Page 22 of Whiskey and Whispers
Chapter
Seven
The expressionon Cat’s face when the doctor had replied that he didn’t know whether Tyler would live or die would haunt Tate for the rest of his life.
The girl who had always been happy and optimistic had turned pale, looking like she’d been slapped in the face. Those blue eyes had stood out starkly against her white skin, and her hands had visibly trembled. Her return to Winslow Heights had quickly become a nightmare.
Strong instinct had taken over, and he’d bundled her up in his car and driven back to the tavern, his only thought to comfort her. It wasn’t his place anymore, but it was hard to break a long habit, even if it had been years ago. At the moment, it didn’t feel like any time had passed. They were two kids, clinging to one another in a chaotic and cold world.
She’d barely spoken to him during the drive, not questioning his actions. They hadn’t seen each other for a long time, but she didn’t seem to mind that he’d taken control of the situation. He’d asked her a few questions, and she’d answered in one-word replies, barely acknowledging his presence.
“Stay here,” he said when he placed her into a booth at the tavern. “I’ll be right back.”
He had a quick word with the chef and then went back behind the bar and poured a generous brandy. It wasn’t for him.
Sliding the glass in front of Cat, he sat on the opposite booth bench. It didn’t matter that they’d argued the night before. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t truly spent any time together in a decade.
Tate didn’t look too closely into those inconvenient emotions. He didn’t want to get drawn in with Cat again, but he couldn’t turn his back on her either.
It wasn’t love, though. It was…something else. Care? Friendship? He’d stopped loving Cat a long time ago.
He was almost sure of it.
“If you drink it, it will make you feel better.”
His mother had always said that brandy was good for shock.
Cat didn’t reply, but she reached out and lifted the glass to her lips, taking a sip. She made a face and coughed a few times, shaking her head while making a gagging noise.
“What in the hell is that?”
“Brandy. I think you’re in shock.”
“So, you gave me brandy? It’s barely noon.”
“Shock doesn’t have a timetable,” Tate replied. “And it helped. You’re back with me. You were gone for a while.”
“That was nasty. Do people drink this stuff?”
“Not many, but some. You’ve never had brandy before?”
He couldn’t help but wonder about some of her high-dollar friends she had met during her career. Had not one of them ever offered her brandy?
To be fair, he’d only had it a few times—once because he’d been curious about the bottle in his father’s study and the second time when his mother had given him a small amount after hisgrandmother had died unexpectedly. He and his grandmother had been extremely close.
“No, and I don’t think I’ll have it again.”
Cat pushed the glass away, still making a face.
“According to my father, it’s an acquired taste.”
“Do you like it?”
“No,” he admitted. “I think Cooper likes it, maybe. Sam might, too. I’m more of the whiskey type.”
“I’ll pass on that, too. I’m not much of a drinker. Wine, mostly.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the chef signaling him from the doorway to the kitchen. He had a much better idea of how to comfort Cat than alcohol. He hoped it still worked.
