Page 54 of Whiskey Throttle
My choice. I decide where this goes from here. Literally.
“The main house would be nice. I’ll just slip back into my dress.”
I move to gather my clothes where they had lain when he took them off. He dives into help, picking up my undergarments and handing them to me before I retreat into the bathroom for privacy.
Everything feels off.
I dress quickly, the fabric clinging slightly to my skin. No makeup. No blowout. Just me in a crumpled dress, tucking his necklace under the neckline for safekeeping. Unsure if I’m protecting the sea glass or myself.
When I step out, he’s waiting with his hands in his pockets and that boyish smile that tries too hard to hide the ache in his eyes. He doesn’t speak. Just opens the door and gestures for me to go through.
“Do we need to bring the tray?”
“Nah, they’ll get it.”
They are his staff.
The evening air is cooler now, the fog from the inlet rolling in. We walk in silence down the path that winds from the studio to the main house. His estate rises on the slope above the pool, cabanas, and his studio. Looming large and a bit forbidding.
Warm lights glowing from above the windows with security cameras snuggled under the eaves, reminding me of what we did inside the cabana that thankfully, wasn’t caught on camera. Now the beach, well, that’s probably another story. The planter boxes on the porch are meticulously manicured. Nothing screams for attention. Just wealth done impossibly right.
When the door creaks open, I expect it to be loud. Anything opposite the hushed quiet that such a large house provides. Our steps echo faintly on wide oak floors. The hallway stretches long and open, and more expensive art hangs at curated intervals. Not his work, but coastal abstracts and historic maps of the area and colonies. A perfectly restrained palette of whites, creams, navy, and espresso. The kind of house where everything is magazine-worthy.
He leads me to the kitchen.
It’s beautiful.
The kind of kitchen chefs would die for. Features include a double island, stone counters, Sub-Zero appliances, and copper pans hanging in neat rows. But no one’s around, not even a housekeeper. Only us.
He pulls open a drawer and grabs a small remote. With a press of a button, the far wall rolls back to reveal a hidden wine cellar behind glass. I’m amazed by how cool a party trick that is.
“I could have the chef make us something,” he offers, stepping behind the counter, his hand lingering over an intercom mounted in the marble wall. “Or we could raid the fridges for leftovers like heathens.”
It’s too late in the evening to drag his poor chef away from whatever he’s doing.
“I vote heathen.”
A smile tugs at my lips, he grins in return. The first real one I’ve seen since I woke up.
“I’ll grab the plates and silverware. You pick the wine.”
We move about the kitchen with our separate tasks. He makes quick work of grabbing his, then moves on to pull various dishes from two different refrigerators. I peruse the various wine bottles, some of which are quite exclusive and expensive.
“Do you have any preference?”
Not that money matters to him, but a sliver of guilt has me seeking his recommendation, as I’m unsure if this is all available for his choosing.
“Any will do. They all taste great,” he says over his shoulder, pulling out glassware to the point that we’ll be having a mini feast on our hands.
“Let’s do a white. It’s lighter.”
I return to the wine selection, aware of every sound behind me as he sets everything up for an impromptu picnic at one of the massive islands. By the time I decide and turn, he has an enormous amount of food arranged like a buffet luncheon with serving spoons tucked into each dish.
“That’s a lot of food.”
He snickers, dismissing my comment as if untrue. It’s glutinous, and my stomach rumbles when I walk to him. Handing off the bottle of wine for him to open, I settle on one of many barstools tucked under the edge.
“Don’t wait for me. Dive in.”
