Sweet Agony

by Christy Pastore

  “Really,” I say, blowing out a deep breath and shove the football at his chest. “You couldn’t let me have this one?”

  He tosses me a wink and jogs backward. “All is fair in love and war, sugar. And this is war.”

  I don’t have time to say anything back. Wes is hollering at me to get back in position before he takes the snap.

  We laugh and rib each other the entire game. Brant’s eyes come directly to me on the last play. My breath falters when his eyes never leave mine as he tosses up the ball.

  The crowd roars to life when Sawyer catches the ball. He runs it in for a touchdown and Brant’s team wins.

  Brant sticks his tongue out and shrugs. A gust of wind picks up, spreading leaves across the grass.

  “You smug, handsome, son of a bitch.” I laugh and shake my head.

  He runs up to his teammates, they all high-five each other and then Brant does the honor of paying the bet first.

  “But actually, I’m gonna donate five-hundred dollars. You good for it, Weston?”

  “A thousand bucks,” he says. “Lemme get my checkbook.”

  That earns a loud laugh. Claps and cheers of appreciation filter through the crowd. Weston directs us to a huddle and thanks us for playing. Maybelle swings her arms around my neck and we walk to the sidelines together.

  Brant turns to face me. “Heck of a game, sugar.” An arrogant, cocky smirk twists up his gorgeous lips. He stares at me intently. It’s as if he knows there’s a burning desire for him spreading through my veins.

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  It’s been too long since I’ve touched him. Made him moan with pleasure. He grasps my hands pulling me over to the stables. We duck inside a clean stall.

  “I’ve missed you, Caroline.” His hand lands on my waist, the other one slides into my hair.

  I swallow thickly. Anticipation winds through me and rolls down my spine like hot lava. “I’ve missed you too.”

  This attraction between us. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

  His tongue darts over his bottom lip and his eyes meet mine. The way his eyes search mine makes my heart do backflips.

  Brant stands before me looking like a sex god. A stab of desire hits me in the chest. Despite the chill in the air I can feel the heat of his body.

  “If you don’t kiss me,” I whisper. “I’m going to combust.”

  His big body looms over me. My back hits the wooden stall. A horse neighs in the background, he doesn’t even flinch.

  Then his mouth is on mine.

  Licking. Tasting. Sucking. Taking. He’s warm and big.

  His blue eyes are dark. I reach out and pull him closer. My hands tangle in his dark hair and his hand slides down my neck.

  “Brant,” I moan.

  He stops and when I open my eyes, he’s not looking at me.

  “Brant, what is it?”

  He points to the wood to the left of me. The letters “R” and “S” are carved into the wood on the side.

  My gaze swings to his. “R and S?”

  “Gotta be Rosemary and Samuel.”

  “Ahh, yes.”

  He tilts my mouth to his. Brant kisses me soft and slow like we have all the time in the world.

  He pulls back and he tucks my hair behind my ear. “Let’s get Julep and head back to my place.”

  “Okay.”

  Julep settles into her corner at Brant’s as I fill up her water dish.

  “Here you go, girl.”

  She wags her tail and starts to chew on her Nyla bone.

  I walk across the room to the kitchen and wash my hands.

  Brant lowers his mouth to my ear. “Maybe if you’re a good girl, I’ll give you a bone too.”

  I turn to face him and take the towel off the counter. “I’m always a good girl.”

  “Not always.” He steps forward and my back hits the brick wall.

  I feel him everywhere and he’s not even touching me.

  His lips press to mine, stealing my breath, and I cling to him immediately. It’s been days. Too many. My body aches for him.

  Before I can think, Brant spins me around and my palms splay flat against the wall. His hand connects with my ass. “Your ass is perfect,” he rasps in my ear.

  His cock—so hot, so thick—presses against my ass.

  Fuck.

  I moan when his hand slides inside my underwear, stroking me in a featherlight motion.

  “Oh god, that feels so good.” My head hits his thick shoulder and his lips find my neck.

  “You want to come for me, don’t you?” His voice is low, seductive, and it’s all so right.

  The force of his hands pops the button on my jeans as he sinks two fingers inside me. He holds me in place and my eyes focus on the bricks. I want to see him but to just feel him move inside me is indescribable.

  “Yes.”

  His fingers pump inside me deep with a glorious rhythm and then his thumb brushes over my clit. I’m primed and ready.

  “Good, make that loud moan, the sound when I’m fucking into your hot little pussy and my cock is so deep . . .”

  A few more dirty words and strokes of his fingers have me crying out and soaring off into oblivion.

  “Do you know how hard I am for you right now?” he growls.

  The hiss of metal pricks my ears. His other hands cups my chin, and he tilts my mouth to his kissing me. In seconds it turns hot and deep.

  “Do you want to feel my cock inside you?” He yanks my pants down and rubs the tip of his dick on my ass.

  “Yes, so much. Please,” I beg.

  Brant kicks my feet apart and slides deep inside me, making us both moan. He’s hot and hard and pumps into me with smooth strokes—it’s like velvet and steel at once. The sensation is overwhelming.

  His long fingers dig into my hips. He picks up the pace, fucking into me hard and fast. It takes no time for us to lose it. Brant comes with a loud roar that makes Julep howl.

  Our bodies quake with aftershocks and laughter.

  “That was . . . intense,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, sorry about that, Julep.”

  I hike my jeans over my hips and then head into the bathroom. Once inside I inspect myself in the mirror. Flush cheeks and neck. Swollen lips. The red marks on my hip bones—I study them like some perverted weirdo.

  I pee. Wash my hands and then put myself back together—somewhat.

  When I step into the kitchen Brant looks up at me, his big blue eyes shaded by those movie star lashes. He’s got model good looks wrapped in a cowboy’s body.

  “Stay with me,” he says.

  “I’m here. I’m staying.”

  Brant

  Caroline stayed.

  She stayed in my bed and at my place through the cold fall nights that drifted into winter. The holidays came and went in a haze of snow, turkey, and all things cake. We spent it all together and with family. For the two of us, it was as natural as breathing.

  We officially confirmed our couple status and the blogs went nuts. Old folklore at its finest. Southern folk tales, which were mostly laced in fabrication. Anything to draw attention to the Bourbon Trail for the holiday season.

  When Beverly and Ted went to Florida after Christmas, we stayed at her place. When the new year rolled around Caroline’s things began to take up some space in my closet.

  I don’t mind one bit.

  She claims I growl in my sleep. I tell her it’s not me that it’s just Julep chasing a bunny or another dog.

  At night, I hold her against my chest. She says I’m too hot. All two hundred and some odd pounds of me engulf her sleeping body. In reality she loves it.

  We spend Saturday mornings running at the gym in my building, then we hit up the winter farmers’ market. On Sundays, it’s either just the two of us or brunch with Mom and Pop.

  Nothing has cooled between the two of us.

  Everything feels so right. So perfect.

  I’m lost in thought at work until I hea
r a knock at my door.

  “Hi, Laura, come on in.”

  She walks toward me and sits in the chair across from my desk. “Since Christmas was cancelled, and there’s not enough time to get something on the market for Saint Patrick’s Day, how about we roll out a limited-edition bourbon for the derby?”

  “I like the idea,” I tell her. “I like it very much.”

  It’s a lie. Sort of.

  The little recipe problem that had been raised months ago. I’d completely forgotten about it until now. How the fuck did I let it get this far without doing something?

  “Great, and I’ll get working on that right now,” I tell her.

  “Perfect. I can’t wait to see what you come up with, Brant.”

  That makes two of us.

  “Oh, and a little birdie told me that it’s your birthday today. Happy birthday.”

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  After lunch I sit at my desk reading over the note that Rosemary sent Samuel. The paper taps against my desk as I gaze over the grounds of the distillery.

  “Our special place.”

  Rosemary and Samuel.

  Samuel and Rosemary.

  R and S.

  Oh shit.

  What if?

  I jump in my car and race out to my parents’ house and park down by the stables at Belcourt Estate. My feet carry me down the pathway, toward the stall that Caroline and I made out in, where we found the letters carved in wood.

  This has to be their special place. My fingers run along the weathered grain of the wood. I look for a loose piece. Beverly Stratton’s words come back in a flash—secret compartment.

  My fist taps along the wood slats and the column. Then my eyes fall to the floor. I bounce and tap my foot against the floorboard.

  “Holy fuck.”

  My hands drop to the floor and my fingers go to work trying to pry up the wooden plank.

  POP!

  Bingo.

  It’s dark. I use the flashlight on my phone to search beneath the floorboard. And just as I thought there’s a metal box.

  My heart hammers in my chest and there’s a buzzing in my ears.

  Exhaling sharply, I prepare for the worst. I lift the box from the ground and set it on the floorboard. It’s got a flip latch. No key required.

  Too fucking easy.

  I peer into the box sifting through papers, pictures and a few bills. There’s a lace handkerchief, when my fingers lift the lace a piece of paper falls out. I retrieve the scrap of paper. It’s faded and yellow, but there’s no mistaking the words, the date, or the signature at the bottom.

  Waiting for Edward to arrive at the office was the most difficult part of withholding the news of my discovery at Belcourt Estate.

  Right under our noses this whole damn time.

  Royston and Pop sit silently at the table in my office.

  “What’s in the box, Brantley?” Royston waves his hand in the direction of the box on my desk. “A late Christmas present? Some chocolates, maybe?” He chortles loudly and pats his belly.

  Pop stands. “Roy, you know what he’s found. You might as well pour the bourbon and kiss your ass goodbye.”

  I snort a laugh. Only because I’ve never heard Pop phrase something in that manner.

  “I was out at Belcourt today and—”

  “Good afternoon, gentleman,” Edward Hollis breezes into my office wearing a brown tweed suit and large bowtie.

  Ten seconds later, Royston pours a drink from my bar cart. Five seconds after that, he’s handing one to Pop.

  “Bottoms up,” Pop announces.

  Edward clears his throat. “I’ve pulled some old files with Samuel and Rosemary’s signatures. Our firm didn’t represent the Strattons. I’ve got nothing for Clarence. Now you must know that I am not a handwriting expert.”

  I scratch the back of my head. “Do you know someone?”

  “I do. She can give absolute verification,” he assures us.

  Edward steps up to my desk and eyes the box.

  “Great, so at first glance . . . what can you tell us?”

  He puts on his glasses and studies the old pieces of paper. Takes off his glasses, cleans the lenses and looks again.

  “At first glance, it seems pretty clear that this is not Samuel Cardwell’s handwriting. The date on the paper you found today is one week prior to the one that was . . . “

  “Go ahead and say it, Edward,” I urge him.

  “Forged. And I believe my handwriting expert will confirm it.”

  Royston slams his fist on the table top and Pop swallows down all the golden liquor in his glass. “Over a hundred years of bourbon and it’s not even ours. Dammit.”

  “What do we do next, Edward?” Pop asks the question.

  “Next, we obtain a document or something with Clarence Stratton’s handwriting on it and confirm it. Then, we’ll take a look at the accounting ledgers and figure out a lump sum to pay the living members of the Stratton family. Really, it’s all up to you how you want to handle it, unless. . .”

  “Unless what?” I shake my head.

  “Unless they want more or decide to sue you for everything.”

  “No, no way,” Royston says.

  I level my gaze at Royston. “Caroline won’t do that to us. She and her mother are fair and decent people.”

  “You have to consider the possibility that they might want the land, son.”

  Royston chuckles. “The sale of the land was on the up and up. At least they did that part the right way.”

  “It needs to be a fair settlement,” Pop says.

  “I agree.”

  “I’d talk to that girlfriend of yours, Brantley.” Royston sets his glass on the bar cart.

  “What would you like me to say?”

  Pop blows out a deep breath and clutches my shoulder. “Son, I’d talk to her about exactly what’s going on. Be honest with her because if she gets a piece of paper from Edward and you didn’t tell her, that’s gonna be bad for your personal relationship.”

  My gaze swings to Edward. “Can I talk to her about this? Or will it land me in legal trouble?”

  “We haven’t had the handwriting sample examined. If you feel like you want to get out in front of this thing with your girlfriend . . . Do you trust her?”

  “I do. Without question.”

  Edward runs a hand along his jaw. “At this point, I don’t see any reason legally why you can’t explain to her what’s going on. It’s better that you drive the narrative.”

  “Maybe, you can appeal to Caroline’s sensible side,” Royston interjects. “Maybe they won’t take anything at all.”

  “No, if . . . when that handwriting analysis comes back and it proves that Great-Granddaddy Cardwell stole from her great-granddad, then we’ll offer a number to the Strattons. After that, we retire Old Sam. It goes into the vault and we make a new one—Beau’s Original Bourbon.”

  “Wow, son,” he swallows thickly. “I’m honored.”

  “You deserve it,” I tell him.

  Royston steps up to Pop and slaps his shoulder. “Well, Brantley, this is one thing that you and I see eye to eye on. Couldn’t agree more.”

  They all leave my office and I stand at the window gazing out over the grounds of the distillery and beyond. I think about what I’m going to say to Caroline. What I’ll tell Haven and Wes.

  My fingers splay against my forehead. It’s going to be millions of dollars. Millions.

  And if there’s anything leftover, hopefully we’ll survive. Otherwise, it’s bye, bye Cardwell Bourbon.

  No legacy for my future children. Nothing for Wes or Haven’s future. It all dies with our generation. Mainly me.

  And I’m about to give it all to the one woman I’ve fallen for and, just my luck, she doesn’t want children. Maybe not even a future with me. Twist of irony.

  Fuck.

  Yeah. Happy birthday to me.

  Caroline

  I’m in Brant’s kitchen after work,
whipping up some cupcakes for his birthday. Chocolate bourbon pecan pie with a butter pecan frosting.

  I turn on the local country music station as I read over the recipe one more time.

  “Local totals may range from six to eight inches of snow tonight.”

  Tonight’s main dish is creamy bourbon chicken with mushrooms. I called Haven earlier and asked her what Brant’s favorite dish was. Aside from pizza, she had no clue. And I didn’t want to make him his own recipe for stuffed shells.

  Tyler, being the great cook that he is, emailed me some recipes and I picked this one.

  My phone buzzes on the counter and Ma’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe the screen and hit speaker phone.

  “Hey, Ma, what’s up?”

  “Caroline, are you home?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s Brant’s birthday. I’m at his place making dinner.”

  “Aww, that’s so sweet,” she says. “I saw him earlier and wished him a happy birthday.”

  “Do you need something?” I whisk the bourbon, vanilla, brown sugar, and cinnamon in a medium bowl.

  “Well, I have some news—big news.” Her voice shakes a bit. “I’d rather tell you in person.”

  “Out with it, I’m up to my elbows in food prep.”

  “Ted asked me to marry him,” she rushes out.

  “Oh. My. Gawd, Ma,” I shout as I stir in the pecans. “That’s awesome. Congrats. When did this happen?”

  “A week ago.”

  “A week ago, and you’re just now telling me?” I sprinkle the nuts onto the baking pan preparing to toast them. My gaze flicks to the window. The snow is really coming down now.

  She laughs. “Sorry, I’ve been processing it all and I’ve made a decision.”

  My brow scrunches. “You didn’t say yes right away?”

  “No, honey, I said yes,” she sighs deeply. “I’ve decided to sell the house. I’m moving to Florida.”

  I drop the spoon in my hand and it rattles in the mixing bowl. My head spins and I think I might pass out. I grip the edge of the counter for support and collect my thoughts.

  “What about Joseph? What about your job at Rosemary Distillery? What about our business? We have weddings on the books for the spring and summer.”