Page 94 of The Bourbon Bet
She nods, but something about it seems defeated. I look closer. And it’s not merely that her eyes and cheeks are red and splotchy like she’s been crying, but her usually vibrant energy is diminished. The other man vanishes from my mind, overshadowed by concern. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
Her gaze finds mine, and it’s raw and desperate. “Please,” I say softly.
She scans the bookstore. Only two customers are browsing the shelves, both appear absorbed in their selections. She pulls out a small sign: “Back in 5 minutes” and puts it on the counter.
“Come with me.” She slides her hand with mine, holding tight.
Her fingers are warm in mine as she leads me through the store to a doorway at the back of the bookstore. We enter a small storage room lined with boxes of novels and bookish supplies.
The moment the door closes behind us, she turns to me, presses against me, and her lips find mine with urgency. I’m caught off guard, but recover quickly, my hands moving to her waist. She tastes like coffee and cinnamon, and the soft whimper she makes when I pull her closer awakens a hunger I’ve been denying since I was last inside her. Desire floods through me until even my fingertips ache with wanting her.
“What—”
“Don’t talk,” she whispers against my mouth. “I just need…”
And I understand. We all have moments when we need to forget, to feel something else, to escape. And right now, she needs me.
For the first time in days, the constant carousel of worst-case scenarios in my head goes quiet. My thoughts narrow to her skin beneath my palms, her breath catching when I touch her, the weight of her body against mine. The anxiety that’s been my constant companion fades to background noise, replaced with something baser.
Her hands press against my chest, backing me into a shelving unit loaded with inventory. A few tote bags with the Novel Idea logo slip from their hook as she moves against me, and I willingly allow her smaller body to pin me against the metal scaffolding. The cold edges of the shelves dig into my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of her mouth on mine. Her fingers tangle in my hair as she rises on tiptoe, each touch, each breath between us building on the one before, becoming hungrier, more desperate. The brush of her fingertips tracing my collarbone sends fire coursing through me. When my lips find the sensitive spot below her ear, she gasps, her body pressing harder against mine, and I groan against her neck.
“Sebastian,” she breathes, and I swear my name has never sounded better.
We’re both breathing hard. Her eyes are half-closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed. She takes my hand and deliberately places it under the hem of her blouse, guiding me to the soft skin of her lower back. Her eyes hold mine as she reaches for my belt, her intentions unmistakable.
A loud crash from behind me shatters the moment. I spin us both so she’s behind me, shielded from the door. My heart hammers as I brace for someone walking in. But when I look, it’s just a box that’s fallen from the overhead shelf, the cardboard split at one corner.
“Books,” I say, relieved but still breathing hard.
“Damn books,” she mutters, peering around me. “Always demanding attention.”
Romance novels lie scattered across the floor around our feet, which is fitting for the moment they’ve interrupted. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” Rosalia says from behind me.
I silence her with another kiss. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”
She smiles against my lips. Her fingers trail down my chest, and she hooks one finger in my belt loop, tugging slightly before releasing it.
“If we continue…” Her voice drops to a whisper, the words catching in her throat as she swallows.
“You’re calling the shots,” I tell her.
“Not like this,” she whispers. “Not with customers waiting and…” She gestures at the fallen books with a small laugh. “Not surrounded by fictional couples who’d judge our technique.”
I press my forehead against hers. “They’d be jealous.”
She leans against me once more, her head resting on my chest. I hold her, her heartbeat gradually slowing against mine.
“Do you want to talk about what upset you?” I ask softly. “Or was that enough distraction?”
She sighs, her breath warm against my neck. “My mom’s latest stunt is really too much,” she grumbles. In a voice tight with frustration, she tells me about the job hunting her mother is doing for her.
I shouldn’t feel this selfishly glad about her unwillingness to even consider the jobs, but the thought of her disappearing to Michigan twists something sharp inside me. I want her here, in my arms.
Shit. I’m doing exactly what her helicopter mother’s doing. I’m worse. At least she’s being honest about trying to control Rosalia’s life. I’m manipulating her life from the shadows, deciding what’s best for her without giving her a choice.
And that’s exactly why I need to tell her. She deserves to know what she’s up against and to make her own decision about her shop and us.
“Rosalia, there’s something important I need to tell you about.”
