Chapter 29 #2
“Wyn,” Julian calls out behind me. Loud enough this time that a few people turn to look, including her.
I stop and cover my mouth with my hand. If she doesn’t recognize me, then I can pull myself together, and at the very least, go talk to her afterward, but I don’t think I’ll have time for that.
She smiles, finishing a laugh that she was sharing with the man to her left.
He stands close to her as I stop and stare.
Her brow furrows, and a nervous smile pulls at her lips before she says, “Oh my go—” Breath catching, she takes a step toward me.
I take two more toward her and nod, wordlessly answering what I’m sure she’s trying to work out.
Tears fall as she takes me in, finally putting the pieces together of who I am and why I might be familiar. “You’re here.”
“Laney, what’s going on?” the man behind her asks as he stands protectively next to her.
“It’s her . . . the woman from the storage facility in New York. The survivor,” she tells him, wiping her tears. “I didn’t know what had happened to you afterwards, only that you were safe—” She braces her hand over her chest. “Can I hug you?”
I swat away the tears, nodding. “I’d really like that,” I say, wrapping my arms around her.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say again.
“Same,” she says quietly as both of us cry.
She pulls back to look at me again. I look very different from the last time she saw me.
I was half-naked, covered in filth and blood, screaming as I ran toward her.
She holds tightly, and I do the same right back, as if we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time and not strangers who met in the most terrible of situations.
Quietly, she says just for me, “He’s gone, you know.” She pulls back, her eyes meeting mine, and in a reassuring tone says, “I watched a rickhouse on the back property here burn so hot that they couldn’t put the fire out for days.”
I nod. “I hope it hurt.” I blink away another tear.
“I can almost guarantee it did,” she says with a firm squeeze of my hand.
“Wyn?” Julian says, breaking into the moment.
Stepping back, she holds on to my hand. I sniff and wipe away what’s left of the tears before I say, “Julian, this is?—”
“Laney. I know. We’ve met before. But how do you know her?” He glances at the man with the mustache behind her—Grant Foxx, according to his brother.
“Grant?” Julian asks him like he’s the last to know what’s going on here.
Grant looks between Laney and me before he says, “I think my wife is talking to the reason why she ended up in Fiasco.” His lip twitches in something that looks like a smile.
“Laney,” I say on a sigh. I close my eyes for a moment, not caring about coincidences or fateful meetings, and simply say, “Thank you for saving my life.”
Before Grant and Laney left, having promised their nieces a sleepover, we spent another hour together talking about what her life was like right after the night she pulled the fire alarm inside that storage facility.
How she ended up in Fiasco and why she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
I shared with her what I did for a living, and we didn’t talk about the darkness or the details of what I survived, but she held my hand the entire time.
“Are you okay?” Julian finally asks, dragging his hands through his hair and resting his palms along the back of his neck. “That was not a part of my plan.”
Julian held my hand tightly as we walked quietly from the distillery to Fiasco’s downtown.
He would kiss the back of it every so often, but he didn’t push any more than that, giving me a chance to digest everything that had just unfolded.
I worked through the details she shared, how she’s built a life here, and how she wouldn’t have changed any of it.
Fresh air and time to reflect on what just happened felt necessary.
When we stop at the Crescent de Lune, the French bakery building, I lean against the brick and take a deep breath—that sweet smell in the air is something special.
It followed us all the way from the distillery to here, permeating the gentle breeze through this small town.
Closing my eyes, I take a grounding breath and tell him the simplest truth.
“There couldn’t be a more complete feeling than the one I’ve just experienced. ”
He pushes a piece of my hair that’s fallen behind my ear. He keeps his eyes on mine as his thumb brushes against my cheek.
“That woman saved me. She didn’t try, she didn’t know who I was or what was happening, but she stepped in, and because of that, I didn’t die in that room like I thought I was going to.
Your father’s selflessness in finding me and helping get me out of that space wasn’t all for nothing.
And that’s because of her.” I laugh lightly, eyes burning with more emotion.
“I’m grateful.” I look at him when I open my eyes and whisper, “I’m so grateful. ”
“We don’t have to go out. I can tell my friends that I’ll take a rain check and?—”
I shake my head, cutting off that idea. “You don’t need to do that. I don’t want you to. I feel good, just maybe need a little bit of time to shower and pull myself together.”
He leans in and kisses my forehead as he pulls me into a hug.
My arms wrap around him, and I say, “I want to have a good time tonight and get to know these Foxx brothers a bit, drink some good bourbon.” I lean back to look at him and smile, thankful for the way our lives keep weaving together in ways I don’t know if I’ll ever understand.
“And I want to enjoy every moment of being here with you.”
I think about what this could be like in Rumor—a distillery that produces Tennessee whiskey in a way that hasn’t been done yet.
Experimenting with flavors and finishing barrels, a whiskey brand that would be women-owned and run.
It isn’t a novelty, but an asset, one that my family has had working in our favor for a long time.
Taking a sip of Foxx Bourbon, I sway to the low music filtering around the studio apartment that’s ours for the night.
It’s modern luxury with hints of opulence and old money, from the brass and gold fixtures to the crystal chandeliers that seem like the preferred lighting here.
I love it. The building is beautiful, with a speakeasy called Midnight Proof hidden below the ground floor beneath a bakery and the apartment nestled in the well-hidden top floor.
The convenience of it allowed me to shower, freshen up, and take some time alone to reflect on the emotional swan dive of seeing Laney.
I turn and look at the door, and from where I stand, in front of the long windows overlooking Main Street, I don’t know how many steps are from here to there, but I realize I haven’t paid all that much attention to escaping anything lately.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or careless of me, but right now, I feel . . . content.
Fiasco, even outside of the beauty and bourbon, is already nothing short of spectacular.
I run my hands along the tight black material—thick leather straps and a balconette-style top that once it hits my ribs, turns to a smoother, softer black fabric, cinching in at my waist and hugging my hips and down just past my knees.
The shoes I picked are vintage Christian Louboutin platform peep-toe booties.
I bought this pair when I got my first decent paycheck from the university and never let my sisters borrow them.
My bank account never really recovered after that, but then it didn’t matter.
Now, I turn my ankle in the mirror and marvel at how they look. Perfect.
I don’t count the steps down from the apartment on the top floor to the bakery.
I only thought about seeing Julian. The corridor that hugs the side of the bakery is beautifully decorated as if I’m walking through a small Parisian patisserie.
Julian said that while the bakery is quite popular and fully functional, it serves as the “front” for the well-known speakeasy, Midnight Proof.
The secret bar is more than what I expect, but that’s apparently par for today’s course.
Chandeliers that hang throughout the space put off just enough light and shadow that they make every person in here seem more sultry and mysterious than I’m sure they would be in the light of day.
The music is moody and slow, despite the way the bartenders move behind the bar as I approach.
I know Ace Foxx’s wife runs this spot, along with another club that’s on the distillery’s property, but invite-only.
“What can I get you, doll?” a beautiful brunette asks as she slides the check to a few people next to me.
“What’s your favorite right now?” I say with a smile.
“Oh, I like you. Alright, what do you usually like?” Plunging the shaker into the cleaner, she leans forward on the bar as she puts the seasonal drinks in front of me.
“I’m usually whiskey forward, but tonight, I can be talked into something else if it’s delicious.” For some reason, it feels like flirtation. She’s incredibly good at leaning into the vibes of this place.
“You’re speaking my language, gorgeous. I got you.
” She moves around the bar with ease and pulls out a few familiar bottles: a Foxx bourbon—the words The Sugared Daddy drawn in cursive letters across the label, a bottle of Chartreuse, amaro, and then a squeeze of a half lemon.
She shakes it up and asks, “Are you here with someone, or just enjoying a solo night out?”
Smiling, I tell her, “My person is somewhere around here. I just need to find him. But a drink sounded like a good idea. This place is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says, cracking the two frosted shakers apart. “This is my place.”
“You’re Hadley Foxx then? Ace’s other half?” I ask as she pours the drink into a beautiful crystal coupe glass, topping it with a curled orange peel.