Carter (Bourbon & Blood Book 3)
Page 13
“It wasn’t like that,” Josie said. “We just wanted to be married. No fuss, no fanfare and delays.”
“But I always pictured your wedding—.”
“I didn’t want a wedding, Mom,” Josie said, hugging her mother. “I just wanted to be married to Carter.”
Deborah hugged her back and then sniffed. “You’re still having a wedding. It might be after the fact, but maybe for your first anniversary we can have a real wedding… in this church,” she said pointedly and looked directly at Carter. He wisely didn’t respond with anything more than a nod of agreement.
“Your daddy is waiting upstairs,” Deborah said.
“Are his feelings hurt?” Josie asked.
“Oddly enough, no. He took it much better than I did… But men don’t understand what weddings mean.” She glanced at Carter. “No offense.”
“None taken. I don’t understand weddings. At all.”
When they entered the church hall with her mother, the buzz of conversation stopped. A pin drop would have sounded like a bomb it went so quiet.
“Yeah, not awkward at all,” Carter whispered.
Josie jabbed her elbow into his side. “Behave.”
“You married the wrong man for that,” he answered.
Beside them, Deborah smiled. She’d had her doubts, but hearing that exchange told her everything she needed to know. They were easy with one another, comfortable in a way that could only happen if they were meant to be for one another.
William walked forward, hugged Josie tightly and then shook Carter’s hand. Behind them, the congregation began to talk again, the roar of it deafening.
“We’ve definitely given them all something to talk about,” Josie said softly.
Carter grinned. “It won’t be the last time. That I can promise you.”
THE END
Afterword
Author’s Note:
* * *
The little town at the end of this book where Carter and Josie elope is based on an actual place… my hometown. It never failed that wherever I have gone in this world, someone I have met has either gotten married there or knew someone who had. We did honestly have a Justice of the Peace who performed marriage ceremonies in the grocery store on Main Street. Both the grocery store and the Justice of the Peace are gone, but I wanted to incorporate those elements of my home town and its history into this book because Carter and Josie just seemed to fit that mold.
Also, in regards to Josie’s adoption, that plot point was one I debated putting in there. But after communicating with people who have adopted children internationally and hearing so many tales that are just like Josie’s, of it being perceived as a completely charitable act as opposed to just another way to add to your family, I felt that I made the right choice.
If it isn’t reflective of your experience, then I’m incredibly happy for you. If it is reflective of your experience, then I apologize for all the people in this world who simply don’t understand that family is so much more than just blood.
Coming Soon! Book Four, Quentin
Read on for an exciting sneak peek at the next book in the Bourbon & Blood Saga, Quentin, coming September, 2016.
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EXCERPT
* * *
Quentin eased out of his car in the parking lot of The Kicking Mule. It was the only bar within thirty miles of Fontaine and it only existed because a sliver of Woodford County butted up against the main road into town. It was the very definition of a dive bar—sawdust on the floor, a chain link fence around the stage, and glass crunching under foot with every step. But he needed a drink, and he needed it to be somewhere his family wasn’t.
When punches are thrown before Thanksgiving dinner is even served, you know it’s a bad day. Holding his ribs, hoping they were just bruised instead of broken, Quentin limped toward the door of the bar. The crowd was light. Even hard core drunks would spend the holiday with their families.
Opening the door, Quentin stepped into the darkened interior and moved towards the bar. There might have been five people in the whole place, including him and the bartender.
“I’m getting ready to close up,” the bartender said, tossing he words over her shoulder without looking in his direction.
“I know you are. I’m very familiar with your schedule.”
She did turn then, but her blue eyes were positively glacial. “We’re already closed to you.”
Harlow Tate had every reason to hate him. He’d dicked her around, bailed on her, kept her at arms length, and generally been a giant raging ass. The fact that she hadn’t pulled out the shotgun she kept under the bar was a miracle.
She frowned then. “What happened to your face? I thought I was the only one who hated you that much.”
A smile started, but quickly morphed into a wince as it pulled his split lip. “I have a gift for pissing people off.”
“Especially women,” she said. “But I don’t think a woman did that much damage to you unless she outsourced.”
“A family disagreement,” he explained, easing onto one of the bar stools. Fuck, his whole body hurt. And it was only going to get worse. “You think maybe I could get a drink?”
“You think if I give you one you’ll get the hell out of my bar and never darken my door again?” she shot back. Even as she asked the question, she’d pulled a bottle of bourbon off the shelf and was filling a glass for him. It was not Fire Creek. She reserved that for people she liked.
“I can’t make any promises.”
She set the bottle down with a thud and pushed the glass toward him. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”
He sipped his whiskey. It burned like hell. It didn’t even deserve to be called rotgut. “Son of a bitch.”
Her gaze raked over him coldly, enough that he felt a chill in its wake. “I’d say that’s just about right… You’ve had your drink. It’s time for you to go.”
“Lowey—.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said stiffly. “That name is reserved for friends, family… for lovers. You don’t fit it into any of those categories.”
“I did once,” he reminded her gently.
“And if it had meant so goddamn much to you then you wouldn’t have walked out on me the way you did. Leave, Quentin. You’re good at it.”
Quentin placed the glass back on the bar. There was nothing he could say to her that would change anything, and there was nothing she’d said to him or accused him of that wasn’t true. Coming there had been a mistake. Seeing her up close and in person, remembering the texture of her skin, the sweet scent of her hair, and the way she felt beneath him… there wasn’t a word in existence that could describe how much of a fuck up that was.
As Quentin turned to leave the window imploded. Flying glass hurtled toward the air at them. It was instinct more than anything that had him diving over the bar, taking her to the ground with him. It was fear that kept him there, shielding her body with his own, as the sound of gunfire filled the bar.