Thorne grunts. Not the most flattering answer. Screw him.
His sister gets that I’m-going-to-start-some-shit look in her eyes that I can clearly recognize now. “Well, the rest of the men here, and a good number of women, agree with me.”
“I concur,” says the man next to Thorne, which earns him a murderous look from the growly-looking Thorne.
“Hi Drake,” Lillianna says, turning to Thorne’s guest. “Ivy, this is Drake London, our marketing genius. Drake, this is Ivy West, Madison’s guardian and our new environmental consultant.”
Drake is classically handsome with an easy smile and dark blue eyes that crinkle at the corners. “The famous Ivy West. Thorne’s mentioned you.” He extends his hand, his grip firm and professional.
“All good things, I hope,” I reply, conscious of the way Thorne is watching our interaction.
“Just the basics,” Drake says with a polite smile. “Thorne keeps business matters pretty close to the vest.”
The disappointment in my chest is ridiculous. Yet, his admission from the other day plays on repeat in my head. “I want to fuck you.” The heat in his voice and eyes had burned me, and I want to play in the flames, never mind the consequences.
On stage, Three Pence transitions to a new song, the crowd responding with enthusiastic cheers.
“Drake’s from Michigan like the band,” Lillianna says, nodding toward the stage. “Must be a mitten night.”
“I’m only here for the week,” Drake clarifies. “Just in town for some meetings. I travel wherever the business takes me. But bourbon business is the best business.”
“And Blackstones make it worth everything,” Lillianna says, her smile flirtatious.
He winks. “I agree.”
Thorne taps his glass on the table. “Drake’s the one who suggested we come here. He’s a fan of Three Pence.”
“Caught them a few times in Detroit,” he replies. “Good to see them making waves outside Michigan.”
A tap on my shoulder pulls my attention away from the group. I turn, and there's Dave — dark hair, easy smile, exactly as uncomplicated as I remembered. He looks genuinely happy to see me, and something about that makes my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.
"You came," I say. The surprise in my voice is embarrassing. I'd half-hoped he wouldn't, and that's not something I'm ready to examine.
"Of course I came." He pulls me into a brief hug, warm and undemanding. "You look amazing, Ivy."
Across the table, a glass stills mid-lift. I don't have to look to know whose.
When I do glance over, Thorne’s expression has gone carefully blank. It’s that particular kind of blank that I'm learning means the opposite of nothing.
"Dave, this is Lillianna Blackstone and Drake London," I say, steering us toward the group. "And this is Thorne Blackstone."
The two men shake hands. Dave's smile doesn't waver. Thorne's doesn't appear.
"Blackstone Bourbon," Dave says, with the appreciative nod of someone who actually means it. "Hard to find a better pour in Kentucky."
Thorne takes a slow sip of his glass, eyes steady on Dave over the rim. "Or anywhere."
Dave blinks, then lets out a short laugh like he's decided to find Thorne’s arrogance charming. Turning to me, he asks, “Want a drink? A Manhattan, right?”
He heads for the bar at the same time a pretty woman in a dress that fits like a second skin bumps into me. She apologizes, but she’s looking at Thorne. Her cocktail sloshes in the glass, and she’s gripping it a little too tightly. Her eyes are fixed on Thorne with the determined focus of someone who needed a few drinks to gather her courage.
“Well, look who it is.” Her voice rings of a forced lightness. “Thorne Blackstone, gracing the commoners with his presence.”
If I weren’t attuned to, okay, slightly obsessed with, Thorne’s body, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the shift: the flash of annoyance, or maybe discomfort, before his expression settles into careful neutrality.
“Heather,” he acknowledges with a curt nod. “She’s Blackstone’s event planner.”
“Is that all I am?” she asks, and I swear, she bats her lashes at him.
