He chokes a laugh. “Damn, Bailey. Don’t hold back. And no. I don’t.” His smile falls, and his expression looks like he means more than what he’s saying, and I feel so damn out of my depth.
“I don’t either,” I say lightly. “In my, um, limited experience.” I sit up and cast about for my dress. “So thank you, I guess. For broadening it. It’s good practice.”
I can’t meet his gaze as I pull my dress back on over my damp skin. He scoops up his clothes and dresses more slowly, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking.
“Practice?” he says softly.
I dart him a glance. His gaze is unreadable, his shirt dangling from his fingers. God, he’s handsome. I can’t believe I touched him. I know what his forearms feel like under my fingers. I know that his happy trail is softer than itlooks and that he has a freckle on his abs that begs for a tongue.
I nod. Those full lips purse together.
“Okay, Bailey,” he says finally. He runs a hand through his hair and my eyes go helplessly to the flex of his arm and his shoulder. “Practice.”
I nearly shudder in relief. He’s buying it. I didn’t let on too much. I didn’t screw everything up.
And still, when we’re walking over the Crownhaven grass and he’s quiet as we go from moonlight to shadow and back again, I want to scream. I don’t know how he feels and it’s so unlike him to not justtell me.
I clear my throat, and he glances over as we near where the path forks.
“Tristan?”
“Hmm?”
“Did we ruin everything?”
His gaze sharpens. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can’t lose you as a friend.” My words have a desperate edge, one I feel deep inside me, slicing into my stomach.
He scans my face before he shakes his head, then looks back at the path. I watch his perfect profile as he walks—straight, proud nose, full lips, hard jaw. Probably the best-looking guy I’ll ever know. The best in bed too. The kindest and the most generous and the funniest, and I can never, ever screw things up with him.
We’re at the steps of his house when he finally looks back at me. “You will never lose me.” His words sound like a vow. They raise the hairs on the back of my neck. “Never. I promise.”
40
TRISTAN
Isip the twelve-year Old Kingdom, pulling it over the front of my tongue, to the back, letting it slide down my throat. It tastes like caramel set aflame. It’s excellent whiskey.
It’s almost enough to distract me from the pit in my stomach. The one that’s been there for the last day, slowly gnawing at my insides, insisting that once again, I want something I can’t have. Once again, I’m not enough.
I take another sip and shake my head. “Next.”
Aiden frowns and pushes the next glass toward me. “Last one.”
I take a bite of the plain white bread next to me, then a gulp of water. Unlike drinking for fun, tasting whiskey is business. There’s a cup of coffee grounds next to me to clear my nose and plain bread and crackers to cleanse my palate.
The amber liquid in the glass stares back at me. I’d like to drown myself in it right about now. I’ve been avoiding Katie for a full twenty-four hours, even when she knocked on my door this morning. Like a coward, I pretended not to be home.
I pick up the glass and sigh. Aiden and I are in the Crownhaven stillhouse tasting room. Fading sunlight pours into the old casement windows with their wavy glass. The tasting room is accessible only by a hidden staircase from the barrel level. For over a decade, the family hid whiskey up here during Prohibition.
“Bottled eleven years and ten months ago by Mac Shields and Dad.” Aiden runs his finger down the notes that every head distiller keeps. Mac might have been meticulous, but he has nothing on my older brother. “Special barrel test that Mac thought had promise, so they made extra. Barrels were charred for eighteen seconds.”
“That’s half what we’re doing for Old Kingdom now.”
“It should give it a deeper flavor in less time.”
“Theoretically. Shortcuts like that can also ruin it.” I examine the whiskey, tilting the crystal tasting glass with its engraved crest and watching the way the liquid clings. “Good color. More developed sugars for a whiskey of this age.”
