ChapterFifteen
Sebastian
Closing the back door, I take the terrace steps two at a time, hating how much I’m looking forward to seeing Rosalia. I walk past the granite pool that Tiffany insisted on having but never swam in during our brief marriage. The damn thing is a monument to poor judgment.
The late March sun still manages to peek through the gathering storm clouds as I pull my phone from my back pocket. I text Tom while walking to the barn, asking him to have Rosalia meet me there, knowing I’m walking straight into whatever trap we’ve set for each other.
Before I put my phone away, it rings. Thorne. My brother’s timing is impeccable when it comes to stirring up trouble. I hit “Ignore.” Seconds later, a text buzzes. Can’t he take a hint?
I visited your bookworm earlier this week. She tells me you two are meeting at your place.
Why are you visiting her?
Just because this is my brother’s game doesn’t mean he won’t cheat to win.
She and I made a deal. It’d be odd if I didn’t stop by.
Though unwelcome, the reality check is needed. I enjoyed my dinner date with Rosalia too much. I have to keep reminding myself this isn't real.
Your point?
You might want to see if our Tennessee distillery needs a master distiller.
Piss off. I’ll be keeping my job.
My steps slow on the damp grass as I resist the urge to throw my phone.
She’s more devious than I thought. I suspect she is going to play us both.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. But doubt creeps in like poison, and I hate myself for it.
This is exactly what happened with Tiffany and others in my past. It started with small questions, tiny inconsistencies, until I couldn’t tell what was real anymore.
Am I seeing patterns that aren’t there, or ignoring what’s clearly there?
How?
Why deal with me when her new billionaire boyfriend can buy her a bookstore?
The tightness in my chest eases, and I continue walking. Rosalia had pushed back at me paying for her meal, so I highly doubt she’ll ask me to buy her a building. And here I thought my brother would be more subtle in his attempts to sow discord.
I reach the barn and shove my phone in my pocket. Stepping inside, I nod at John, my stablehand, who’s getting Goliath and Cinnamon ready. I walk along the stalls, checking on my other horses. The light scent of silage, wood, and earthy manure never fail to soothe me.
A flash of auburn fur streaks into the barn, skidding to a stop next to me. “I’d wondered where you’d run off, Twain.” I stroke the silky and, thankfully, dry coat. “And I’m glad it wasn’t into the pond.”
The Irish Setter’s tail wags so hard that his whole back end swings like a pendulum. He stills, and his head cocks toward the open door at the opposite end of the barn. His long ears perk up, and then he takes off after a sound only he can hear.
“Mr. Blackstone,” calls John, “Goliath is ready. How would you like me to saddle Cinnamon?”
“If those are the names of the horses we will be riding, I hope Cinnamon is mine,” comes a velvet-smooth voice who has visited too many of my recent late-night fantasies.
Rosalia stands at the open exterior doors.
Her gaze bounces around the barn, lips parting slightly as she takes in the horses, then the polished leather tack hanging on the walls.
But then her posture straightens, her face smooths into something more guarded.
“Your place is lovely,” she says, sounding oddly formal.
“Thank you,” I reply, moving closer. “But not nearly as beautiful as the company.” The flirtation falls easily from my lips, too easily. I’m supposed to be charming her, but this feels less like strategy and more like instinct.
“Smooth.” She smiles, but the tension lingers in her eyes.
She clears her throat, looking past my shoulder to the pastures where horses graze in clusters, then takes in the row of stalls.
“You must have what, twenty horses out there? Thirty?” The awe in her words makes my skin crawl.
“That’s… that’s quite the collection. Quite the investment. ”
Why is she focused on the numbers? Is she calculating their value, or merely curious why a single man has so many horses?
“Most of them are rescues or retirees that needed a home,” I say, watching her reaction carefully. “Only a handful are actually rideable.”
Her eyes soften, and she moves toward the stall nearest the pasture doors. “Rescues? What happened to them?”
The genuine concern that replaces her initial amazement catches me off guard. This isn’t the reaction of someone tallying up assets. “Various things. Neglect, abuse, some are just old and their owners couldn’t care for them anymore,” I tell her.
The afternoon sun lights her from behind, hugging her curves and heating my blood. I drink in every detail, from her fitted T-shirt to her sexy-as-sin worn jeans and equally loved cowboy boots.
Oh shit. I forgot to ask if she rode Western or English. I call to my stable hand. “John, do we have All-around saddles?”
“Damn. Don’t worry about it,” Rosalia cuts in. “It’s my fault. I should have asked, knowing you all ride English here. But these are the only riding boots I have, since Western has always been my preference.”
Behind me, nails click rapidly on the cement, and before my dog can give his usual overexcited greeting, I say, “Twain, sit.”
The Irish Setter halts next to me, but his tail twitches in obvious glee.
Rosalia laughs. “You said that with such command, I almost sat too.” She bends slightly and scratches behind Twain’s ears. He promptly flops onto his side and then rolls onto his back. She rubs his belly and giggles when he kicks a leg in bliss. My smile grows watching them.
Straightening, her gaze moves to me. She studies me from head to toe, taking in my gray polo shirt, dark navy riding pants, and well-worn paddock boots.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You look different out of your three-piece suit. ”
Heat prickles up my neck and I rub the back of it. “Is that a good or bad?”
“As if you don’t know you look good in everything,” she huffs, giving Twain a final pat and standing. “And it isn’t that clothes matter, but what’s underneath that counts.”
No matter what my outside looks like, beneath it lies a Blackstone heart, through and through—cold and cunning. But to keep things light, I quirk a brow and tuck my thumbs in my belt loop. “Are you saying you want to see me naked?” I tease.
Her face flames. “I was referring to your personality.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Her pretty pink cheeks are adorable.
“New topic,” she begs, her lips twitching and a half-smile escaping. “Please.”
I grin. “As you wish, Buttercup.”
“Quoting a book. A man after my heart.”
“I was referring to the movie version of The Princess Bride ,” I joke. “And unlike you, my movie comparisons are much kinder. I get Bill and Gru. You get Princess Buttercup.”
“Gru is cool. And he has the Minions.”
John returns with an All-Around saddle. “I’ll get this on Cinnamon.”
“I’m sorry for the trouble, and thank you, John.” Rosalia shuffles her feet. “Do you need help?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “I’ve got it, ma’am.”
“I feel weird just standing here watching him get my horse ready,” she whispers to me.
Her self-sufficiency is so different from my ex-wife’s. It’s a nice change. “Since it’s his job, he and I would feel weirder watching you. Come here.” I lead her to the feed room and grab a bucket of carrots. “Let’s give these to the other horses while we wait.”
We walk over to Cosmo’s stall. “So, you spent your summers here, were they with horses? Or was that in Michigan? You seem to know your way around them.”
She nods, taking a carrot. “Both, but more so here. ”
“You didn’t mention it when I invited you horseback riding…”
“You asked by text.”
She doesn’t sound upset, but just to make sure, I ask, “Was that rude? Should I have called?”
“No. I’m just a lazy texter and didn’t feel like typing out my backstory.”
I chuckle, moving closer. “Said the bookstore owner.”
She grins. “I like to read, not write.”
“Fair enough. Will you tell me about it now?”
She scratches Cosmo’s withers. “My grandfather was a horse farm manager. So is my dad.”
“That explains your natural way with them.” I watch her gentle touch on my normally skittish horse. “Cosmo here came from a neglectful situation and usually only interacts with me.”
“Poor guy,” she says softly. Leaning against the stall, she looks around. “My dad would love this place. He’s always had a soft spot for horses that need help.”
“Is that what brought your family to Kentucky, his work?”
“No, a divorce. After my parents split, my dad moved back here to be closer to family. I followed a year later.”
“Are you and your father close?”
“Yes,” she replies.
An unexpected longing tugs at me. After college, I’d spent a lot of time with my father, preparing to take over the family business, but even so, we’re virtually strangers. “What about your mom?” I ask.
She turns, resting her elbows on the bottom half of the stall doors. “Are your parents together? Do you like them? Do they both work for Blackstone Bourbon? What’s your blood type?”
I laugh. “Is that your polite way of telling me to stop asking so many questions?”
“Not at all.” She crosses her feet at the ankles. “But only if you’re willing to share too. ”
I nod. “My parents are still together, but not happily. My father’s mostly retired from the distillery and business, which is a relief. We don’t see eye to eye on much. And my mother’s basically a full-time socialite.” I grin. “And my blood’s AB negative. Any other questions?”
“Hmm.” She taps her chin. “Do you have more siblings than the two?”
“My dad has a teenage son with a former mistress. I’ve never met either.” Shit, once the cork’s loosened, I spill secrets.
“Well, hell,” she mutters. “I’m, um, an only child.
I think they wanted more but couldn’t have them.
Because of that, I have enough mothering for five kids.
Both of my parents are extremely kind people, but I suppose they’re not right for each other.
They divorced right after I graduated from high school.
” We stare at each other, and the weight of honesty is heavy between us.
Humor flickers in her eyes. “I don’t know my blood type. ”
I laugh. “Our next date should be the Red Cross.”
“Only if they’re giving out double chocolate chip cookies that day.”
“I’ll call ahead.”
John tells us Cinnamon and Goliath are ready.
Thanking him, I lead Rosalia to the horses.
I unclip Cinnamon and pat her saddle. Rosalia places her boot in the stirrup, grabs the saddle horn, and swings up in one smooth motion.
She settles in with a natural confidence.
The way she adjusts her seat, completely at ease, is the opposite of every other woman I’ve dated who treated horses like expensive props.
I mount Goliath, focusing on my stirrups instead of how good she looks. This is dangerous territory, appreciating her authenticity while knowing she’s here for less than authentic reasons.
Gathering my reins, I point west. “We are going to the state park trails that butt against my property.”
She follows me out of the barn and then comes up beside me. Twisting in her saddle, she scans my land. “Your place is beautiful. Peaceful.”
“Thank you.” I look around. Tiffany had liked the house.
My love is for the grounds. And today, nature is putting on a show.
The grass nearly glows from last night’s rain shower.
The color is a stark contrast against the black fencing.
The mature trees lining the west fence are a mix of green, with a few late bloomers sporting flowers.
It only takes a couple of minutes to reach the gate between my place and state land. A stable hand waits at the gate. She locks it after we pass through. Since I’ve ridden the trails many times, I let Rosalia take the lead to have the freedom to explore.
We ride until our stomachs rumble with hunger, and the afternoon sun fights with the heavy clouds rolling in. And even then, I’d rather risk the storm than return. The simple afternoon is damn near perfect.
She points out a hawk circling above, and her smile is genuine, her laugh unguarded. Derby and the party loom a little over a month away. I wish time would slow. Even with all the lies between us, I’m in no hurry for this game to end.
We cross back onto my property under a darkening sky.
As we approach the barn, Rosalia’s relaxed chatter begins to fade.
Her posture straightens, becoming anxious and stiff.
Her gaze, which had been meeting mine freely all afternoon, now darts between my house, the barn, and anywhere but at me.
It’s as if crossing the boundary line has reminded her of something, or perhaps of who I am.
She fidgets with the reins, urging Cinnamon to canter and then walk, seemingly unaware of what she’s doing. The same nervous energy that had consumed her when she first arrived appears to have returned.
The quiet grows tense. “What’s wrong?”
She draws a deep breath. “Your place is beautiful. Really... impressive.” There’s a forced quality to her voice that wasn’t there minutes ago.
“Thanks, but you already said that. Twice.” I eye her. What’s behind this nervous repetition?
“I know, I just—” She stops, then starts again with that same wooden tone. “The way you’ve built your fortune is remarkable. The business, this estate... it shows how brilliant you are with money and investments. ”
Thorne’s text flashes in my mind: Why deal with paying off loans when her new billionaire boyfriend can buy her a bookstore?
The pleasant warmth of the afternoon curdles in my gut. Here it comes. The real reason she’s here. My brother might be right, and everyone wants something in the end. And really, I should have seen it coming, she has a damn deal with my brother to manipulate and use me.
“Rosalia.” My voice comes out harder and I don’t care. “I can’t give you the building you’re leasing.”
Her head snaps toward me, the color draining from her face. For a split second, shock renders her features vulnerable. Then her eyes harden to flint.
“I wasn’t asking.” The transformation is immediate. Gone is the nervous woman of seconds ago, replaced by cold fury. Her eyes narrow to slits. “So you do know about your company not honoring the agreement to renew my lease. Good to know.”
She presses her heels into Cinnamon’s sides, urging the mare forward. Not just a trot but a gallop, putting distance between us with every second.
“Rosalia, wait! That’s not—” I urge Goliath into motion, but she's already disappearing down the path to the barn, the sound of hoofbeats fading under the first drops of rain.