Page 8 of The Bourbon Bet
I stand to face him on equal footing. “And you? You just... what? Closed your eyes?” I’m not blind to the fact that it takes two, but he’s my fucking brother. And all he’s given me are excuses.
“Yes, damn it. I’d been drinking. Pissed at you. She came on to me. Fuck, it was a mistake. One I’d take back if I could—”
I hold up my hands. “But you can’t.”
“And you’ll never forgive me, will you?” he asks.
“How can I?” I shout, then snap my mouth shut. I keep it closed until I can talk without yelling, I say, “How can I when you won’t even admit you were in the wrong?”
Thorne frowns. “And what, Tiffany is blameless? Women are ruthless. They’ll do whatever it takes to get what they want, no matter who they hurt along the way. It’s their nature. They use their bodies, their wiles, to manipulate and control men. And we’re helpless to resist.” He points at me. “Your bookworm, she’s cut from the same cloth. I’ll bet you anything that she’d throw her grandmother under the bus if it meant getting ahead.”
Years of board meetings with temperamental investors have taught me to stay stone-faced when others lose control. But this is different. He’s my blood, my childhood co-conspirator who helped me steal sips from the aging barrels after hours. The same hands that pulled me from the frozen creek as kids now clench into fists.
“She’s not mine.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And no, she wouldn’t.”
My brother snorts. “You really think she’s special, don’t you?” His chair squeaks as he rights it, sitting down.
I do the same. “She is. Kind. Caring.”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to make her into a saint just because you want to fuck her.”
“That right there,” I snap, jabbing my finger at him, “is exactly why you’ll never understand someone like her. Or why she’d never look twice at a man like you. Not everyone sees people as disposable. Some of us still have a soul.” I lean in slightly, my gaze never leaving his. “Now, I’m late for a meeting. Let Rosalia renew her lease. Look at properties on Main Street. That area is just as popular as Whiskey Row. I’ve heard a building near the Louisville Slugger Museum is for sale.”
He shakes his head. “No. Whiskey Row is better.”
“I’m the master distiller, and last I checked, that title means I get the final say.”
Thorne’s jaw ticks, and the knuckles of his clasped hands turn white. His eyes hold mine, calculating, measuring. “Not in everything. As Director of Acquisitions, I make these decisions.” his smile is razor-sharp. “But I’m willing to make a wager. Something with real consequences.”
“No.” I turn toward the door.
“If you care even a little bit about your bookworm, you’ll want to at least hear me out.”
Against my better judgment, I pause. “I’ll give you one minute.”
“If you can convince her to date you.” The fuck-face wiggles his brows. “Like you want to, and you invite her to the Blackstone Derby party.”
My hand falls from the door knob and I face him. “I don’t get it. What’s the wager?”
“I’ll approach Rose tomorrow and offer her a deal. I’ll renew her lease if she agrees to date you and take that business portfolio from you at the party.” He points at my red leather folder. “If she refuses the deal entirely, or if she accepts it but then changes her mind and chooses her integrity and feelings for you over saving her store, you win.” He chuckles darkly. “But let’s be honest, when has anyone ever chosen principles over survival?”
I don’t bother correcting Rosalia’s name. The less he remembers about her, the better. “What makes you think she’ll even agree to date me, let alone go along with your scheme?”
“She might tell us both to go to hell and refuse the whole arrangement. But given her financial situation, I doubt she’ll have that luxury.” His eyes narrow slightly, reading my expression like a poker player watching for tells. “Here, let me sweeten the winnings for you. If I lose, I’ll leave Kentucky permanently. Transfer to Tennessee or Illinois. Shit, I’ll go to our newest distillery in Quebec. And I’ll sign over my share in the company to you.”
I freeze, fighting to maintain a neutral expression. Relief and peace fill me at the mere thought of his absence. Thorne might have destroyed my marriage and shattered my trust, but bourbon and business continue, and I’ve had to endure his presence at work every single damn day. The constant reminder of his betrayal is a festering wound that refuses to heal.
Then I remember Rosalia. It’s nearly two months from March until the Blackstone Bourbon Classic party. Dating her isn’t the issue. It’s the lying, the manipulation, the hidden agenda hanging over every interaction. The thoughtmakes me sick.
I shake my head. “No.”
“No? What about your Rose losing her bookstore?” he taunts.
“I’ll help her find another location.”
“If you don’t agree, I’ll make sure she never opens another bookstore in Kentucky. I’ll blacklist her with every bank and property owner from Louisville to Lexington.”
My blood runs cold. “You can’t do that.”
