Page 74 of The Bourbon Bet
But my giddiness drops to the welcome mat when I push open the door. My apartment is small and modest, a far cry from the luxurious estate where Sebastian lives. And my place is a mess. Yesterday evening, I’d shucked out of my skirt and blouse as soon as I’d stepped inside. Both are lying in my foyer, which is nothingmore than a tiny square of linoleum that’s as dated and worn as the rest of the space. What is he thinking?
I shouldn’t care, but do. Turning and holding the knob, I press against the mostly closed door. Focusing on the collar of his T-shirt, I say, “Um, it has been a busy week, my shoebox apartment is a mess.”
“Rosalia, all I care about is…” He tips my chin so I’m looking at him. “Are those sandwiches you made.”
His words carry a playful edge, drawing out my laughter. A genuine warmth flickers deeper beneath his expression, radiating through me like sunshine breaking through clouds. His touch against my skin feels intoxicating. His fingertips linger at my jawline, their presence startling and familiar.
We stand separated by mere inches, yet it feels like the distance contains entire worlds of what-ifs. My body instinctively sways toward him like a compass finding north, even as my mind catalogs all the reasons to maintain our fragile boundary.
I swallow hard, needing to rein in my runaway emotions. I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re here for food, nothing more.
“Typical man,” I joke, twisting around and pushing open the door.
I swoop inside, picking up my discarded clothes. Sprinting to the bathroom, I shove them in the hamper before returning to the small living room. I glance at the kitchen. At least the counter is only littered with a few books and a bowl from this morning’s cereal.
Sebastian stands by the door, looking around. My apartment should be a badge of my independence. It is, after all, entirely mine. However, the cheap, light blue couch and faux wood TV stand scream that I haven’t figured out adulting.
Next to Sebastian’s effortless polish and premium hiking gear that probably cost more than all my furniture, my DIY attempts at home decor look childish. Did I really think my dollar store frames of family pictures and my amateur photography were cozy? The only piece of real art—and that’s debatable—is a too-small painting of the Kentucky sunset I’d created with Paige at one of those wine and art classes.
And how had I thought my refurbished wooden crate coffee table was cute? Honestly, the slender bookshelf my dad made to fit between the wall and the window is the singular nicest piece of furniture in the room.
Sebastian’s gaze finds its way to me. I’m caught between embarrassment and shame for being embarrassed, all my words abandon me and I just stare at him.
“Are we waiting for someone or something? A ghost, maybe?” He jokes, stepping closer, making an old floorboard squeak. His scent of vanilla and oak with hints of spice envelops me. “I hope it didn’t eat the food you made for us. I’m starving.”
The playful note in his voice relaxes me. On our way back to his truck, he’d mentioned his dislike of snakes. I grin and widen my eyes. “No, not a ghost. My pet cobra.”
He freezes like an ice sculpture. I bite back a laugh. “I’m kidding. I don’t have one. Yet.”
His shudder makes me grin. Nodding toward the bookshelf, he asks, “Do you mind if I look?”
I lift my hand, palm up, in a go-ahead gesture. “Are these your parents?” He points at a heavy frame doubling as a bookend.
“Yeah, my dad drove in when I graduated from college. That was taken right after the ceremony,” I reply, moving to stand next to him.
“You have a beautiful smile,” he says quietly, setting the photo back on the shelf. The space between us seems to shrink, the heat of his body seeping into my side.
He turns, his pupils dilating slightly. The playfulness vanishes from his face, replaced by something hungry and focused. He reaches up, grazing his fingers along the sensitive skin of my neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The brief contact leaves an invisible imprint, spreading heat from that single point of contact down my spine. “Sebastian...”
His hand traces the contour of my jaw. My eyes flutter closed and I surrender to his touch, my lips parting on a sigh.
Then my stomach rumbles.
He steps back, breaking the spell. “We should probably eat,” he says, the words catching in his throat, rough-edged and strained.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. We move to the kitchen, but space and distraction do nothing to quiet the drumming of my pulse. I busy myself pulling out plates and silverware, acutely conscious of his every movement as he takes a seat at the counter. After pulling the sandwiches and salads from the fridge and setting them on the counter, I come around and sit next to him.
We twist in our seats to face each other. Our knees touch, sending a ripple of awareness through my body. I press my thighs together, needing to alleviate the growing ache.
He glances around and says thoughtfully, “Your place looks loved, lived in.”
Well, humiliation certainly helps kill lust. “Is that your nice way of saying my place looks tired and worn?”
“Not at all. I see your personality everywhere. From the novels,” he points at the bookshelf in the living room and to the romance paperback next to the sink. I’d read it while eating my cereal this morning. “To the cozy throw on the couch. I can see you cuddled under it, flipping through a novel or watching TV on a rainy day.” His brows pull together and he stands. Walking to the couch, he stops at the throw. “Did you knit this?”
“My mom did,” I tell him.
“That’s…wow.” His reply has no derision. He touches the afghan, and I swear I see sadness in his eyes. “She must have spent hours working on this.”
