Chapter Twelve
Ivy
We pull out of the garage and down the long driveway of Thorne’s estate.
Once we reach the main street and he accelerates, that rush of exhilaration that only comes with being on a bike fills me as we race through the streets.
It isn’t the same as when I roll on the throttle, but hanging on for this ride does have its advantages.
Sure, I’d seen most of his body on the train and when we swim in the mornings, but touching him again is a separate thrill from the winding road we are traversing.
He takes a sharp curve and the muscles in his back shift slightly as he leans.
His shoulders are broad and solid beneath my hands.
The late afternoon sun bathes everything in a honey-gold glow, transforming ordinary fields into something magical.
I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with air that tastes of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle.
A hint of earthy dampness from recent rain mingles with the warm sweetness that can only be Kentucky in early summer, when everything is vibrant and alive with possibility.
I grew up with air like this, land like this. Before Mom left and Dad moved us to New York. Before law school and partnership tracks and forgetting what it felt like to see stars at night.
And for the first time since arriving in Kentucky, I feel truly free.
The tension of the environmental crisis, Madison’s blackmail, and the complicated family dynamics fall away with each mile we cover.
There is the road, the wind, and Thorne’s solid presence guiding us through the Anchorage suburb to the countryside.
We shoot past rolling hills covered in lush green trees in full summer splendor, fields of vibrant corn and sorghum stretching to the horizon, their leaves dancing in the warm breeze.
Wildflowers dot the roadside in bursts of purple and yellow, while distilleries with their distinctive black buildings and copper stills shimmer in the intense summer heat.
Several well-known distilleries are scattered along our route, though none are as large or regal as the Blackstone’s.
The occasional creek sparkles in the sunlight, a welcome sight in the summer warmth as we venture deeper into Kentucky’s famous bourbon region.
The powerful engine beneath us hums, creating a constant vibration that travels up my inner thighs. When we roll to a stop at a red light, Thorne pats my hand where it rests against his abdomen.
“You good back there?” he asks over the wind and engine.
His touch sends a different kind of vibration through me. One that has nothing to do with the motorcycle and everything to do with the heat of his palm against my skin. I nod, knowing he can feel the movement. Which is good, because I don’t trust my voice.
The light changes, and Thorne twists the throttle.
The bike surges forward, and a whoop of pure joy escapes my lips as I press tighter against his back.
I tighten my grip around his waist, molding myself to him, my thighs squeezing his hips as we rocket forward.
His chuckle rumbles through his back and into my chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart racing against him.
About an hour into our ride, he pulls into a gravel lot beside a weathered roadside establishment with a faded burger sign.
“Best burgers in three counties. Family owned since 1962.” Thorne says, killing the engine and pulling off his helmet. I do the same.
I’m too short to reach the ground, so I stand on the pegs and swing a leg over. Before I can hop down, he grips my waist and sets me gently to the ground. His hands linger at my waist until I twist around to face him. Then he steps back, heading for the diner.
And wow, it looks like something from Pinterest or like I’ve stepped back into a time machine to the 50s.
The outside is all metal, with a red-and-silver awning and stickers plastered everywhere—the siding, windows, and the glass door.
There’s even a flickering red neon sign on the roof with a curving blue neon arrow pointing down.
Inside is just as cute, with charming red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, and walls covered in local memorabilia and even more stickers. A stunning blonde waitress calls Thorne by name, surprising me. Her gaze lingers like she wants him on the menu.
We slide into a corner booth. “You come here often?” I ask.
“Whenever I need to escape and a good burger,” he replies, removing his sunglasses.
We order classic cheeseburgers, onion rings, and milkshakes. They arrive in record time, and I’m smitten that our drinks are delivered in frosted metal mixing cups. I take a small sip and moan.
The sound is indecent, and Thorne quirks a brow, “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes.” I take another sip and roll my eyes back. “This is better than most of my sexual encounters.”
He leans forward. “Better than ours?”
No. But teasing him is fun, so I say, “Maybe.”
His lip twitches, like he knows I’m full of shit. “Hmm. How about after this, we visit this deserted park I know? We can go for a different kind of ride on my motorcycle. I’m certain I can change your mind.”
I press my lips together like I’m holding in a laugh, but in reality, it’s so I don’t blurt, “yes.”
His lips curve into that rare, genuine smile that transforms his face, softening the hard angles and making him even more handsome.
The pretty server sets our plates down with a flourish, leaning closer to Thorne than necessary.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, her voice dropping to a honeyed drawl as she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Absolutely anything at all?”
Thorne glances up with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re all set for now, thanks.”
She lingers, her hip almost brushing his shoulder. “Holler if you change your mind.” She walks away with an exaggerated sway to her hips.
An unexpected hot, tight sensation spreads through my chest. I stab an onion ring with unnecessary force. “I never pictured Thorne Blackstone in a place like this.”
“No?” He picks up his burger. “Let me guess, you thought I only ate at places with white tablecloths and bourbon lists longer than novels.”
“Something like that.”
“Disappointing you already?” His tone is light, but the way he’s watching me suggests my answer matters.
And his look makes me honest. “Actually, it’s the opposite. It’s nice to see there’s more to you than power and persuasion.”
“You think I’m persuasive?” He grins.
“You’re charismatic,” I admit. “Even when you’re being a jerk.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Thanks. I think.”
Our server stops at our table, refilling Thorne’s water, giving him a smile that says she’d do anything he asks. And I hate the spark of annoyance that gathers in my chest. “Need anything else?” she asks him.
“Could you also fill Ivy’s water?” he replies. She nods, keeping her lust-struck gaze on him. “That’s all. Thank you.”
When she leaves, I can’t help sniping, “She likes your charm.”
His grin widens. “Jealous?” He takes a bite of his burger.
“No,” I say too quickly.
His teasing grin fades, his brow creasing slightly as his gaze turns inward, more serious. “She’s enamored with my last name and what it represents. Or my reputation.”
I play dumb and repeat, “Your reputation?”
“Sebastian is the good guy. Lillianna is the fun-loving wanderer. I am black-hearted Blackstone. Some women see me as a challenge.” He shrugs. “They learn.”
“What do they learn?”
“They can’t fix me,” he says flatly, but I swear there’s pain under his words.
“You’re broken?”
“We are all broken.” He turns his glass in his hand. “Some do the breaking. Some fix the broken in themselves or others.”
“Which do you do?”
“Break. And I’m really good at it.” His ice blue eyes capture me, and I can’t look away. “It’d do you good to remember that.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I tear my gaze from his and take a huge sip of milkshake. Which promptly gives me a brain freeze. “Oww.” I rub at the sharp pain over my eye. “Shit.”
“Too much of your sex shake at once?” he jokes.
I bark out a laugh. “Ugh. That is a terrible name for a milkshake.”
He shakes his head, the heaviness around his eyes evaporates, replaced with humor. “I’m going to suggest milkshakes to the chef at the Blackstone restaurant. Add them to the dessert menu. It’ll be made with vanilla, bourbon, and orgasms.”
“If you can figure out how to bottle and sell orgasms, please let me know. I’ll be first in line to buy a case.”
“Oh, Ivy. I can give orgasms anytime you want.” The promise in his gaze warms me everywhere. Get a hold of yourself, he’s just goofing around.
“What do I need you for?” I tease, holding up my milkshake, “I have my sex shake.”
He sighs dramatically. “How can I compete?”
Picking up his burger, he takes another bite. I do the same, and we dig into our food. After he finishes his last onion ring, he says, “Tell me about your father.”
“What about him?”
“You mentioned he raised you alone after your mother left.”
“After the divorce, we moved to New York to be closer to his siblings and my grandparents.”
“Was he bitter?”
I consider this. “Yes, but he never let that bitterness touch how he raised me. He doesn’t have many kind words for my mom, but he learned to French braid hair from YouTube tutorials because I hated ponytails. He never missed a school event. He taught me to change tires and debate philosophy.”
“He sounds like a good man,” Thorne says quietly.
“The best,” I agree. “He always says that loving someone means choosing them every day, even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard. I think being abandoned gave him this fierce determination to never let me down.
” I pick up an onion ring and put it back on my plate.
“What about your father? Beyond what we know from the documents.”
I want to ask if he was as terrible as people say, but that seems cruel. The man was Thorne’s dad.
Thorne’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Louis Blackstone was exactly what you’d expect. He was a brilliant businessman, ruthless negotiator, and country club member who knew which fork to use for salad.”
“And as a dad?”
A shadow crosses his face. “He might have thought his ‘lessons’ were teaching us the ways of the world, but …they were harsh. And if you crossed him—family, friend, or enemy, he’d make you pay.” He took a long drink of water. “He taught me well.”
My heart aches for the little boy Thorne was. “That sounds intense,” I say, but the words are hollow, inadequate for the weight of what he’s shared.
A tightness squeezes my chest as I imagine a young Thorne enduring those “lessons,” learning to bury his emotions so deeply that even now they rarely surface.
It explains his coldness, his control, the walls he’s built.
I resist the urge to reach across the table again, to offer comfort he’d probably reject.
“It was educational,” Thorne replies, his voice carefully neutral. “I learned early that weakness and disobedience weren’t tolerated.”
I touch his hand from across the table. “Emotion isn’t weakness, Thorne.”
His eyes darken as he looks at our hands. “In my world, it is.” After a moment, he turns his hand to briefly squeeze mine before pulling away and holding up his hand for the check, clearly stating this line of conversation is over. And honestly, I’m surprised he shared as much as he did.
The ride back is different. There is an ease between us, as if a wall between us is down.
The final stretch of our journey winds through countryside bathed in twilight.
As we cruise along the empty roads, Thorne reaches back, wrapping his fingers gently but firmly around my ankle where it rests against the bike.
The gesture, so casually intimate, sends a shock through my system more powerful than any thrill the motorcycle provides.
His thumb traces small circles against my skin just above my boot, and I lean closer, my cheek against his shoulder blade. We stay like that, connected in that small, significant way, until the road demands his attention again.
All too soon, the empty country road is dotted with a few houses, then more.
Before long, his estate comes into view.
A strange mix of anticipation and apprehension settles in my stomach.
The house will be empty except for the staff—and us.
No Madison, no Lillianna, no Sebastian. Just Thorne and me, alone in that sprawling mansion with all its secrets and shadows.