Page 75 of The Bourbon Bet
“God, yes. First and nearly last knitting adventure. Mom spent months on it. I’d find her still up at 2 a.m., cursing under her breath and unraveling whole sections. Like Penelope fromThe Odyssey, except Mom was both creating and destroying her own work. It was a labor of love.” I tilt my head from side to side. “Or maybe stubborn determination not to be defeated by yarn.”
“And you were in her mind the whole time she was making it. At least a little.”
That makes me snort. “I’malwayson her mind. You know that term, helicopter parent? That’s her.”
He laughs, but like his eyes, it holds sadness. “What’s the name for the polar opposite?” I almost say neglect, but thankfully I kept my mouth shut. “Because that’s my parents,” he finishes.
What response could possibly acknowledge such vulnerability? In the end, I don’t have to because he lets go of the blanket and returns to his kitchen stool and to the original thread of our conversation. “I like it here. It is a home, not a house.”
“And what’s your place?” I ask.
“They’re all houses.”
“All?” I motion for him to pick a sandwich. “How many do you have?”
“Three. A condo in Tokyo. The house you were at in Bardstown. Another in Aspen.”
“Why Tokyo and Aspen?”
“Blackstone Bourbon has a collaboration partnership with a Japanese whiskey company. Since I travel there often, it made sense to have my own place. As for Aspen, I like to ski and hike. Not that I get there very much.”
My family saved spare change in a jar for a year to afford a weekend ski trip a few hours from our house. What was it like to buy a home just in case I might feel like skiing? Yet none of it seems to bring him happiness. An ache fills my chest for him.
He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t make that sad face. It’s a choice. I enjoy my job.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and moans, “Damn, that’s good.”
“Thanks,” I reply, but I’m more interested in his life than the food I’ve made. “Do you like being married to your career?” I ask. Direct and personal, I know, but he learned during our first dinner date that I go places most people politely avoid.
“It’s worked out better than my actual marriage did.” He clears his throat. “That sounded bitter. I apologize. Let’s talk about something else, anything else.”
That suits me fine. The jealousy coils in my stomach surprises me with its intensity.
“Let’s talk about food.” I push the salad bowl toward him, then stand. “Would you like something to drink? I have tea, water, and pop.”
His lip twitches. “You mean coke?”
“Sorry, I only have root beer and an off-brand lemon pop.”
“Both are coke.”
I laugh. “You Southerners are odd.”
“Says the woman who calls coke, pop,” he jokes. “And point me toward the root beer. You don’t have to serve me.”
“You’re in my humble home. It’s my pleasure to serve you.”
His eyes twinkle with mischief as a suggestive grin spreads across his face. “Is that so?”
Laughter bursts from me. I adore this playful, sexy side of him. “Lunch, Sebastian. It’s my pleasure to serve youlunch.”
After retrieving two bottles from the fridge, there’s little talk as we devour the food. I’m famished from the hike, but as my stomach fills, the fact that we’re alone sneaks up on me again.
Not because I’m the slightest bit nervous around him. No, because as one hunger is taken care of, another, more primal appetite awakens. This craving throbs through me, settling between my thighs, making sitting still impossible.
I leap to my feet. “Do you want more food?”
He shakes his head, rubbing his flat stomach. “No. Everything was great, but I’m stuffed.”
Grabbing our plates, I take them to the sink and begin washing. Sebastian comes up next to me. “Let me help. I’ll dry.”
