"Top five?" Sebastian's indignation is playful, but his thumb strokes across her knuckles in a move that’s both possessive and fond. "You're impossible."
"I'm honest." Her free hand covers their joined ones. “To be honest, I feel bad for him. Olivier is widowed. His wife died when their son was three. So he's raising Julien alone while working as a master blender."
"He mentioned growing up in Kentucky before moving to France." Rosalia tips her head against Sebastian's shoulder. "Small world, right?"
My bourbon glass freezes halfway to my lips.
Olivier from Kentucky.
I'm seventeen again, standing under the oak tree behind Louisville Country Day. Olivier's hands cupping my face as he whispers je t'aime against my lips. The way he'd smile at me across the library, that crooked smile that made my stomach flip. How he'd teach me French phrases while I helped him with calculus, both of us pretending we needed the study sessions when really we just wanted an excuse to be alone together. The way he'd trace my palm with his finger while conjugating verbs, making my heart race. Somewhere between derivatives and declensions, I fell completely in love.
And then the betrayal. Finding out he'd stolen our proprietary yeast strain. The one my great-grandfather cultivated, the onethat made Blackstone Bourbon unique. He gave it to his father to save their distillery from going bankrupt.
Not that it helped. When Dad learned what he’d done, he’d destroyed the Sawyer family. Olivier’s dad died of a massive heart attack within a month of the fallout. Olivier and his mother left, moving to France.
“What’s his last name?” Thorne demands. Sebastian looks as angry as Thorne sounds.
“Beaumont. Olivier Beaumont.” She says succinctly. “It’s easy to remember because I recognized it.”
“Beaumont,” I mutter. The relief that floods through me is so intense I’m light-headed. Different last name. Different person. Just another man named Olivier with Kentucky roots.
“Olivier Beaumont,” Sebastian says, then laughs. “Small world.”
Thorne nods. “Degree of separation.”
Rosalia looks at them, “Do you know him?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Sebastian replies. “But first, I’m curious why you recognized it?”
“It’s sad,” she sighs. “His wife was Ambre Beaumont, a famous French ballet dancer. My mom loves the ballet, and it was her dream to see Ambre Beaumont on stage. But a few years back, she fell during a rehearsal and hit her head. Insisted she was fine, refused to go to the hospital. A brain bleed killed her that night. Only twenty-nine. Leaving behind a husband and infant.”
"That's terrible," Mother says quietly, and we all murmur in agreement.
“How do you know the Beaumont name?” Rosalia asks Sebastian.
He grins, looking at Thorne, who’s also smiling. They exchange a look that’s one of those silent conversations they've perfected over the past six months of actually working together instead of against each other.
Sebastian sets down his glass. "Because we've been talking to his employer."
"He works for Maison Marchand," Thorne adds.
My pulse jumps. “They’re a cognac house, right?”
“They are,” Thorn confirms.
"Remember that bourbon-cognac barrel exchange proposal you pitched to Dad?" Sebastian asks. "The one he shot down?"
The memory surfaces sharp and bitter. Father dismissing it without even reading past the first page. Telling me to stick to hospitality and event planning.
"We found it in his files after he died," Thorne says quietly. "It was brilliant, Lilly. He was an idiot for dismissing it."
"We want to do it," Sebastian adds. "And we want you to run it. If you're interested."
Tears prick my eyes. My brothers, who spent years barely speaking, found my old proposal and are making it real. For the distillery, yes. But also for me.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll do it,” Thorne replies.
