Page 35 of Whiskey Throttle
Her wit is a surprise under that frosty exterior.
“Please. I was too busy learning how to beat my fencing instructor, crash polo ponies, and lose my virginity in the wine cellar of a château in the Swiss Alps.”
Her brow lifts over the rim of her expensive glasses. She thinks I’m a reckless playboy anyway, so why not let a few more confessions fly?
“Croquet was for the cousins with dad bodies and no jawline. I had better things to do, like getting kicked out of the Cannes film festival for booing and trying to jump a snowmobile in Aspen.”
She giggles but tries to stifle it. I catch it anyway, and my chest grows with pride. This is the banter I’m talking about. Nonsense to get her comfortable and loosened up.
“And what exactly do you do with all those hard-won skills?”
I step closer, cocky smirk in place, eyes locked on her mouth.
“Seduce emotionally unavailable women in couture dresses to play lawn games with me.”
She lowers her chin, staring at me over the rim. A direct challenge to my gut, which has me stop my bullshit for a moment.
“Are those the only type of games you play? Tennis and croquet.”
Holy mother of sin.
She’s flirting back. It’s rare and hard fought. But damn, if it isn’t right there in front of me for the taking. The hand that wants to trail down her arm before is doing just that. Taking the mallet from her hand and launching it across the lawn in a defiant act of what other games I definitely want to play with her.
“Come with me.”
CHAPTER 10
BABS
He scoops up my heels, letting them dangle from his fingertips, before grabbing my hand and leading me away from the lawn. I don’t ask where we’re going. I just follow. The path, worn from sea spray and salt water, is cold on my feet.
The wind plays with the hem of his linen shirt, tugging it against his spine, giving me glimpses of his muscular body and the inked tattoos that adorn it. We move past the gardens and greenhouse. Past the glimmering pool, and every space I’d expect a man like Hollister to use to impress a woman. He veers toward a modest structure tucked behind a veil of ivy and hydrangeas.
A faded blue side door in need of paint, maintenance, or replacement altogether. He glances over his shoulder, mischief ghosting over his features as he pushes it open.
Inside, it's cool. Dust motes shimmer in slanted light like suspended stars. The scent of turpentine and old wood seeps into my lungs. My footsteps slow. Canvas after canvas leans against the walls. Modern, chaotic, and yet alive.
This isn’t curated. This is confessional. Every surface is consumed with charcoal, ink, and oil. Not one signature. Not one name, just an abstract H. I drift forward, pulse rising with every step. One canvas catches me by the throat.
I stop moving.
Stop breathing.
It’s me.
Unfinished but unmistakable. I recognize the sweep of my shoulders. The tired bend of my neck. The quiet collapse in my posture. It’s rendered in a dozen aching lines. A different version of me than the one on his phone.
My hand is in my lap. My mouth is downturned. My eyes are sad. Drawn as if he stared at them for hours. Unbeknownst to me, he must have, because the grief is there. The yearning. The exhaustion of wanting something I can’t name, much less allow myself to have.
“This is me.”
My accusation is as sharp as my turn, staring him down as a means to demand an explanation. He licks his lips, setting my heels down on an old wooden stool, covered in paint speckles.
“It is.”
“Why?”
I look back at it, mind racing to that night.
