Page 62 of The Bourbon Bet
“I have my moments.” The waiter sets down our drinks and leaves to give us a moment to look over the menus. I smile at Rosalia. “Your grandma sounds like an interesting woman. I’d love to meet her one day.” I’m surprised that I mean it.
“You say that now…” she laughs softly. “Her other hobby is reading Kentucky gossip on social media.”
I groan, taking a sip of my bourbon. “Does she hate me?”
“The opposite. She’s thrilled. My dad, on the other hand…” I want to ask about her father, but Rosalia continues, “My grandma also taught me to never trust a man who doesn’t dance at weddings or pet stray dogs.”
I suspect she’s changing the subject, and I roll with it. “You already know I can dance,” I say, referring to the night at the gala.
Her eyes darken, and her gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Is she also thinking about her body pressed against mine, the heat between us?
“And you’ve met Twain,” I continue. “He was a stray. A matted mess that showed up at my house about a week after my wife left.” I lean in closer, grinning. “Don’t tell her... but I like him more.”
Rosalia laughs, squeezing my hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The waiter arrives with our appetizers, and I reluctantly let go of her hand.
“How did you manage to get a reservation here, of all places, and today?” she asks.
“Since the…” I squint, trying to recall the exact date. “Since the Galt House opened here on the waterfront in the seventies, Blackstone Bourbon has had standing reservations during the months of April and May because of derby business. Like my business breakfast tomorrow morning at seven.”
“That’s an early meeting. We don’t have to stay up late to watch the fireworks.”
“I want to. I’m looking forward to it.”
Her eyes light up, and she gives my hand a small squeeze. “Me too.”
My fingers curl around hers. “Do you still plan on taking next Friday off?”
She nods. “Yup. Friday and Saturday. I figure, why not, since I’m keeping the store open for a full day on Sunday and opening on Monday for the Fest-a-Ville. I’ll have Kentucky chefs in store with their books, along with local musicians playing acoustic music to match the festival’s vibe. Since the festival is so close to Novel Idea, it can’t hurt.” She pauses. “Sorry, I’m excited for it, so I’m babbling. Why did you ask about Friday?”
I’m drawn to her animated expressions, the way she speaks with her whole self. While my world has become spreadsheets and production targets, she reminds me there's still color outside the distillery walls. Something about her pulls me back to the present moment in a way I haven’t experienced in years.
“I was asking because I wanted to know if you’d be interested in going hiking at the Red River Gorge.”
“Yes! The Natural Bridge has been on my bucket list since I moved here,” she tells me.
I am well aware, which is why I’d suggested it. Her casual mention of the Natural Bridge weeks ago had stuck with me, and the excitement that dances across her face now makes clearing my Friday afternoon schedule worth it, despite the chaos of derby season.
“How will you find time for a full-day hike during peak bourbon season?” she asks. “I’d think every minute of your calendar would be claimed.”
Rosalia is right. I’ve never cleared a full day during derby season before, and I know why. Yes, I love spending time with her, but it’s also because each moment with her is one where I don’t have to confront what’s coming. The hike and tonight’s fireworks are beautiful distractions from the constant reminder of the Blackstone Bourbon Classic and the choice we’ll have to make.
“Sometimes you have to prioritize what matters,” I say instead, not quite ready to admit the truth to either of us.
I’ve been avoiding the Blackstone party. I reach for the drink menu, needing a moment to gather my thoughts. The inevitable can only be postponed for so long.
My time with her is moving too fast, our day of reckoning racing toward us. But I can’t ignore it. The ice in my bourbon clinks softly. I run a finger along the rim, meeting her gaze. “Speaking of the derby, my distillery has a party at The Mansion. Would you attend as my date?”
She opens her mouth but a sudden roar fills the air, drowning out all conversation. Three military jets streak across the sky outside the massive windows, their engines screaming overhead.
Rosalia flinches, her hands gripping the edge of the table as the china rattles and the windows shudder. The deafening sound vibrates through my bones. As quickly as they arrive, the jets disappear, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
She continues to stare out the window, her expression unreadable. I recognize the distraction for what it is—she’s as reluctant to discuss the derby party as I was to bring it up. My heart hammers in my chest, the weight of my invitation lingering between us like an approaching storm we both can see but neither wants to acknowledge.
“Rosalia?” I prompt around the clinking of silverware as the other diners resume their meals.
She turns back to me. “I’d love to attend your party,” she replies, but her tone lacks enthusiasm.
