Page 87 of Prelude To You

Roman met my smirk with an unwavering gaze. I could sense his resentment at my bitter comment. He took the empty glass from me and placed it on the counter, a sharp edge in his voice. “Maybe I should teach you how to really appreciate a thirty-year Macallan. Instead of treating it like a common shot in a bar. Would you like another one?”

His curtness did nothing to soothe me. Instead, I directed the fire burning in me toward him. “No, thank you. I don’t want to get too spoiled. Next thing I get picky about the box wine at home.”

Roman slid his glass onto the counter, harder than he needed to. He was beside me in an instant, his arm circling my waist and roughly drawing me against him. His teeth were clenched. “I know what you’re doing.”

I pressed myself into him, lifting my mouth to within an inch of his. All he had to do was claim it. “And what’s that?”

“Antagonizing me until I decide to simply fuck you. Without you taking any responsibility for the decision. That’s not going to happen.”

As suddenly as he grabbed me, he dropped me, took his glass and poured the whiskey down his throat.

He looked at me, dusted with a residue of despair. “You were right,” he said. “You coming here wasn’t a good idea. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll call the car service for you.”

I didn’t expect that, and my heart sank. But wasn’t this what I’d wanted, an excuse to sever our connection and forget any of it ever happened? Roman was right; what I wanted was to push him to the limit, where he broke his promise and took the decision out of my hands.

Regret gushed through me.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this… Roman deciding the torture was simply not worth the trouble. The tears that had been threatening to fall, made an encore. And as hard as I tried to bite them back they were there for Roman to witness, and I only had myself to blame.

I desperately tried playing for more time. “Before I go, can you show me how to drink a 30-year Macallan? My mom would have liked me to know that.”

Roman’s jaw was set, his lips pressed together in a restrained line. “Of course,” he said softly.

The vein in his temple was thrashing out of control, and that was all my fault too. He tilted my face to his mouth and as my tears escaped, he kissed them away from my cheeks, one by one. And then his lips tenderly touched mine and I tasted the saltiness of my tears on his lips.

There was nothing sexual about it, just a man who was at the end of his rope and a woman who’d slipped from the end of that rope some time ago.

He turned to the bar, took out a pair of clean glasses and held each to the light. “The first step is to make sure you have the right glass. For a neat whiskey you use a tumbler, a short glass with a heavy bottom.”

He placed the two glasses on the counter, and carefully poured less than half an inch of whiskey into each. “I enjoy my whisky neat. Some people add a few drops of water to open up the flavor. There are no rules; it’s however you prefer to drink it.”

Roman offered me a glass. My hand trembled, and he gently steadied it with his before going on. “The next step is to inhale the aroma.” He showed me how, and I repeated it. “Tell me what you get.”

I thought carefully about it. “I get a mix of different aromas… There’s apple, a bit of caramel, honey and definitely vanilla.”

He smiled. “That’s pretty good… It’s honeycomb, vanilla pod, red apple, sweet toffee and fig.”

“I could probably make a fabulous pastry with that combination.”

He hesitated, unsure whether he should say what he was thinking. And then he realized he might not have another chance. “I would have loved tasting your pastries.”

My heart was breaking into a thousand pieces. “And I would have loved making them for you.”

He tore his gaze from mine. “Next you savor the taste of the whiskey. Take a sip and roll it around over your tongue, before you let it slide down your throat.”

I watched him take a sip, his lips barely touching the rim as his long fingers curled around the bottom of the glass. I did the same, closing my eyes and focusing on the different flavors. “I’m tasting ginger and cinnamon, more vanilla… something fruity. And there’s something else…”

Roman looked at me like a master watching his student. He nodded his approval. “And oak.”

“Right. Not that I know what oak tastes like.”

“Whiskey matures in oak barrels. The taste comes from the caramelized sugars in the upper layers of the oak.”

I frowned at the complexity of taking one sip of whiskey. “And you do all this with every sip?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “God no. Whiskey is there to be enjoyed. With good music. After a long day.”

“What kind of music do you listen to?” I asked. “What soothes your soul in the quiet of the night?”

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