Chapter Thirty-Three
Rosalia
The sun glints off the polished brass of the Blackstone Bourbon sign as the Bentley drives through the gates of the distillery.
Now that my stress levels are much lower than they were the first time I was here for the gala, I’m able to appreciate the property’s beauty, from the oak trees lining the road like proud sentinels to the rickhouses scattered in the distance.
My gaze settles on the red brick buildings with their crisp black trim.
My phone rings from the small clutch resting on my lap. I pull it out, and a quiet happiness fills me at the sight of Sebastian’s number flashing on the screen. “Hi, traffic was nonexistent, so we’re a little early,” I tell him. “Tom’s driving past the main parking lot.”
Background conversation and grinding machine gears filter through the phone. “Damn. I’m running a little behind. Would you like to wait in the car or come inside?”
There’s a hint of frustration I haven't heard from him before. Is it the stress of running such a large operation or something else? Does he regret making plans with me?
“Go inside,” I reply immediately. Seeing him in his element at work is too good to pass up.
“Okay, I’ll have Tom escort you inside. And again, I apologize.”
“It’s fine. See you in a few.”
We park next to a building with a brass sign that reads “Distillery.” A minute later, Tom opens my door and offers his arm. “Mr. Blackstone would like me to accompany you.”
I’m relieved. The two-story distillery is spacious enough to get lost in, and I have no desire to wander around in my crimson cocktail dress and three-inch heels searching for Sebastian.
We step onto a massive porch that should be at odds with a working distillery, but instead oozes southern charm.
Tom pulls open the black metal door, steps aside, and waits for me to enter first. Undertones of caramel, vanilla, and oats greet me.
The scent reminds me of summer mornings at my grandparents’, eating oatmeal in their sunny kitchen, and helping them with the crosswords.
There’s even a slight fruity undertone in the air, like the berries added to the breakfast treat.
A large banner hangs across the entrance hall: “Blackstone Bourbon—Official Sponsor of the Kentucky Derby.” Beneath it sits an ornate countdown clock: “Derby Day: Five Days! ”
My stomach twists into a painful knot. The ticking of that countdown clock seems to follow me as we walk deeper into the distillery, each second eroding what little time I have left.
I take a deep breath and lock those thoughts away in a mental vault.
Not now. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Today is about Sebastian, about us, about this rare chance to see him in his element.
I plaster on a smile and focus on the people bustling around in jeans and polos with the Blackstone logo.
Not that it helps much. I swear the clank of machines pauses, and whispered conversations follow in our wake.
My gratitude for Sebastian asking Tom to escort me deepens.
We move past six massive, gleaming, polished copper—well, things. They resemble the Tin Man’s oil can from The Wizard of Oz .
“What are those?” I ask Tom.
“Stills. They distill mash into bourbon.”
“What’s mash?”
“You’re about to see.” We arrive at a grated staircase. “Watch your step, Ms. Manchester—”
“Rosalia. Please, call me Rosalia,” I remind him.
As we make our way up, a cereal-like scent that reminds me of cooked corn or warm bread grows stronger with every step. When we reach the top, Tom gestures with his free hand to rows of circular tubs. “This is mash.”
The walkway has six massive cylindrical tubs on each side. Half are made of stainless steel; the others are wood. All but two are filled with yellow stuff. Some are thick like potatoes, others more like soup; all are at different stages of bubbling.
At the very end of the platform stands a man in a Blackstone polo talking to Sebastian.
He isn’t wearing his suit jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing enticing forearms. Strong, veiny arms are my weakness.
Add in how well his butt and thighs fill out his slacks, and I’m craving more than dinner.
Both men turn at our approach. Sebastian’s gaze locks on mine, and I catch the unmistakable heat that flares in his eyes. He clearly approves of the dress he surprised me with, and that look sends warmth pooling low in my belly.
He says something to the other man, who nods before leaving.
When he passes us, the guy murmurs a greeting but keeps his gaze averted.
Sebastian glances at the clipboard hanging next to a mash tub, makes a note, then walks over to me.
“Sorry for the delay.” He kisses my cheek before turning to Tom.
“We should be ready to head out to dinner in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll call the restaurant to let them know you’ll be a little late,” Tom tells Sebastian.
“Thank you.”
After Tom leaves, I say, “I’ve heard The Gilded Fork is strict about late arrivals. Will we lose our table?”
“It’ll be there whenever we arrive,” he replies with complete confidence. His gaze roams over me. “You are a fantasy come true in that dress.”
I can’t hold back my smile. “You’re just saying that because you picked it out,” I tease.
The day after we made plans for tonight’s dinner, Hanna arrived at Novel Idea with a garment bag, two boxes, and a note from Sebastian that nearly melted my heart. He’d heard the stress in my voice about what to wear and wanted to help, so he got me a complete outfit down to the shoes and lingerie.
And I love it. I feel so damn sexy with how the sheath style hugs all my curves like a second skin. Even better? The way Sebastian can't seem to look away. I twist to give him a view of the back that drops to the curve of my spine.
He moves closer, his fingertips tracing along my backbone.
In the near distance, metal clangs against metal, followed by an indistinguishable shout.
Sebastian drops his hand and offers me his arm.
“It’s you who makes the dress stunning, not the other way around.
” He clicks his tongue. “Still, I miscalculated…”
I look at him. “Oh? How so?”
“Dinner is no longer what I want spread before me.” The promise of pleasure in his eyes and voice sends a spark through me.
I really, really like it when the cool and collected Sebastian Blackstone is turned on. Witnessing his reserve slipping is a tantalizing treat.
Leading me down the stairs, he says, “I need to swing by my office to grab my jacket and a few files. It’s a short walk from this building. Would you like to come with me or head to the car?”
“I’ll go with you.” Heat tingles through me, settling between my legs. I hope the office has a door and a lock.
As we navigate the distillery, we’re interrupted by several people who need him. He greets each employee by name, and I’m struck by the loyalty and respect he inspires. Even now, as he jokes with one of them, I can see the easy camaraderie between them.
Near the exit, a young worker approaches with what sounds like a production issue. Sebastian listens intently, asking clarifying questions rather than dismissing the concern.
“The temperature rose two degrees in the new experimental batch?” His brow furrows. “Good catch, Elijah. That could have affected the entire fermentation process. Let’s adjust the climate controls and document the variation. This is exactly why we monitor so closely.”
The relief on his employee’s face is immediate. Instead of panic at bringing bad news, there’s pride in having his observation valued.
Further down the walkway, Sebastian pauses to check a clipboard of numbers, then calls over to a woman monitoring a mash tub. “Maria, these yields are exceptional. Whatever adjustments you made to the process are working beautifully.”
The woman beams. “I just implemented those efficiency improvements you suggested last month, Mr. Blackstone. The team thought you were crazy at first, investing in that new cooling system when the old one worked fine, but you were right, the better temperature control means less waste.”
“And better conditions for the team,” he adds. “The reduced humidity makes for a more comfortable work environment, doesn’t it?”
Maria nods enthusiastically. “Night and day difference. Productivity’s up across all shifts.”
I can’t help but think about Thorne’s assertion about Sebastian’s “dangerous leadership” and “visionary ideas that will destroy everything.” All I see is careful planning, prudent improvements that benefit both production and workers.
These don’t seem like the actions of someone running a family business into the ground.
Reaching the exit, Sebastian opens the door for me. The sun is beginning to set, casting a golden glow across the rolling hills and lush green grass. A gentle breeze rustles through a nearby cherry blossom tree, tickling my senses with a light and delicate floral aroma.
He tucks me into his side during the short walk, using a keycard to enter the administrative building. Inside is eerily quiet. My heels click on the gray wood flooring, echoing around us.
We pass an empty front receptionist desk. “Where is everyone?” I ask.
“The office staff usually goes home between five and six. When demand is high, those in the distillery have to work longer hours, but not usually office staff,” Sebastian explains, turning us down another hallway, then opening a door.
He flicks a switch that illuminates the desk lamp crafted from a Blackstone Bourbon bottle.
I had anticipated opulence, velvet curtains, and a large, intricately designed oak desk.
Instead, there is a humble, yet well-made, black workspace positioned in front of a window that nearly spans the entire wall.
On the opposite side, a bookshelf is mostly filled with bourbons; some appear to be antique.
Drawers line the lower shelves, with one slightly ajar, revealing overstuffed files.