“No. You can’t.”
“It’ll be robust, strong, and expensive. A quality bourbon. One of our finest.”
Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it shut. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. You can be there when we taste it.” I swayed closer to her. “If you win.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Madison
I stared at the pitched ceiling in Teller’s guest bedroom. I would be making Teller cookies every week, but I could’ve had a bourbon named after me. After that irritating nickname I could no longer hate.
Would people have thought it was a joke? A way for Teller to make fun of me?
Yet why would a company put time and money into labeling a product with anythingMad Maddyif it wasn’t serious? Why would they waste marketing dollars to make fun of me? None of the Baileys had given me a hard time. All except for Teller, and now that I wasn’t so defensive around him, I could admit that had been more miscommunication between us thanks to someone who had hurt us both.
The edge I was on around him was no longer about defensiveness. The thrum in my chest that spread down to between my thighs, that was altogether different. Thankfully, I had tried to kick Teller’s ass so much that my left knee throbbed. An old horse-riding injury flared up if I ran. Made sense that jumping across a concrete pad would have the same effect.
I rolled to the edge of the bed. My shirt hung loose and I’d paired it with a pair of baby-blue shorts that were too short to wear outside of the house. I used to use them for gardening, but the garden and flowerbeds were no longer mine. Just a few of the things I had lost in the divorce.
I listened for Teller’s movements, but he’d gone to bed an hour ago. I needed an ice pack.
Mostly, I needed a massage, but it was hard to get the right pressure myself and I’d left the metal scraper I’d bought online for fascia work at the bar.
The house was dark. Could I get ice and a butter knife without waking him? Would he care that I used the butter knife to rub all over my leg?
He didn’t have to know. I could sneak downstairs, and in the morning, I could slip the knife into the dishwasher.
I slid out of bed, pausing only briefly by my suitcase. Should I throw a flannel over my pajamas or put a pair of sweats on? Deciding against it, I eased my door open. It swung open quietly and I tiptoed downstairs, marveling over how none of the floorboards creaked in the house.
At the base of the stairs, I pushed my hair back. A nearly full moon glowed through the window, bathing the main level in shadow. Paired with the yard light, I didn’t need to flip any other lights on. I entered the kitchen and yelped.
I was met with broad shoulders and a chiseled, bare chest. Teller stood next to the fridge, holding a glass of water.
“Oh my god!” I couldn’t look away. Even in the dark, his body was mouthwatering. The boxer briefs he wore rode low on his hips, and that was all that was covering him. “I’m sorry, but god, you are so quiet!”
“I didn’t want to wake you.” He took a long pull of water. If there had been more light, I could have watched his throat work over the swallow. There was nothing on this man I didn’t get tired of looking at.
“I didn’t want to bother you.” I hugged my arms around myself. I should’ve put on that flannel. I wasn’t wearing a bra or underwear. With the pajama top and bottoms, I might as well be naked around him.
“Can’t sleep?” His gaze trailed down my body, lingering on my toes and the polish I needed to refresh, then traveled back up.
It was too dark for him to see well, but I felt exposed. The dull ache on the outside of my knee reminded me to get the ice. “I fell off a horse when I was fifteen.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“Your horse probably apologized and helped you up. Mine ran off and I had to limp two miles back home, only for Dad to lose his shit because Flight Risk was out.”
“You had a horse named Flight Risk, and your dad was surprised he was a flight risk?”
That pretty much summed up my childhood. “Anyway, my knee still aches sometimes. It’s why I’m not a runner.”
“I’m not a runner because it’d involve running.”
Unprepared for his frank response, I giggled. “Fair. I’m built for fight, not flight.”
His grin flashed in the shadows. “What usually helps it? Ice?”
