Removing my T-shirt, I clean her up. Then help her sit up. A tectonic plate shifts inside me, moving where nothing should be able to move. I’m unsettled, unmoored, as if the ground beneath my feet has suddenly become uncertain.
She stands, looks around, then picks up her jeans. My gaze falls on papers my father signed that might ruin us. All in the name of quick profit and greed. And here I am, his son, losing control because I wanted something and took it. Like father, like son.
“Well, that was…” she starts, putting on her clothes.
“A one-time thing,” I finish, though my body protests the words. “It can’t happen again.”
The words burn like cheap bourbon, but they’re necessary. I can’t be my father—reckless and selfish. This would complicate the distillery situation, confirm Sebastian’s worst opinions of me, and when I leave for Quebec… No. Better to end it before anyone gets hurt.
A shadow passes behind her eyes, too brief to identify. “You’re right,” she agrees. Looking at her hands, she sighs, then looks at me. “But I don't regret it.”
“Neither do I.” But I do. Because now that I’ve had another taste, I’m addicted.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Goodnight, Thorne.”
“Goodnight, Ivy.”
She leaves, and I resist the urge to follow. I told her it was a mistake that couldn't happen again. I meant it.
But as I gather the scattered papers from the floor, her scent clings to my fingers. I pause, bringing them to my face, inhaling deeply. The train was supposed to be a one-time thing too. Yet here we are. And two tastes aren’t enough. They’ve made the hunger worse.
These last three years, I’ve tried to outrun my father’s shadow. But maybe that’s impossible. Maybe this hunger, thisrecklessness, is carved into my bones. Maybe I’m destined to destroy everything I touch.
Tomorrow, I’ll see her at the pool or across the conference table, composed and professional. And beneath every polite word and business discussion, I’ll hear the echoes of her coming apart in my hands. How she tastes. How she sounds when she calls my name.
Which means I need to rebuild the walls between us. Higher. Stronger. No more motorcycle rides. No morning swims. No more moments where I forget why keeping my distance matters.
But I’ve never backed down from a challenge in my life. And this isnotgoing to be the battle I lose.
Chapter Fourteen
Ivy
Steam rises from the skillet as I crack another egg into the bowl. The kitchen is quiet except for the gentle whisk of metal against ceramic and Lillianna’s occasional sip of coffee. A month ago, I wouldn't have felt comfortable raiding her brother's kitchen to make breakfast. Now Lillianna sits across from me in her pajamas, completely at ease. Whether it started when we joined forces to tackle the environmental crisis or when her mother discovered Madison and I are staying here with Thorne,I’m not sure. But the tension has melted away like butter on hot toast.
I’ve even attended the “Was The Book Better Than The Movie” book club at 3Bs four days ago. The laughter and debate had been a welcome break from case files and environmental impact reports. I can’t remember the last time I’d done something just for fun in New York. Being the only female associate on the partner track doesn’t leave much room for book clubs or friendships.
I pause the whisk. It’s strange how quickly life can change. In the spring, I was drowning in due diligence reports and regulatory filings…well, I still am, but I’m also making breakfast in a bourbon mogul’s kitchen and missing the rush of wind against my skin from riding on the back of Thorne’s motorcycle.
God, that motorcycle. My body warms at the memory of what followed that ride. Thorne’s hands rough against my skin, his mouth hot and demanding. The way he’d made me come so hard I’d nearly blacked out. That was a week ago, and the memory still visits me every night when I’m alone in my bed.
And alone I definitely am. Since that ride, he’s ghosted me completely—despite living under the same roof.
I’ve seen him exactly once, during another family strategy meeting. He’s even stopped swimming with me in the mornings.
What does it matter? In less than two months, I’ll be back in New York preparing for my partnership review, and he’ll be running acquisitions from his office in Quebec. It was smart of him to end things before they could begin.
I repeat this to myself for what feels like the hundredth time this week. A mantra that should be working by now. Instead, the thought of leaving Kentucky—of leaving him—creates a hollow ache I refuse to examine.
Needing an escape from my Thorne-fueled thoughts, I ask, “How did the boutique hotel get started?” I pour the eggs into the pan. “Which came first, the bookstore or the hotel?”
Lillianna sets down her mug, a reminiscing smile touching her lips. “The bookstore was first. That’s actually how Sebastian met Rosalia.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was living and working overseas. But Sebastian convinced me to come home and help Rosalia open 3Bs. I majored in Languages and minored in Economics." She gives a dry laugh. "Sebastian would have found a way to need me even if I'd studied puppet art, but as it turned out, my degrees were actually perfect for running a boutique hotel with international clientele."
I laugh. “Is it good to be home?” Or does she have mixed feelings, as I do with Kentucky?
She stares into her coffee for a moment. "I love being home. But when Rosalia no longer needs me, I might take off again.” So mixed like me. “It's been good working with her. The whole thing came together surprisingly well, considering how it started." She pauses. "Anyway. Thorne buying Rosalia the hotel turned out to be the right call, even if his reasons were complicated."
"Wait." I turn from the pan of eggs. "Thorne, not Sebastian, bought her the hotel?" Was there more than guilt about some bet?
