Chapter 6 #2
Lust steals all the air from my lungs. I’m supposed to be above base sexual gimmicks, but the dream’s flashing through my head like a strobe light.
Campbell bent over me, her hair brushing along my abdomen.
Her full lips hovering over my aching erection.
Arousal pumps hard through my veins, because I am certain that she can tie my dick up just like that stem.
I clear my throat. The shower is one thing. Having those images in my head when I’m at work and she’s right in front of me is not allowed.
“You know what name I want?” Kacey asks me.
My niece spins my mind around the way she changes subjects. Today, I welcome it. “Name for what?”
She looks at me like I have two heads. “My new brother or sister.”
“Try to keep up, Uncle Durban,” Campbell says sweetly.
She’s teasing, and it goes straight to my dick. Everything she says does. “Cole if it’s a boy?”
Campbell’s laugh rings out. “Like their dog?”
“Spelled different, obviously,” I say.
“Obvs.” She continues to snicker, but Kacey seems to be mulling it over.
“Rachel.” Kacey ticks one finger up, then she does the same with her pointer finger on her other hand. “Or . . . Blue.”
“Blue or Rachel.” No doubt from some shows she watches. “Have you told your parents your suggestions?”
She nods, pride ringing across her face.
Movement outside catches my attention, and my good mood falters. “They’re here.”
A car’s pulling away. Stanford’s sauntering toward the door and January’s tucked under his arm. He looks like he’s scowling, but January’s giving him doe eyes. They got a ride from someone at the ranch, and the driver parks at the far end of the lot to sit and wait.
Stanford’s brows draw closer when he enters and sees Campbell at the bar with Kacey.
“Oh,” Kacey says in a flat tone. “It’s him.”
Campbell coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like she’s covering a laugh. She slides off her stool.
“Isn’t she a little young to be taste-testing cocktails?” Stanford’s trying for casual, but there’s a censuring edge to his tone.
“Hey, Kacey.” January’s purr doesn’t seem fake. She might genuinely like her cousin’s kid.
Kacey ignores her and leans over to Campbell. “Mommy said she hurt your feelings, and I don’t like people who hurt your feelings.” Her whisper’s as loud as a church bell. “And I’m not invited to the wedding.”
January’s eyes mist over, and she glances away.
“And that’s why we’re having a kid-free wedding,” Stanford says. “I thought I wouldn’t have to specify that all the events are child-free too.”
Anger thumps a beat at my temples. “The tasting is a courtesy set up by your wedding planner. If the circumstances don’t appeal to you, we can go ahead and cancel. We’re normally closed Mondays anyway.”
He holds my gaze like I’m bluffing. I don’t fucking care. I’m not the one in the wrong, and Foster House doesn’t need this cocksucker’s business.
Campbell stares at me, and I’m hit with that damn guilt. I don’t want to make her life harder, and having to find another vendor will do that. It wouldn’t be her fault, but she’d take the heat.
“Oh no, it’s fine.” A tremor runs through January’s voice. “Kacey’s family, and I would like to see as many as I can while I’m in town.”
Stanford stiffens and nearly shoots her a glare before catching himself. This guy is a piece of work. “Of course, baby. I just want this wedding to be perfect for you. I know it’s your dream, and I’m going to make your dreams happen.”
Campbell’s knuckles are white on the purse strap across her body. She’s paler than usual, and I miss her natural blush.
Iverson enters, and his features harden when he sees the couple at the counter. “I’m all done, Kacey. Time to go.”
“I want to stay with Auntie Campbell.”
Campbell rubs Kacey’s back and swoops her up. “I know you do. We’ll have to make a girls’ date in a few weeks.”
Kacey wraps her arms around her aunt’s neck. “Can we paint our nails?”
“Nails, hair, it’s all getting done. How ’bout I walk you out?”
“Ooh, I love cherries.” January sits primly on a stool. “Can you add extra to mine?”
Stanford’s gaze drops to the neatly tied stem on the napkin in front of where Campbell was sitting. His shoulders sag just a little, but he catches me watching him. I snag the napkin and toss it, but I keep the stem and tuck it into my shirt pocket. Envy glints in Stanford’s eyes.
That’s right, asshole. Campbell’s too good for even his dreams.
Campbell
My throat’s thick as I polish off my Shirley Temple.
Stanford and January have amped up how much they hang all over each other.
Her hand is either on his back or his thigh.
Twice, she’s brushed it higher to stroke over his groin.
Their loud kisses turn my stomach. It’s not the first time I wish I had the filthiest of Dirty Shirleys in front of me.
I don’t want Stanford back. I want the self-respect he robbed me of over the years, but that’s not happening until the wedding’s over.
“So what’s this again?” January’s smashed into Stanford’s side. “Strawberry?”
“Raspberry,” Durban says for the second time. “Vodka raspberry lemonade. We’ll have raspberries the day of to use for decoration.”
I got a mocktail version without the vodka. Bits of bright raspberry swirl inside, and a vibrant red tints the glass. “I’ve seen a recipe that uses raspberry vodka instead of muddled berries with simple syrup.”
January frowns at me like I shouldn’t be talking.
“We’re going to start infusions later this year,” Durban answers, moving over to stand in front of me. “Using fresh berries and syrup does double duty, so we can make a nonalcoholic version for guests.”
“It’ll change the flavor.” I hold the glass up to the light, admiring summertime in a drink. “And the look of it.” Infused vodka might have the color, but it won’t have the rustic invitations of the crushed berries.
Interest lightens his eyes. “It won’t be as sweet, but that’s not what people come to the distillery for.”
Stanford tosses a smirk at me. “It’s not always about how pretty something looks.”
The old urge to shrink in on myself and think about how right he is because he’s the one who has his shit together hits me.
I inhale, fighting off that inferior feeling.
Stanford’s still the successful insurance broker with his own corner office, but I’m not that struggling event planner who barely got through college anymore.
Yet I am the girl whose daddy had to create a job for her.
A muscle jumps in Durban’s jaw. “The cocktails have to look good no matter what’s inside.”
Durban and Stanford are going to get into a fistfight if they glare at each other any more.
This whole event could slip through my fingers, and it would be even more humiliating than my last foray in the professional event planning world.
Then there’s the way Durban seems to be defending me and the funny things it’s doing to my insides.
My heart rate climbs, and my lungs are tight. I need some space. “I have to take this.” I wave my silent phone. No one’s calling me. No one’s texting. “Excuse me.”
I put distance between me and my insufferable ex and his future bride, and the man who’s tying up my emotions. I can’t leave behind how it should be me sitting on that stool—albeit with a different groom—tasting cocktails, laughing and giggling, while I bury myself in the love of my life.
I duck into the storeroom across from the bathrooms beside the bar counter. I’ve been in the bathroom before, and there are two stalls. I don’t need January popping in, but she won’t snoop in the storeroom.
I flip on the light, fold my arms, and lean my back against the wall. This is supposed to be my wedding. I’m supposed to say “I do” on my family’s land, with the mountains as my witness. I should be the one telling my planner all the things I’ve ever dreamed of.
I’ve dreamed of my wedding my whole life. I’m that girl. The one who knew before she was in high school what dress she wanted, who’d stand up there with her, and exactly how it’d look. It was like I manifested Daddy building that pavilion.
Now, if I do ever get the wedding of my fantasies, it’ll be a recycled version of Stanford and January’s. I’ll stand in the pavilion, gaze at my groom, and remember what it was like when two people betrayed me in that very spot.
I push off the wall. Fuck the mocktails.
There’s gotta be something in here I can drink.
The whole room is full of bottles of whiskey, vodka, and gin, all from Foster House.
A wall is dedicated to different glasses, but they’re all in boxes.
Only a row of curved glasses that remind me of tulips isn’t contained.
Next to them are a few open bottles. Perhaps just a sip.
“Whiskey,” I mutter. “Figures.”
“What do you have against whiskey?” Durban asks from behind me.
I bite back a yelp and spin around. He’s in the doorway, leaning against it. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.”
I scowl at him. “You can quit doing that.” I wave toward where the bar would be. “Don’t the happy couple need you to walk them through the tasting?”
“I served them a Tom Collins. We got a few minutes.”
“A Tom Collins?”
“Gin, maple syrup, lemon juice, and club soda. I made his extra tart, and he’s pretending not to notice.” He prowls across the room and upends a curved glass. “What’s your thing against whiskey?”
“It overpowers whatever it’s in.”
A disappointed rumble leaves his chest, and he rifles through the already opened bottles of whiskey. “You haven’t been having the right cocktails.”
“I’ve had plenty.”
“Have you had Foster House?” He selects a bottle with barrel proof written on the label and pours a splash into one glass. The other gets a pour that just reads single barrel on the label.
“Yes, of course. It tastes like any other whiskey. Did you like the stuff before you started making it?”