Page 65 of The Bourbon Bet
He merely chuckles and asks, “Should she bring them out here?”
My face is as hot as a sunburn. “I’d rather not have to make eye contact.”
“The kitchen table is fine, Jenny.”
We remain frozen in awkward proximity, neither touching nor moving away. The connection between us has been disrupted but not broken—like a livewire temporarily grounded. Keeping my position tucked into his neck, I whisper, even as my pulse hammers. “And I’m comfortable alone with you…”
Fortunately, he understands what I’m saying and tells Jenny to come back in about half an hour after the fireworks. “We should be finished with food and drinks by then,” he says.
I’m tempted to tell her to come back tomorrow morning, but hold in the reckless words.
“Very good, sir,” Jenny replies.
I glance through the window behind us. The door to the hotel room swings shut. We are alone again.
But the moment has shifted. The frenetic urgency of before has ebbed, leaving something more tentative in its wake—as if we’re aware of lines being crossed, boundaries falling away.
He kisses my cheek. “I’ll get the drinks.” He lifts me off his lap.
I almost tell him all the heat I need is him, but a break is smart. So, instead, I thank him and look toward the stunning, forgotten fireworks.
My pulse is still racing, but my breathing slowly returns to normal. I watch the colors exploding against the dark canvas of the night sky, trying to collect myself. What just happened between us? What was I about to let happen before I figured out what to do about Thorne’s deal?
He returns with our drinks. I cradle the warm glass in my hands and breathe in the scent of cloves, tucking my legs to the side and snuggling against him. This time, the contact feels less charged. The respite has given us a chance to regain some composure.
He encircles me with his arm and kisses the top of my head. “Traffic’s going to be terrible after the fireworks. Instead of Tom driving you, I’ll walk you home.”
Again, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I should just stay the night. I roll my tongue to keep the words inside. When I’m sure they’ll stay, I say, “You don’t have to. My place is basically around the block.”
He shakes his head. “I’d rather you didn’t walk alone.”
I shrug. “Why? I do it all the time.”
“You do?” he looks appalled.
I suck my lips between my teeth to hold in my smile. “I don’t have a car, and my store usually closes around nine. When else am I supposed to grocery shop?”
“You could have them delivered.”
“No.Youcan have groceries delivered. My budget doesn’t include the added costs. And running my errands isn’t a big deal. I have my bike and mace.”
“Rosalia, I can’t stop you from going out late at night when we’re not together, but when we are, I’ll escort you.” He squeezes me against him. “Please. If you leave alone, it’ll be torture. I won’t sleep. The whole time I’ll be thinking of every worst case scenario.”
The protective edge in his voice sends a flutter through me. The way his arm tightens around me speaks of possession and caring beyond casual interest.
“Okay. I’d love for you to walk me home.” I kiss the corner of his mouth quickly.
But what starts as an innocent gesture ignites something between us again. As I pull away, his eyes darken, that same hunger from before returning in an instant.
“Thank you.”
The words are ordinary, but his voice has dropped to that lower register that makes my skin tingle. The temperature between us shifts again, heating rapidly like a summer storm building. “Sebastian,” I breathe.
A particularly spectacular burst of fireworks illuminates his face, casting shadows that accentuate the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze. In that flash of light, I see his control slipping, taking mine with it.
“Rosalia?” he replies.
“Will you kiss me?” I whisper.
