Chapter Fourteen
Ivy
Steam rises from the skillet as I crack another egg into the bowl.
The kitchen is quiet except for the gentle whisk of metal against ceramic and Lillianna’s occasional sip of coffee.
A month ago, I wouldn't have felt comfortable raiding her brother's kitchen to make breakfast. Now Lillianna sits across from me in her pajamas, completely at ease. Whether it started when we joined forces to tackle the environmental crisis or when her mother discovered Madison and I are staying here with Thorne, I’m not sure.
But the tension has melted away like butter on hot toast.
I pause the whisk. It’s strange how quickly life can change.
In the spring, I was drowning in due diligence reports and regulatory filings…
well, I still am, but I’m also making breakfast in a bourbon mogul’s kitchen and missing the rush of wind against my skin from riding on the back of Thorne’s motorcycle.
God, that motorcycle. My body warms at the memory of what followed that ride. Thorne’s hands rough against my skin, his mouth hot and demanding. The way he’d made me come so hard I’d nearly blacked out. That was a week ago, and the memory still visits me every night when I’m alone in my bed.
And alone I definitely am. Since that ride, he’s ghosted me completely—despite living under the same roof.
I’ve seen him exactly once, during another family strategy meeting. He’s even stopped swimming with me in the mornings.
What does it matter? In less than two months, I’ll be back in New York preparing for my partnership review, and he’ll be running acquisitions from his office in Quebec. It was smart of him to end things before they could begin.
I repeat this to myself for what feels like the hundredth time this week. A mantra that should be working by now. Instead, the thought of leaving Kentucky—of leaving him—creates a hollow ache I refuse to examine.
Needing an escape from my Thorne-fueled thoughts, I ask, “How did the boutique hotel get started?” I pour the eggs into the pan. “Which came first, the bookstore or the hotel?”
Lillianna sets down her mug, a reminiscing smile touching her lips.
“The bookstore was first. That’s actually how Sebastian met Rosalia.
” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I was living and working overseas. But Sebastian convinced me to come home and help Rosalia open 3Bs.
I majored in Languages and minored in Economics.
" She gives a dry laugh. "Sebastian would have found a way to need me even if I'd studied puppet art, but as it turned out, my degrees were actually perfect for running a boutique hotel with international clientele. "
I laugh. “Is it good to be home?” Or does she have mixed feelings, as I do with Kentucky?
She stares into her coffee for a moment.
"I love being home. But when Rosalia no longer needs me, I might take off again.” So mixed like me.
“It's been good working with her. The whole thing came together surprisingly well, considering how it started.
" She pauses. "Anyway. Thorne buying Rosalia the hotel turned out to be the right call, even if his reasons were complicated. "
"Wait." I turn from the pan of eggs. "Thorne, not Sebastian, bought her the hotel?" Was there more than guilt about some bet?
“I don't fully understand because I was living overseas." She watches me carefully, then her lips curve. "But I do know Sebastian and Rosalia are crazy about each other. It was a peace offering. Or a guilt gift. Not a love triangle. So there's no need for jealousy."
“What?” I squeak. “Why would I be jealous?”
“Because you slept with him.”
The spatula slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor, splattering egg across the tile. “Shit,” I mutter, and bend to clean the mess. “H-How…”
“I tore it out of him that day we all met. On the drive home. I could tell something was up.”
“You.” I twist the dish towel around my knuckles and narrow my eyes. “I knew you were dropping innuendo when you were showing Madison and me the house.” My heart skips. “Does everyone know?”
She shakes her head. “Just me.”
I turn off the stovetop and slide a plate of eggs across the counter to her. “Good. Please keep it that way. We don’t need the past muddying the waters of the present.”
“Thanks for the eggs, but you know Thorne has a cook,” she says, taking a bite.
“Believe me, I know. I’m contemplating stealing him and bringing him back to New York with me. I’ve probably gained five pounds from all the delicious dinners.” I rub my stomach. “So, maybe I shouldn’t kidnap him.”
We tuck into our breakfasts. But before Lillianna finishes her eggs, she asks, “Nothing’s going on between you two now?”
I arch an eyebrow at her insistence on the topic. “No.”
It isn’t a lie. Nothing, not even conversation, has been going on since the ride. And Lilliana doesn’t need to know it happened again. Or that I want to do it again.
I run a piece of toast through the yolk of my egg, but set it down. There’s a reason Lillianna brought this up, and it wasn’t merely to be nosy. “So what is it you want to tell me?”
She nods as if appreciating my directness. “To be careful,” she says.
“Of your brother or with him?”
“Both.” She takes a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, holding my gaze over the rim of her mug. “He has demons he’s fighting, and they might hurt you.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to push back, tell her I can handle his sins, but isn’t that the trap—thinking we can fix a man? That only happens when they want to change.
Plus, he isn’t mine to fix.
Lillianna sets her napkin on the table, all teasing has fallen from her face, “But under all mistakes and broken pieces is a golden heart. And if he actually lets you in, you could do some real damage.”
Her words hit me like ice water, shocking and undeniable.
I swallow hard, pushing down the uncomfortable truth that I've been thinking about Thorne far too much for someone who's leaving soon.
“Well, either way, you don't have to worry. Nothing is going on with us.” The words taste bitter, like coffee left too long on the burner.
“Good.” She smiles. “That means you’ll go with me to Tipsy on Saturday for dancing and dating.”
I laugh. “I will? Is Tipsy a bar?”
“The hottest spot for locals in Louisville. And tomorrow the Three Pence will be there.”
My brows shoot up. They are very popular, like they could sell out The Mercury or possibly even Yum, and I ask why they aren’t playing at one of those venues.
“The drummer, Lincoln, is dating a woman whose family owns Tipsy. They’re hosting an exclusive party to raise money for her art initiative that helps underprivileged kids access musical education. Any Blackstone and their friends are invited.”
My chest tightens, and I meet Lillianna’s gaze. “And am I a friend?”
“Your half-sister is my half-sister.” Her mouth curves with mischief. “And you’ve slept with my brother. You’re so tangled with my family. You are family.”
I cover my face, knowing it’s as red as the sliced tomato on my plate. “Oh my God, stop.”
Lillianna laughs, the sound bright and infectious enough to make me smile despite my embarrassment.
We settle into a comfortable silence as we finish our breakfast, and I’m about to suggest a second cup of coffee when I hear Thorne say, “No, I’ll tell her.
This impacts them directly.” His tone is clipped, authoritative.
It’s the voice he uses for business, not pleasure.
A few seconds later, he walks into the kitchen, a phone pressed to his ear. He’s dressed for work in a tailored charcoal suit despite it being Saturday. His gaze lands on me briefly before shifting away.
“I’ll call you back.” He ends his call and looks at Lillianna and me. “Good, you’re here.”
“Glad you noticed.” I press my lips together. Yes, I should act like I don’t care, but I don’t like being ghosted. It’s rude.
He only arches a brow and says, “Bluegrass Buzz has noticed you and Madison staying here.”
“How?” I ask. Even after Catherine learned of us staying here, Madison and I haven’t left the estate much.
“Oh, shit,” Lillianna sets down her coffee. “What garbage are those vultures spinning now?”
“That I have a secret family.”
I laugh, and so does his sister. “They are always almost right, but never all the way. Have you called Robert?” Lillianna asks.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Blackstone’s PR director,” she tells me.
“No,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ve set up an interview with The Kentucky Chronicle. Tomorrow.”
Lillianna nearly chokes. “You? Mr. Media Blackstone Blackout?”
“Fastest way to kill the rumor.” He reaches for a mug, his movements controlled but tense.
“Does Sebastian know?”
“Not yet.”
Lillianna’s eyes narrow. “This affects all of us, Thorne. You can’t just—”
“I’m handling it.” He points at himself. “The rumor is about me.”
“A Blackstone rumor is never just about one of us,” she counters. “Especially when it’s you. The brother everyone’s been trying to get dirt on for years.”
“I’m head of acquisitions, not a celebrity.”
“Don’t be dense. You’re a Blackstone and the most controversial one of us.”
“Um. No, that would be you.” There’s a flicker of vulnerability beneath his words, quickly masked with a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re the Blackstone black sheep, who turned her back on the family business.”
“Don’t take that tone with me. You know I couldn’t stay. Not after what happened with Oliver and me. I needed a fresh start.”
Her fingers absently trace the thin gold bracelet on her wrist. The one I’ve noticed she never removes.
She must catch my curious glance and offers a small, sad smile.
“Sometimes you keep reminders of your biggest mistakes.” She turns back to her brother.
“Not everyone can compartmentalize like you, Thorne. Some of us actually feel things.”
“Feelings are overrated,” he tosses back. Then he runs a hand through his dark hair. “And I’ve never blamed you for leaving. I just missed having you around.”
I take in the loaded glances and what's not being said. There’s history there, separate from Thorne and his brother.
But it must be equally complicated, messy, and clearly painful.
They’re navigating land mines while I’m standing here without a map.
I’m watching a conversation in a language I only partially understand, where the most important words are the ones they aren’t saying.
Lillianna waves a hand. “And like I said, I left, giving Bluegrass Buzz nothing to talk about. But you, my brother, have given them plenty.”
“Good thing I’m talking, controlling the narrative. I’ve already told The Kentucky Chronicle they can ask about the current rumors, nothing else.”
Lillianna stands. “I’m going to call Sebastian. We should at least warn him.”
“Fine,” Thorne relents. “Let’s take it to my office. The one upstairs, away from the staff. Get Madison. I think she’s in the library.” He looks at me. “You too. This interview is going to affect you and her.”
My heart drops, even as my blood races. I fold my arms across my chest, fingers digging into my skin.
Thorne’s eyes slide past me like I'm furniture. The move makes me want to shake him, but what he said is more important. My name splashed across headlines. I swallow hard, picturing my managing partner's face when he sees a Blackstone scandal with his associate front and center. That’s not the press he’d welcome.
“I’ll meet you both upstairs,” Thorne tells us, reaching for the coffee.
“Okay,” Lillianna says, getting up. She stops at the door. “Are you in for Saturday?”
“What’s happening?” Thorne asks.
“I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Ivy. But if you must know, next Saturday is dancing and dudes,” Lillianna jokes, making her brother scowl. “Three Pence will be at Tipsy. I’m taking Ivy.”
Thorne’s fingers tighten around his mug, knuckles whitening for a moment before he relaxes them. “Is that so?”
“Yup,” Lillianna chirps, glancing between us. I swear there’s scheming in her eyes, but is it for or against us?
My phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up beside my coffee mug. It's Dave.
Still waiting on that rain check. Name the place.
I reach for it, but not before Lillianna's eyes catch the screen. "Who's Dave?"
"Someone I know from when I lived here."
"Dave," Thorne mutters darkly. Huh. I'm surprised he remembers. I'd only mentioned Dave in passing that night on the train.
Lillianna's smile is slow and dangerous. "You should invite him to Tipsy."
I glance at Thorne. He hasn't turned around. Doesn't say a word.
I should. He's a complication I don't need. And I refuse to be one for him. "I will," I tell Lillianna.
Thorne sets his mug down with a little more force than necessary. But fuck him. I won't play the game of he-doesn't-want-me-but-no-other-man-can-have-me.
I pick up my phone and type back.
Saturday. Tipsy in Louisville. You in?
Dave's reply is immediate.
I'm in. Can't wait to see you.
Lillianna waves in our direction and leaves.
Amazing what a little "can't wait to see you" can do for a person's backbone. I face Thorne and ask, "Are you avoiding me?"
He sets down his mug, leans against the counter. “Yes.”
The word lands between us like a slap. I’d expected denial, deflection, or even anger, not brutal honesty that leaves me fumbling.“W—why?”
“Because I want to fuck you. I’m hoping distance will make the feeling fade.”
Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. My lips part, and my nipples tighten beneath my thin cotton shirt. I should be offended by his crudeness, but instead, I’m fighting the urge to cross the kitchen and press myself against him.
“Has it worked so far?” I rasp.
“No.”
The single syllable hangs between us, heavy with promise and bad decisions. I take a step toward him, then another. His eyes darken, tracking my movement like a predator.
“We should go upstairs,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “They’re waiting for us.”
He sets his coffee on the counter. “You go ahead.” His voice is rough, strained. “I need a minute.”
I nod and turn to leave, feeling his gaze on me as I walk away. At the door, I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “For what it’s worth, distance isn’t working for me either.”
His sharp intake of breath follows me into the hallway, and I know with absolute certainty that whatever is brewing between us is far from over. The interview tomorrow and its repercussions are the least of my worries.