curious stares. In the confined space, I catch the subtle scent of her perfume. It commands my attention more than the probing stares around us.
“You smell wonderful,” I murmur close to her ear, so only she can hear. “Like vanilla and jasmine, with a hint of something uniquely you.”
She ducks her head, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks as she glances up at me with a soft smile. “Thank you,” she says, equally quiet and warm.
The elevator hums steadily upward, and she tilts her head back slightly, as if trying to sense the height. Which I’m perfectly contentnotto think about.
“I wish we could have ridden in the glass elevator,” she muses.
I don’t—not at all. “That’s the east tower. The restaurant is in the west,” I explain.
“Oh well,” she sighs. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as exciting as it was when I was eleven.”
My palms turn clammy at the thought, but for a chance to see Rosalia’s radiant smile, I’d endure anything. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance tonight.” My voice comes out slightly strained.
She tilts her head. “Tonight?”
“I booked a suite for the fireworks.” I swallow hard, focusing on her reaction rather than the impending elevator ride.
She bites her bottom lip, then releases it. “You book us a room…”
I thought this would make her happy. Replaying the last few sentences in my mind, I wince internally. “I’mstaying here tonight. Since I have a morning meeting here, there’s no sense driving back to Bardstown,” I quickly clarify. “My plan was for us to watch the fireworks from the balcony in my suite, away from the crowds. Then I’ll take you home. But if you’d rather not, I can book a table at the conservatory instead. The view is also good from there.”
“No, your plan sounds lovely.” The elevator doors open, and I wait for her to step out, then guide her toward the restaurant, placing my hand on the small of her back.
The hostess greets us with a professional smile. “Welcome, Mr. Blackstone and Ms. Manchester. Your window table by the Second Street Bridge is ready. Follow me.”
I admire the way the warm afternoon light dances across the embroidered flowers on Rosalia’s skirt. “Your outfit is lovely,” I lean in to tell her.
She glances down, a smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you. I fell in love with the embroidery the moment I saw it. It reminds me of the wildflowers that grow in my grandmother’s garden.”
I pull out her chair, my fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of her skirt as she sits down. “Well, you look beautiful,” I say, taking a seat across from her. After placing our drink order, I ask, “Is this the grandmother who makes the amazing chocolate Sacher torte?”
Rosalia’s eyes brighten. “Yes!”
“Does she live here, in Louisville?”
“No, she has a gorgeous little cottage in Versailles. Horse country through and through.”
“Near Woodford Reserve?” I raise an eyebrow.
She nods. “That’s where I spent nearly every summer. Without a car, I don’t get to visit often, but love when I do.”
“What kinds of wildflowers does she grow?” I rest my chin on my palm, drawn into this chapter of her story.
“Everything imaginable,” she says, her hands animating her words. “Black-eyed Susans, purple coneflowers, wild bergamot... but her pride is her patch of Kentucky lady’s slippers. They’re notoriously difficult to grow, but somehow she had the magic touch.”
“It seems she has it in the garden and the kitchen. Is she also the one who fostered your sweet tooth?”
“Indeed,” she laughs. “I’ve mentioned her torte, but Grandma Rose’s bourbon bread pudding recipe would make you weep. I’ve tried for years to replicate it, but so far, no luck.”
I tilt my head. “Are you named after her?”
She nods. “But with a twist, so it wasn’t exactly the same.”
“Just like you. One of a kind.”
“Aren’t you a charmer,” she says, patting my hand.
