ChapterTen
Sebastian
My pulse pounds and my hands curl into fists. I stare down the lanky man who almost ran over Rosalia. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I don't shout, but my quiet fury reverberates through me, hitting him like a fist. He pales.
The guy swallows, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat. “Mr. Blackstone. You know her? I’m sorry.”
Oh, now she’s important. This guy’s an asshole. I lean into his personal space. “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”
He turns in Rosalia’s general direction and snivels, “I’m sorry, miss.”
She nods, picking up a gray shoe from the sidewalk. After the jerk scurries inside the restaurant, my attention snaps back to her. She looks relatively unharmed but shaken, collecting her belongings and sitting on a nearby bench. I sit beside her. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she says, but her hands shake as she changes from her tennis shoes to the flats. The need to do something roars in me. I kneel beside her, gently holding her shoe steady. She slips her foot in and her eyes meet mine briefly.
There’s no Hollywood moment, no time stopping, but the opposite.
Everything accelerates: my thoughts, my heartbeat, the city noise around us.
I take in the asymmetry of her pupils in the sunlight, a distinctive feature I want to catalog alongside all the other things that make her beautiful.
She looks away first, not with embarrassment but with wariness.
My mood is different from ten minutes ago when I was sitting at the table, lost in thought. I’d been holding onto reasons to keep my distance from her. All week I’d been cultivating them like thorny barriers, and they’d kept me company until Rosalia came pedaling up on a damn bike.
What adult still rode a bicycle? Sure, in the gym, with a trainer, but not on the street where dickheads could run her over and make me forget I’m not supposed to feel anything for her.
“Ready?” I stand, offering my hand.
She takes it and a spark of electricity passes between us when her soft fingers intertwine with mine, sending a wave of warmth up my arm. Her wide gaze flashes to mine. A faint blush colors her cheeks. Then she lets go of me and steps toward the restaurant.
I follow, reminding myself why I’m here. Not for a pleasant evening, but to win Thorne’s bet. I need to charm her into choosing me over my brother’s deal, without letting her charm me into forgetting what she’s really here for. It’s a fine line to walk.
Holding open the door for her, I glance around the restaurant.
It’s the typical Kentucky décor of plush leather booths and walls painted in earthy tones of greens and creams. I steer us past a section of old bourbon barrels converted into standing tables to the dining area.
All the while ignoring the people watching us.
A few whisper discreetly, others not so much.
Rosalia side-eyes a nearby group who is staring at us. “How do you stand it?”
I lean in and breathe through my mouth so her inviting scent doesn’t distract me. “They’ll soon forget we’re here. Once the novelty wears off,” I tell her quietly.
“But why is the two of us going to dinner gossip worthy?” She’s walking ahead of me, and I take in her tense shoulders.
The way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for another impact.
“Is it my spectacular arrival when my bike fought—and lost—to an SUV?” she jokes, but her laugh comes out shaky.
I search for the careless SUV asshole but can’t spot him. Reaching our table, I pull out her chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“The scare was worse than the hit.” Sitting, she arranges her silverware and then fiddles with the menu. “Sorry if my embarrassing spill caused you unwanted attention.”
The urge to reach for and comfort her is strong, but my brain screams to keep my distance. The tug-of-war is a damn nuisance.
I won’t touch her, but I can’t resist alleviating some of her discomfort. “Don’t worry about it. It’s usually like this when I go out.”
Her lips twitch. “Jerk drivers follow in your wake? You could have warned me. I’d have worn body armor.”
I grin at her quick wit. “Unfortunately, asshole drivers are everywhere. I meant the attention in public.”
“Ah, like your lady fans at the coffeehouse.”
I scratch the back of my neck. The attention is embarrassing as hell. “Yes, like that. And it has gotten worse since my divorce.” Why, I can’t understand. I’m a businessman for shits-sake, not some movie star.
“That was a year ago, right?”
“Almost two.” I shift my attention to the menu and hopefully away from the topic of Tiffany. “What looks good to you?” I ask.
“Were you heartbroken? ”
My gaze shoots to hers. Damn, that’s direct. And nothing I want to talk about. “Um. That’s complicated. She and I…” I’d craved a family and home, believing Tiffany was both. But neither is meant for me. “I’d rather not discuss my ex.”
Her cheeks flush pink and she looks at her menu. “Oh, um, I’m so sorry. That was way too personal.” A cute, nervous giggle escapes between her pretty lips. “I can’t believe I asked that. And we haven’t even had an appetizer.”
I smile. “We should order one or two. What would you like?”
“I’ll get the soup.”
“As an appetizer?”
“No. My meal.”
My brows furrow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she repeats. Our waiter arrives and she smiles at him. “Separate checks, please.” The words come out fast and she looks down at her napkin.
Hell, no. I shake my head. “Together, please. We’ll take a bottle each of your house white and red.”
After he leaves to fill our drink order, Rosalia shifts in her seat. “I really should pay for my meal.” She hesitates, then adds more quietly, “It’s important to me.”
She seems genuinely uncomfortable taking my money. A flicker of hope sparks in my chest. Maybe she won’t go through with it.
“But I invited you to dinner, so it’s my treat,” I reply.
“Your company is payment enough,” she says, but her smile is strained, like she’s forcing the politeness. I suspect she’d rather dine with the man who’d almost run her over than me.
“I’ve already asked to put the checks together,” I counter.
“I’ll Venmo or Apple Pay you.”
I nod, pretending I’m giving in. “If you wish. But, if I’m getting myself an appetizer or two, will you share them with me?”
She tilts her head, tucking in a corner of her mouth. The expression is cute. “Okay,” she concedes.
The waiter returns with the two wine bottles, opens and pours a glass of each, then waits. I ask Rosalia, “Red or white?”
“I was going to have water…”
“You don’t drink?” I probably should have asked before ordering.
“I do, but had planned on skipping tonight.”
“I won’t push, but if I drink both the whispers around us will get louder.
My PA, Hanna, told me one of the most recent rumors is that I don’t go out because I’m passed out drunk by six every night.
Which is odd, given that I usually work until well after dark.
” I tap my chin. “Maybe that’s why the other current rumor is more popular. ”
There’s a playful light in her eyes. “What’s the other?”
“I’ll tell you if you help me dispel rumors.” I point to the two bottles.
She shakes her head, laughing, and tells the waiter, “I’ll have white.”
I nod, and after tasting the wine and giving our approval, I order every appetizer. After the waiter leaves, Rosalia tips her chin, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “All of them?”
I shrug, “I can’t pick. You’ll help, right?”
Her smile breaks free and knocks me in the chest. “I shouldn’t.” She pushes her wine glass toward me. “And I should give this back to you. Let the gossips call you a glutton and a drunk.”
I laugh, idly wondering when I stopped seeing this dinner as a chore. I’m no longer pretending to enjoy myself. “Please don’t,” I groan. “There’s already plenty of fuel for the gossip fire.”
“Because you’re a hermit,” she teases.
“I’m not a hermit.” I pause to reconsider, then tilt my head from side to side. “Well, maybe a little.”
Shit, I’ve smiled more tonight than I have all year. I need to remember why I’m here. This is about winning the bet, not actually enjoying myself.
“Why don’t you go out more?”
Why would I? My work is satisfying and doesn’t let me down like family, friends, and love. I don’t bother to share my morose outlook. “The distillery keeps me busy. ”
“I get it. I’m not running a world-famous distillery,” she muses. “But my little bookstore and its programs take a lot from me. And what little bit of free time I have, I prefer to spend it relaxing alone with a book or with a close friend.”
“Not a partier, huh?” I ask. It is refreshing to meet someone like me who needs solitary time to recharge.
“As you might have guessed from my overly personal questions, small talk isn’t my strong suit,” she says with a shy smile. Then it widens. “Which reminds me, you said there were two popular rumors, what’s the other?”
I laugh again. “That my ex left me when she discovered me in bed. With a man.”
Her lips twitch. “So, which would be the bigger scandal, that you’re killing your liver with wine instead of liquor, or that you prefer men?”
“Definitely the first. This is bourbon country after all.” I lean in closer over our small intimate table for two. The scent of vanilla and wildflowers draws me in, and I lose my train of thought.
“And you’re the owner of the largest bourbon distillery. Fine,” she sighs, taking my hand. Her simple touch zings through me. “Good thing I saved your reputation by drinking with you.”
My gaze is fixed on our hands. Mine is larger and has a deeper hue, contrasting with her paler one. After a few beats, she lets go.
“Anyway, I love chatting with my bookstore visitors and friends, but I prefer them over groups of acquaintances and such. And my absolute favorites are my fictional adventurers I meet in books,” she says.