Chapter Eight
Sebastian
The silence between us stretches like a taut wire as we walk to the coffee shop.
I’m certain Thorne manipulated the situation at least a little to get Rosalia to accept his twisted deal.
My rational mind understands this, but my bruised ego doesn’t care about logic or my brother’s machinations.
Despite everything, I’m still hurt that she agreed to use me as her pawn, and in turn making her mine.
Sure, we weren’t close, but we got along well.
And I’m not imagining the attraction between us.
Yet, she has no problem using me to save on interest for a bank loan.
It feels like another confirmation that my people skills end precisely where the boardroom door begins—another personal misread to add to my impressive collection.
Steam fogs the coffeehouse windows as we approach, reflecting my own clouded thoughts.
I hold the door for Rosalia, and the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries wafts out.
The cozy chatter inside creates a lively backdrop, a jarring counterpoint to the cold silence between us.
After she enters, two women exit while I’m still holding the door. One of them glances at me and then stops. I don’t recognize her. But she clearly knows who I am. She elbows her friend and mouths, “Blackstone.” They wheel around and go back inside.
I let out a low groan as the weight of unwanted attention settles upon me like a suffocating blanket. That damn “Most Eligible Bachelor” article that ran a month after my divorce still haunts me. Giving the woman my back, I ask Rosalia, “What do you want to drink?”
“I’ll get my coffee,” she tells me.
“How about I get it, and you find us a table?” I suggest.
“But—” She hesitates, then gives me a small smile. “That’s sweet of you, thanks.”
There’s the performance Thorne’s paying for. At least she’s good at it.
A flash goes off, and we turn in that direction. The woman who recognized me is sliding her phone into a coat pocket, looking resolutely in the opposite direction.
“Was she taking a photo of you?” Rosalia glances at the amateur paparazzi, then back at me. She bites her lip. Her tongue darts out, wetting the indentations. I can’t help but track the movement.
Forcing myself to look away, I say, “Probably. Let’s sit where she is not sitting.” I point to an empty table on the other side of the coffeehouse. “Want to grab that one? ”
Rosalia nods and tells me her drink order before making her way to our spot. I take in her straight spine. Then glance to her ass, pausing way too long there. Giving myself a mental push, I turn to the counter and give the barista our order.
After a brief wait, our drinks are ready, and I navigate around packed tabletops and cords snaking from outlets to laptops.
Rosalia has removed her red cardigan. The matching tank top is lacy and fitted, reminding me of lingerie.
I picture her in matching panties, sprawled on my dark green sheets like a Christmas gift.
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, confronting the maddening truth that my attraction to her persists despite everything.
If anything, seeing her fight for her business makes her more appealing.
That’s just fucking fantastic. I’m supposed to be protecting myself, not finding more reasons to admire her.
“Here.” I plunk her chocolate dessert masquerading as a coffee on the table, then sit with my arms crossed.
She accepts the drink but doesn’t meet my eyes, her fingers fidgeting with the handle. “You could have gotten these to go.”
I glance toward the photographer, but she’s gone. “Um, why?”
Rosalia waves a hand at me. “You seem unhappy. Annoyed.”
More like conflicted. Part of me understands why she’d agreed to my brother's deal, but another part still feels the sting of being used. Either way, I can’t let these feelings complicate things further.
Alienating her won’t help either of us. I need her to choose me over Thorne’s deal.
“My apologies,” I say. “It has been a rough day.”
“What happened?” Rosalia asks. She blows on her mocha latte and takes a careful sip, her lips parting slightly as the liquid meets her mouth.
I’m captivated by the simple act, and a warmth that has nothing to do with coffee spreads through me.
To dispel it, I take a much too big drink and let the burn cool my heat for her.
I need to remember that she accepted Thorne’s terms a few days after he offered, which tells me she didn’t even try to negotiate or find another way.
The sting of betrayal sharpens, cutting through my conflicted feelings.
If she’s willing to use me, maybe it’s time I stopped playing the gentleman .
I’ll try a move from my dad’s book: fear. Make her second-guess stealing from me. It’s shitty, but in the end she’ll keep her store and I’ll get rid of my brother.
What I need is a story. Something that will make her think twice about crossing me without being too obvious about it. I glance outside and see a pear-shaped, balding man shuffling past the window, thick glasses sliding down his nose, mumbling to himself as he adjusts his crooked tie.
He disappears from view, and an idea pops into my head. I arrange my face into a stern expression. “I found out this morning that my receptionist was stealing office supplies. I had to fire him. And press charges.”
She draws back. “For stealing paperclips?”
“Pens and notepads, too,” I add as if that makes the action reasonable.
Rosalia holds my gaze like she’s trying to read between the lines. “I see,” she says slowly, sipping her latte.
I swear a small smile is hiding behind her cup. She knows I’m full of shit. I blow on my coffee to hide mine.
She sets her mug down and asks, “R-red s-staplers as well?” Her impression of Milton from Office Space is spot on, and genuine laughter escapes me.
“I let him keep the Swingline. I didn’t want him to burn down the distillery.”
“Smart.” She sucks in her lips, but laughter breaks free. The sound is beautiful, like sweet tea on a hot day.
I should be calculating my next move, but all I want is to hear that sound again. So much for intimidation.
“Did your sister like the books you picked out for her?” She asks, settling back in her chair, seeming more relaxed.
“Yes. They arrived the day before she left for Thailand. She loved your beach read recommendation. She’s trying to get me to read it.”
“You should. It’s a fantastic story.”
“I’d love to, but it’s too easy to lose track of time when I’m thoroughly engaged. And this time of the year is incredibly busy at the distillery.”
I can’t help it. My gaze takes in her lacy tank top, travels to her neck, to her cupid’s bow lips, and then rests on her eyes, which are focused on my mouth.
Our knees accidentally brush under the table, and I catch Rosalia’s quick intake of breath.
A thrill zings through me. Maybe she isn’t immune to me either.
I grin and that breaks the spell. She leans back as if needing space and focuses on her mug.
After a beat, she pivots. “I have big hopes for Novel Idea,” she says slowly as if choosing her words carefully.
“I don’t want it to be just a one-off thing.
I want it to be the start of something bigger, something that can make a real difference. ”
My stomach drops and I struggle to read between the lines. I’m unsure if there’s hidden significance in what she’s saying. Is she revealing why she’s agreed to help Thorne, or is this merely small talk?
“One store can touch a community, but imagine what a network of them could do,” Rosalia continues, her eyes taking on a distant, dreamy quality. “Spreading the joy of reading, providing access to books in underserved areas, creating a chain reaction of literacy and empowerment... that’s the dream.”
She shakes her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “I know it sounds a bit grand and idealistic. But I can’t help but think about the potential, you know?”
Her vision unexpectedly moves me. Rosalia’s aspirations are a refreshing change in a society driven by profit.
“The world could use more people who think big and want to make a positive impact,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth, the bitter taste of suspicion coats my tongue.
Is she this altruistic, or has she crafted this persona to manipulate me?
I study her face, searching for any hint of deception behind those earnest eyes.
“Thanks. It’s a long way off, but it’s something to work toward.” She shrugs. “For now, I’m just focused on making Novel Idea the best it can be.”
I take another sip of my coffee, trying to quell the conflict inside me, but the tug-of-war between distrust and my growing respect for the woman before me only intensifies.
She seems genuine, her passion shining through with every word.
But I’ve been burned before. I’ve seen how easily people wear masks to get what they want.
And the fact remains: she’s agreed to help Thorne.
Maybe everything she said is true, and she’s simply paving her path by using me .
I can’t afford to lower my guard, to be influenced by a pretty face and a captivating story. So much is at stake, from my business to my reputation and my future, along with nearly everyone who works for me.
She switches topics back to Lillianna, asking about her time in Thailand.
The conversation is a safer topic, and we chat easily until our mugs are both empty.
I check my watch and am surprised that nearly an hour has passed.
I have to stop by the Louisville office before returning to Bardstown, but I’m reluctant to leave. I’m an idiot.
“I need to head out, but are you free this Saturday evening?” I ask, annoyed that I’m invested in her answer.
She stands, reaching for her cardigan and covering her gorgeous body. “My store’s open until six.”
“Would you like to go out to dinner after?”
“Sure,” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes this time. Her fingers fidget with her purse strap, and she glances away as if nervous. Or maybe having second thoughts about Thorne’s deal?
A man can hope.
As we walked to the exit, I ask, “Anywhere you’d like to go?”
Her lashes flutter as if surprised I asked her opinion. “I’ve wanted to try Fantastic Fusion but haven’t had a chance, ” she says.
As we leave the coffee shop our shoulders brush. Neither of us is quick to pull away or create space. “I’ll make a seven-thirty reservation. Is that time good for you?”
She nods.
“If you give me your address, I’ll pick you up at seven-fifteen,” I say.
Rosalia shakes her head and her hair brushes my arm. I catch traces of vanilla and flowers. The two are an intoxicating mix of innocence and desire. Why does she have to smell amazing too?
“Sebastian?” She stares at me like this isn’t the first time she’s said my name.
“Sorry, what? ”
She nods and leans in, presumably thinking I hadn’t heard her over the traffic.
I search for imperfections. There is a small scar above her left eye.
A tiny speck of latte sits on her upper lip.
But both make her more adorable. “I said, it isn’t the kind of place that needs reservations. It’s casual. And I’ll meet you there.”
My gaze locks with hers and, for a moment, I see a flicker, a hint of the same longing and uncertainty that churns in me. But then she blinks, and it’s gone, replaced with that polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“See you Saturday,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.
“Perfect,” I mutter. What would be perfect is pressing my lips against hers.
No. That is a terrible idea. Thorne’s bet told me all I needed to know about Rosalia. I might be attracted to her, and still don’t want her to lose her bookstore, but I have to win this twisted wager.
Tom must have spotted us leaving the coffeehouse because my Bentley glides to the curb next to Novel Idea. Offering Rosalia a stiff nod, I say, “See you Saturday.” Getting into the vehicle, I refuse to look at her as the car slides into traffic.
I have four days until our date—four days to get my head in the game. This is my brother’s game, his test. But as the city lights blur past the window, I can’t shake the feeling that none of us understand what we're really playing.