ChapterTwenty-Five
Sebastian
After a hectic week with barely any contact, I finally have Rosalia all to myself, starting with a late lunch at the iconic Galt House hotel.
Thunder Over Louisville has arrived, marking the official kickoff of the derby festivals.
After that, the countdown to Derby Day will seem to accelerate, along with Thorne’s deadline.
But right now, walking beside her through the Galt House lobby, I’m determined to focus only on her.
Rosalia’s steps slow. I match her pace. The light click of her boot heels against the marble is a counterpoint to my heavier footfalls. Her gaze is fixed on the hotel, while mine is on her, drinking in her beauty and recalling our kiss that night at the gala.
“Listen,” she whispers. “It’s like a symphony of memories, the same sounds I remember from when I was here once as a kid.”
“And now we get to add our own voices to the mix,” I say, guiding her toward the elevators that’ll take us to the restaurant.
We arrive as a group is exiting. I step aside to let Rosalia enter first, then press the button for the twenty-fifth floor. As we rise, the elevator continues to fill at each stop until we’re packed shoulder to shoulder like the crowds along the river.
The murmur of my name comes from somewhere behind me, followed by the quiet rustle of someone shifting, and I feel eyes turning in our direction. A woman near the back whispers something to her companion, and the familiar tension of recognition fills the small space.
Rosalia’s shoulders draw up, and she shifts closer to the elevator wall. I move closer to her, positioning myself between her and the curious stares. In the confined space, I catch the subtle scent of her perfume. It commands my attention more than the probing stares around us.
“You smell wonderful,” I murmur close to her ear, so only she can hear. “Like vanilla and jasmine, with a hint of something uniquely you.”
She ducks her head, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks as she glances up at me with a soft smile. “Thank you,” she says, equally quiet and warm.
The elevator hums steadily upward, and she tilts her head back slightly, as if trying to sense the height. Which I’m perfectly content not to think about.
“I wish we could have ridden in the glass elevator,” she muses.
I don’t—not at all. “That’s the east tower. The restaurant is in the west,” I explain.
“Oh well,” she sighs. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as exciting as it was when I was eleven. ”
My palms turn clammy at the thought, but for a chance to see Rosalia’s radiant smile, I’d endure anything. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance tonight.” My voice comes out slightly strained.
She tilts her head. “Tonight?”
“I booked a suite for the fireworks.” I swallow hard, focusing on her reaction rather than the impending elevator ride.
She bites her bottom lip, then releases it. “You book us a room…”
I thought this would make her happy. Replaying the last few sentences in my mind, I wince internally.
“I’m staying here tonight. Since I have a morning meeting here, there’s no sense driving back to Bardstown,” I quickly clarify.
“My plan was for us to watch the fireworks from the balcony in my suite, away from the crowds. Then I’ll take you home.
But if you’d rather not, I can book a table at the conservatory instead. The view is also good from there.”
“No, your plan sounds lovely.” The elevator doors open, and I wait for her to step out, then guide her toward the restaurant, placing my hand on the small of her back.
The hostess greets us with a professional smile. “Welcome, Mr. Blackstone and Ms. Manchester. Your window table by the Second Street Bridge is ready. Follow me.”
I admire the way the warm afternoon light dances across the embroidered flowers on Rosalia’s skirt. “Your outfit is lovely,” I lean in to tell her.
She glances down, a smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you. I fell in love with the embroidery the moment I saw it. It reminds me of the wildflowers that grow in my grandmother’s garden.”
I pull out her chair, my fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of her skirt as she sits down. “Well, you look beautiful,” I say, taking a seat across from her. After placing our drink order, I ask, “Is this the grandmother who makes the amazing chocolate Sacher torte?”
Rosalia’s eyes brighten. “Yes!”
“Does she live here, in Louisville? ”
“No, she has a gorgeous little cottage in Versailles. Horse country through and through.”
“Near Woodford Reserve?” I raise an eyebrow.
She nods. “That’s where I spent nearly every summer. Without a car, I don’t get to visit often, but love when I do.”
“What kinds of wildflowers does she grow?” I rest my chin on my palm, drawn into this chapter of her story.
“Everything imaginable,” she says, her hands animating her words. “Black-eyed Susans, purple coneflowers, wild bergamot... but her pride is her patch of Kentucky lady’s slippers. They’re notoriously difficult to grow, but somehow she had the magic touch.”
“It seems she has it in the garden and the kitchen. Is she also the one who fostered your sweet tooth?”
“Indeed,” she laughs. “I’ve mentioned her torte, but Grandma Rose’s bourbon bread pudding recipe would make you weep. I’ve tried for years to replicate it, but so far, no luck.”
I tilt my head. “Are you named after her?”
She nods. “But with a twist, so it wasn’t exactly the same.”
“Just like you. One of a kind.”
“Aren’t you a charmer,” she says, patting my hand.
“I have my moments.” The waiter sets down our drinks and leaves to give us a moment to look over the menus. I smile at Rosalia. “Your grandma sounds like an interesting woman. I’d love to meet her one day.” I’m surprised that I mean it.
“You say that now…” she laughs softly. “Her other hobby is reading Kentucky gossip on social media.”
I groan, taking a sip of my bourbon. “Does she hate me?”
“The opposite. She’s thrilled. My dad, on the other hand…” I want to ask about her father, but Rosalia continues, “My grandma also taught me to never trust a man who doesn’t dance at weddings or pet stray dogs.”
I suspect she’s changing the subject, and I roll with it. “You already know I can dance,” I say, referring to the night at the gala .
Her eyes darken, and her gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Is she also thinking about her body pressed against mine, the heat between us?
“And you’ve met Twain,” I continue. “He was a stray. A matted mess that showed up at my house about a week after my wife left.” I lean in closer, grinning. “Don’t tell her... but I like him more.”
Rosalia laughs, squeezing my hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The waiter arrives with our appetizers, and I reluctantly let go of her hand.
“How did you manage to get a reservation here, of all places, and today?” she asks.
“Since the…” I squint, trying to recall the exact date. “Since the Galt House opened here on the waterfront in the seventies, Blackstone Bourbon has had standing reservations during the months of April and May because of derby business. Like my business breakfast tomorrow morning at seven.”
“That’s an early meeting. We don’t have to stay up late to watch the fireworks.”
“I want to. I’m looking forward to it.”
Her eyes light up, and she gives my hand a small squeeze. “Me too.”
My fingers curl around hers. “Do you still plan on taking next Friday off?”
She nods. “Yup. Friday and Saturday. I figure, why not, since I’m keeping the store open for a full day on Sunday and opening on Monday for the Fest-a-Ville.
I’ll have Kentucky chefs in store with their books, along with local musicians playing acoustic music to match the festival’s vibe.
Since the festival is so close to Novel Idea, it can’t hurt.
” She pauses. “Sorry, I’m excited for it, so I’m babbling. Why did you ask about Friday?”
I’m drawn to her animated expressions, the way she speaks with her whole self.
While my world has become spreadsheets and production targets, she reminds me there's still color outside the distillery walls. Something about her pulls me back to the present moment in a way I haven’t experienced in years.
“I was asking because I wanted to know if you’d be interested in going hiking at the Red River Gorge.”
“Yes! The Natural Bridge has been on my bucket list since I moved here,” she tells me .
I am well aware, which is why I’d suggested it. Her casual mention of the Natural Bridge weeks ago had stuck with me, and the excitement that dances across her face now makes clearing my Friday afternoon schedule worth it, despite the chaos of derby season.
“How will you find time for a full-day hike during peak bourbon season?” she asks. “I’d think every minute of your calendar would be claimed.”
Rosalia is right. I’ve never cleared a full day during derby season before, and I know why.
Yes, I love spending time with her, but it’s also because each moment with her is one where I don’t have to confront what’s coming.
The hike and tonight’s fireworks are beautiful distractions from the constant reminder of the Blackstone Bourbon Classic and the choice we’ll have to make.
“Sometimes you have to prioritize what matters,” I say instead, not quite ready to admit the truth to either of us.
I’ve been avoiding the Blackstone party. I reach for the drink menu, needing a moment to gather my thoughts. The inevitable can only be postponed for so long.
My time with her is moving too fast, our day of reckoning racing toward us. But I can’t ignore it. The ice in my bourbon clinks softly. I run a finger along the rim, meeting her gaze. “Speaking of the derby, my distillery has a party at The Mansion. Would you attend as my date?”
She opens her mouth but a sudden roar fills the air, drowning out all conversation. Three military jets streak across the sky outside the massive windows, their engines screaming overhead.
Rosalia flinches, her hands gripping the edge of the table as the china rattles and the windows shudder. The deafening sound vibrates through my bones. As quickly as they arrive, the jets disappear, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
She continues to stare out the window, her expression unreadable.
I recognize the distraction for what it is—she’s as reluctant to discuss the derby party as I was to bring it up.
My heart hammers in my chest, the weight of my invitation lingering between us like an approaching storm we both can see but neither wants to acknowledge .
“Rosalia?” I prompt around the clinking of silverware as the other diners resume their meals.
She turns back to me. “I’d love to attend your party,” she replies, but her tone lacks enthusiasm.
My stomach clenches, the reality of our situation crashing down on me. I force a grin, ignoring the sense of impending doom. “Great. I’m so glad you’ll be able to go,” I lie.
The countdown to Derby Day—to the moment when everything changes—ticks louder. These moments with her feel stolen, borrowed time slipping through my fingers like bourbon through a sieve.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“Time,” I answer honestly. “How there never seems to be enough of it.”
Her eyebrow arches, a question forming in the small furrow between her brows. “For work?”
“For everything that matters.” I swirl the bourbon in my glass. “You know, in distilling, timing is crucial. Rush the process, and you ruin everything. But wait too long, and you miss the perfect moment when everything comes together.”
I am caught between wanting to open myself completely to her and the instinct to retreat behind my carefully constructed facade. The derby party looms like a finish line to a race I’m not sure I’m prepared to run.
“To perfect timing.” I raise my glass to hers, deciding to savor what we have now, even as the clock continues its relentless countdown.