Sweet Agony

by Christy Pastore

  “Yes, I know it’s a lot. But I’m really happy.”

  “But we just started the business, it’s your dream.”

  “No, being in love . . . finding love again is my dream. I think I was holding onto your father by holding onto Cranberry Ridge. You can run that business in your sleep. You’re doing all the heavy lifting anyway and I know that running the events isn’t your dream, it was a way to generate money to keep what little part of the farm we have still going.”

  My hip rests against the counter as I try to absorb all this news. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

  “I am. Ted bought a house in Coral Gables. He wants to spend his retirement years there. I’ve got my resume into a few places, but Ted says I don’t need to work. I laughed at the thought of not working. We only have a few weddings. I think you can handle it. But I want this, Caroline, I hope you can be happy for me.”

  I blow out a deep breath. “Of course, I’m happy for you. I’ll miss you, though.”

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  “When is the big move?”

  “Well, I wanted to wait until the house and everything sold, but Ted wants to leave in a few weeks. So, I’ll put my notice in at the distillery soon. I’ll put the place up for sale after the last wedding.”

  “Yeah, guess this means I have to move?”

  “You can stay until I close on the sale. Our realtor is going to oversee everything and I’ll keep you in the loop. But, yeah, I’d start looking for a new place to live soon.”

  Good thing I know a guy with an apartment building. But judging from the digs here, I don’t think the rent is in my price range. I’m going to have to ask Chrissy to put me back on the regular server schedule.

  “Okay, well congratulations. Are we still going to Joseph’s game on Saturday afternoon?”

  “I can’t,” she tells me. The sound of dishes rattles over the line. “Ted and I are going to the house this weekend, which is why I wanted to tell you. We’re picking out new furniture. I’m selling everything here but the antiques.”

  This is a lot to process. “Okay. This is all so fast. But I guess you’ve had some time to think about it. Are you absolutely sure that you want to give up all that history?”

  “Home is where you make it,” she tells me. “We’ll always have the memories and those last a lifetime.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that is true enough.”

  “Enjoy your celebration, honey. I need to pack for the weekend and I’ve started packing up things here for the move.”

  “Lots of work. Do you need help?” I ask as I pick up the cooled pecan pie filling and set it on the counter. I use a small paring knife to cut a cone-shaped piece from the center of each cupcake, then spoon in the pie filling.

  “No, but thank you. Ted hired a moving company. I’m packing up as much stuff as I can beforehand. Personal things and what not.”

  I inhale a sharp breath and my hip rests against the counter. “I will see you at some point before you leave for Florida permanently, right?”

  She laughs a throaty laugh. “Of course, honey. I’m going to visit Joseph next week. He got me and Ted tickets to the game. Do you have time for dinner next week sometime?”

  “I need to double check my calendar, but yeah, I’m pretty sure that I’m free Tuesday night.”

  Ma tells me goodbye and I move around the kitchen in sort of a haze. A mix of emotions runs through me. Mostly panic. I can feel the anxiety building into stress.

  Just as I’m basting the chicken with a spoonful of bourbon, Brant walks through the door. Julep greets him and he toes off his dress shoes.

  “Hey. What’s all this?”

  I smile. “Happy birthday!”

  “You made me blueberry pancakes for breakfast, now I get this feast?” He strides toward me and then presses his lips to mine. “How did I get so lucky?”

  “You had the good sense to pick me, that’s for sure.”

  “I did. Can I give you a hand?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, you just get yourself a drink and leave everything to me.”

  Brant walks to the bar and pours himself two-finger so bourbon. He rubs at the back of his neck and then takes a drink. He swallows it down and then places the tumbler onto a coaster.

  “I just talked to Ma, you’ll never believe what she told me.”

  He’s quiet and that’s a little unusual. Brant turns to face me. A small smile pulls at his lips. I’ve seen this look before. My mind flashes back to the movie theater and the last day I saw him. He looks at me with that same expression.

  Brant blows out a heavy breath and his hands wring together. “I want to hear all about that conversation, but first we need to talk.”

  Sounds ominous. For a moment, worry creeps into my chest.

  “There’s something you should know, and it can’t wait.”

  “Okay,” I edge out and add a tablespoon of butter to the skillet with the mushrooms.

  “Those old rumors about your family and mine . . . the bourbon. It’s all true. My instincts are telling me that it’s true.”

  I tilt my head and confusion courses through my veins.

  Brant steps back toward the island. His large hands grip the back of the barstool.

  “A few months ago, I found a note in one of the old recipe logs . . . the archives.” He tugs at his ear. “We have a library at the distillery. Anyway, there was a note. It was written by my great-grandmother Rosemary.”

  “Who was the letter written to?” I ask and continue stirring the sauté.

  “My great-grandfather. And it said that she knew he stole the recipe from your great-grandfather.”

  “What recipe? The bourbon recipe?”

  “Yeah, Rosemary told him that she knew that the original recipe was hidden in their secret place and urged him to make amends with Clarence and clear his conscience in his final days.”

  My mouth hangs open and I release the tight hold I have on the wooden spoon. Shock doesn’t even begin to cover the feelings drumming through my body.

  “I was in my office earlier and it hit me that I might know where the special place is that she referred to in the letter. On a hunch I went out to the stables where you and I saw the initials carved in the wood . . .”

  I grip the edge of the counter like I’m in a car ready to take a sharp curve bracing myself for the impact.

  Brant comes around the island. “I found a metal box under the floorboards. The recipe was in the box. It was signed and dated a week before the one we have in our archives.

  The rest of the words jumble together. It feels like I’m floating outside my body looking at myself as Brant fills me in on details.

  Disbelief. I stare at the floor studying the lines and patterns.

  “So, we’ve decided to come up with a fair settlement. Keep everything out of the courts if that is all right with you and your family.”

  My head snaps up. “What? Court?”

  “If this goes the way we think it’s going”—his hands land on my shoulders—“you and your family are going to get a large sum of money.”

  “I . . . I don’t want your money, Brant.” My voice shakes. “I just want you.”

  “That’s a really nice thing to say, sugar. But this isn’t personal, it’s business. And I have to do what is right . . . and that right is fixing the wrong that I believe was done to your great-granddaddy.” His expression turns softer. “To your family.”

  My eyes well with tears. “But that means . . . does that mean that you’ll lose your family business?”

  “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “But, I can’t . . . I can’t take your money. We can’t do that to your business. You moved back to bring the company forward not run it into the ground.”

  Brant pulls me to his chest and hugs me tightly. Smoke fills the air and I realize I’m burning the sauté. Actually, it’s nearly cooked off and now all that remains is charred m
ushrooms.

  “Oh no,” I cry out, disappointment heavy in my voice. “Now I’ve ruined dinner. Everything is ruined.”

  Brant moves to the stove and reaches for the burner dial.

  “Nothing is ruined,” he tells me. “We can order a pizza. All I want is to be with you.”

  He kisses me. Soft and sweet. So sweet the tension drains out of my body.

  “I baked cupcakes.”

  He smiles. “I can’t wait to taste them.”

  My body shakes with laughter. “Yeah. I bet you can’t.

  After dinner, Brant and I curl up in his bed.

  “So, your mom is selling the place, huh?”

  My head rests on his chest. “Yeah. I’ll need to find a place to live.”

  “Not necessarily,” Brant says.

  My brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, with all the money you’ll be getting from us, you don’t have to sell. You could keep it. Or you can sell it and build your dream home.”

  My heart beats a bruising rhythm in my chest. Is he serious? This makes me feel a little uncomfortable. How can I think about such things? It feels icky.

  Brant lifts his iPad from the nightstand. “What kind of house would you build? Two-story? Ranch?”

  “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.” I chew the inside of my cheek.

  With all the money we’d be getting, I wonder if Ma would even give any of it to me and Joseph. For that matter, what about the living relatives on Daddy’s side?

  His brother, Jerry, died in a plane crash. His sister, Nellie, is alive and living in Tennessee. We haven’t spoken to her in years. Maybe Ma knows where she is. I don’t even know if I have any cousins.

  This thing might be a lot bigger than I anticipated.

  “Uhm, I have a random question.”

  “Fire away,” he says, tapping on the screen.

  “Will you have to pay out every living member of my family?”

  “I’ll do whatever our lawyer advises. It’s probably going to come down to our lawyer sending a letter to every living, direct descendent of Clarence and they’ll have a time period to file their claim for the money. It’s going to take a while, I assume.”

  I pluck the iPad from his hands and place it on the nightstand. I twine my arms around his torso. “If it’s going to take time then what’s the point of making plans?”

  He laughs a deep rumbling laugh. “You’ve got a good point.”

  I push up to my knees and smile down at him. My fingers tease under the waistband of his soft lounge pants.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Giving you another gift.” My eyes lower to his dick.

  A growl rattles his throat and he cocks a brow. “Oh, sugar.”

  The rough edge in his voice when he calls me sugar turns me on.

  “Take off your pants.”

  I watch as he pushes the material down over his glorious bulge. My fingers wrap around his length, and he places his hand on top of mine. Together in a slow featherlight motion, we slide our hands up and down his cock. My urgency to taste him is blinding.

  I move over him to get into a better position. Before I can formulate a thought, my mouth is on him. His hands weave through my hair when I lick the tip of his cock. My mouth closes around him and I tease the underside of his shaft.

  I suck him deep, running my tongue along the tip making him groan. I love making him feel good. His masculine scent and the softness of his skin is a heady combination.

  “Fuck,” he hisses. “Caroline, god, you’re good that that.”

  Our eyes meet and the way he’s looking at me makes me hot and slick. My mind spins thinking about how much I crave his orgasm.

  Brant grasps the back of my head and I take him deeper—licking and sucking him furiously.

  “Sugar, I’m going to come,” he grinds out, his jaw ready to crumble from the intense pressure.

  I squirm and moan when he fucks my mouth a little harder. It’s rough but not so much that I can’t breathe. Though I’m struggling. He’s a big guy.

  My fingers dig into his thighs and he pumps into my mouth. His cock hits the back of my throat and he comes.

  “Holy shit,” he pants. “That was so fucking intense.”

  I smile and wipe my lower lip with my wrist. Suddenly he reaches for me and pulls me up his hard body.

  “Thank you for everything. Not just the job.” There’s a glint of wickedness in his blue eyes.

  I laugh and shove at his chest. “You’re welcome. I love making you feel good. I love hearing you and knowing that I’m giving you all my attention.”

  Brant slides his hand underneath my shirt and palms my breast.

  “Now I’m going to give you all my attention.” He winks and pins me beneath him.

  Brant

  The handwriting analysis came back confirming what we already knew to be true. Samuel Cardwell stole the original recipe from Clarence Stratton.

  Caroline and her mom sit in my office along with Royston and Pop. Edward has drafted up a contract with fair financial terms. I’ve tried to distance myself from the legal details as much as possible.

  Luckily, this hasn’t put a strain on my relationship with Caroline. If anything, the two of us are closer than ever.

  Royston stands and paces the floor. He’s coughing and then chugging water. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead.

  “Excuse me,” he says. “Nature calls.”

  Pop and Beverly make small talk. She tells him all about life in Florida. And Pop mentions that he hates to fly.

  It’s true. The man loathes flying. When I was a kid, family vacations were spent traveling to Gulf Shores, Charleston, and Savannah. Anywhere we could drive without losing our sanity being stuck in the car for hours.

  Edward breezes in and explains how the settlement arrangement and process will work. It’s going to take some time to get everything in order. I have a feeling it could be at least a year before Caroline and her mom see any significant money.

  “I hate the word settlement,” Caroline says. “It makes it seem like something really bad happened.”

  “Something really bad did happen,” I point out. “Our family robbed your family of years of financial gain. This should make up for that in some small way.”

  Royston appears in the doorway. He’s red-faced and the collar of his shirt is undone. He’s soaked in sweat.

  Then the unthinkable happens . . . Royston falls to the floor.

  “Call 911 now,” Pop barks out.

  I swipe my phone to life and then punch the three digits. Beverly is on the floor next to Royston.

  “Oh no,” she cries out. “Loosen his clothing.”

  “Royston, can you hear me?” Pop asks.

  “Do you have any aspirin?” Caroline asks. “If he’s able to, we need to get him to chew it.”

  When the medics arrive, everything happens in a blur.

  One . . . two . . . clear. Nothing. No pulse.

  “Try again,” someone shouts.

  One . . . two . . . clear. Nothing.

  Time of death.

  Pop slams his fists to the table. “No! Not my brother,” he roars.

  My stomach plummets and my blood runs cold.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The words hit me with a painful blow and my eyes burn. Royston’s dead. First, Maybelle loses her mom now this?

  Fuck.

  Caroline shifts her gaze to me and then she’s standing beside me holding my hand.

  I blow out a deep breath.

  Caroline wraps her arms around me and hugs me tight. “Come on, Brant”—she tugs my arm—“let’s get you home.”

  Caroline

  Six months later

  “I’m getting married,” Maybelle tells me as we sit at the bar at Thistle & Rye.

  My jaw drops. “Sawyer asked you, finally?”

  She smiles and flashes me her engagement ring. “Yep. I can har
dly believe it myself.”

  I laugh. I never thought anyone would tie that man down. The ring is a gorgeous emerald cut in a white gold setting with two sapphires on each side of the center stone.

  “When’s the big day?”

  “Oh, how does next spring sound? But I do want to ask you something.”

  I take a sip of my wine. “Shoot.”

  “Will you please help me plan my wedding? I know that you’re not in the business any longer, but I’d love your help.”

  I smile. “Of course I’ll do it for you.”

  Her blue eyes light up. “Great, and one more tiny little ask.” Her thumb and index finger pinch slightly apart.

  “What do you need?” I drawl out.

  “Will you be a bridesmaid?”

  I lay my hand on top of hers. “I’d love to.”

  She sighs happily and takes a drink of her wine.

  “So, how are you doing, really?”

  She eyes me over her glass. “Really, I’m okay. Sad that Daddy won’t be here for our special day. The truth of the matter is that Daddy was really sick and no one knew. Not even me. Stubborn old mule, wouldn’t even go to the doctor.”

  “Your daddy will be there. He’s always in your heart,” I point out.

  She sniffs and takes a long drink of wine. “Girl, do not make me cry.”

  “Didn’t know you were capable of tears,” I joke.

  I think back to her father’s funeral. She stood there strong and confident until the last person left and then she broke. We sat with her until she wanted to leave, then we went back to the tasting room at the distillery and drank a few bourbons in his honor.

  Maybelle dabs under her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “You ready to get back to school? Or are you even going back since you have some money headed your way?”

  I wince. “Ugh, I feel so bad every time this subject comes up.”

  Maybelle waves a hand in front of me. “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t be sorry that you’re getting what you deserve. What your family deserves. The money will be life changing. You can do some good stuff.” She dips a cracker into the baked spinach and artichoke dip. “Take after that do-gooder husband of Haven’s. Do some charity work.”