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Book formatting provided by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design
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Proofreading provided by K Donald and Michelle Vize
Publication Date: October 3, 2019
Sweet Agony
Copyright © Christy Pastore 2019
All rights reserved
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Author Note to the Reader
Preview of Copper Lining
Books by Christy Pastore
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For anyone who ever had a summer love.
The song “Springsteen” by Eric Church . . . listen to the lyrics. I’ll bet you remember.
Playlist
Bourbon In Kentucky by Dierks Bentley
Springsteen by Eric Church
21 Summer by Brothers Osborne
Summertime by Kenney Chesney
Summer Fever by Little Big Town
More Than A Fever by Midland
Some Girls by Jameson Rodgers
East Bound And Down by Midland
But I Do by Jarrod Niemann
Sweetheart by Thomas Rhett
All The Ways by Meghan Trainor
The Bones by Maren Morris
Love Is Here To Stay by Billie Holiday
House Fire by Tyler Childers
You Need To Calm Down by Taylor Swift
Slide Away by Miley Cyrus
Brant
Twelve years ago
“Dude, where are we going? I want to go home,” Weston, my little brother whines from the passenger seat. “Why are we going to Smyrna Hills?”
I pull my car onto Main Street. “Didn’t you sleep on the flight? Christ, you were in first class. You should be well rested. Instead, you’re acting like a grumpy little asshole.”
Mom and Pop enlisted me with the honor of picking the teenager up from the airport this morning. He can’t shut up about all the weed he smoked. The beer he drank. And all the boobs he saw. I’m glad his summer was educational.
“Anyway, this chick’s tits.” Wes puts his hands on his chest and rubs. “Bro, they were huge. She even put them in my face.”
He yammers on like an entitled punk and it grates on my nerves. I know he’s sixteen, but Mom and Pop spent a lot of money for him to travel through Europe. Honestly, I’d rather hear about the cultural experiences he had. Wishful thinking.
It wasn’t a bad summer being home in Mayfield. I got to work at the distillery with Pop. Spent a little time down at the lake and riding my horse, Lightning Bug. And I went to the movies, a lot. That’s where I met the “friend”—Caroline.
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “I got some sleep, yeah. But I just want to be sleepin’ in my own bed.”
“This will only take a few minutes. I need to stop by the bakery and pick something up for a friend. It’s her birthday.”
Weston swings his gaze in my direction. “What friend? A girlfriend?”
“No, a friend is a friend. Not a girlfriend.”
“Sure, bro,” he huffs out. “You gettin’ her a cake or somethin’?”
“None of your business,” I tell him gruffly.
We pull up to the bakery in Smyrna Hills and I slide the car into a parking spot near the door.
“Dude, get me a cupcake. No, wait, one of those giant blueberry scones. The kind like Mom had at Easter.”
I pop the door to my GT open and shake my head. “If you want something, get out and buy it yourself. And answer me this, how is it that you spent your summer in Amsterdam and you still speak like a hillbilly surfer kid?”
“Fuck you,” he hisses. “Why are you pickin’ on me?”
“Kid, I’m giving you some tough love. I’m not picking on you.” I shut the door and take a step up to the sidewalk.
“You think a cupcake will get you laid, Brantley?” he yells out the window.
Rounding the front of my car, I stride toward the passenger side. “Not all gifts are for getting laid, Weston. Sometimes you just need to make someone smile.”
He makes a gagging noise. “Gross. When did you turn into such a . . . ?”
My hand covers his mouth. “Don’t be an asshole. One day you’ll find out what I’m talking about and then you’ll remember this conversation. Mark my words, little bro.”
Weston mumbles something under his breath as I walk into the bakery. Caroline mentioned that she liked this place’s chocolate cake.
“Hey there,” a blonde behind the counter says. “What can I get you?”
“Do you happen to have a chocolate cupcake with purple frosting? My friend really loves your chocolate cake and her favorite color is purple.”
When she produces a tray of pretty little cupcakes, I can’t help the smile that breaks out on my face. “I’ll take that one. It’s a gift.”
“Perfect choice. It’ll make her day,” she tells me and then boxes it up.
And it will make my day if Caroline says yes to having dinner with me tonight.
Caroline
Present Day
Ma and my brother, Joseph, sing the chorus once more and I stare at the flickering flames that dance above my birthday pie. Yes, pie because I don’t much care for cake. I can almost taste the sweetness of the blackberries coating my tongue and the back of my mouth.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I interrupt, before they can start again. “Y’all need to quit before you wake up the neighbors.”
“Nah, way out here, the neighbors will never hear us,” Joseph counters.
“Fine. Fine. Happy birthday, Caroline, honey,” Ma says in her graceful southern drawl. “Now make a wish.” She stands and sweeps up the dessert plates from the sideboard. A family heirloom, my great-grandfather gave it as a wedding present to my great-grandmother.
Joseph slaps his large hand against the wooden tabletop. “Make it a good one, sis.”
A hundred things bounce around my head. Material things like, a new pair of basketball shoes for Joseph. A sewing machine for Ma or perhaps some nice dishes to replace the ones we have that scream1970s with their orange and green fruit pattern. If I’m wishing for stuff, I should wish for a new dishwasher or a refrigerator with an ice maker.
We’re functioning on a bare bones budget since sinking a lot of money into our business. It’s been up and running for over a year, and profits increase every month, so we won’t be cash poor for long.
Ah, luxuries. Someday we’ll have all those things, but for now I’ll wish for the same thing I do every year.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and blow out the candles. I wish for good health and a mild winter.
Ma serves the pie and Joseph inhales three bites before I’ve even picked up my fork.
“Oops,” Ma chirps. “I almost forgot. I’ve got something I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I’ll be right back.”
I lift a brow and glance at Joseph. He shrugs, scooping up the last bite of pie on his plate. Leaning back, he expels a huge sigh and then pats his non-existent stomach. The boy is six foot four, all lean muscle, and hands the size of dinner plates—a freak of nature. An athletic freak of nature, who just happens to be one of the starting point guards for Elliston University.
“Here we go,” Ma announces dancing back into our small dining room. She’s carrying a bottle filled with liquid the color of honey. It needs no introduction—the dark red label is my clue to the brand.
Joseph shoots me a glare. “Don’t be an ass,” he mouths.
I narrow my eyes and lean over the table. “It’s fine. I’ve put all that behind me.”
Ma pours three glasses and lifts hers in the air. “To my darlin’, Caroline. Happy thirtieth birthday. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Ma,” I reply, and swallow the rich smoky liquid. Damn it, it’s so smooth and I hate that I like the stuff.
Since I can remember, there’s been a ton of rumors about bad blood between the Cardwells and my family. My view on the Cardwell clan has changed thanks to Haven Cardwell. I met her last summer at a fundraising event. And boy, I did not want to like her. If someone had told eighteen-year-old me that one day one of my best friends would be a Cardwell, I’d have laughed in their face.
Especially since Haven was the center of gossip concerning my friend, Sawyer Collins back in the day. All that’s water under the bridge now. No thanks to Jenna Rae Stuckey, the Mayfield Journal town reporter—manipulator—who actually started the rumors all those years ago.
“I’m going to finish packing for school,” Joseph announces, and slides his chair back from the table.
I scowl at him. “Take your plate and fork to the sink.”
“Calm down, I’m getting to it.”
Giving me a wink, he pretends to toss his dishes in the sink like he’s fading back for a jump shot. I roll my eyes, and after he sets his dishes on the counter instead of in the sink, he hurries out of the room. Once Ma finishes her pie, I clear the dishes.
“I’ll get the dishes, Caroline. Don’t you worry about them.”
“You sure?” I ask, as I rinse them under the warm spray.
“No dishes on your birthday,” she says while she pours a little more bourbon in her glass.
“Thanks for the pie, Ma. It was delicious. I’m going to go for a run to work some of it off. I’ll be back in the morning to pick up our basketball star.”
Ma smiles. “I have to be at work early tomorrow. The new doctor is coming in.”
“Ah, yes, the mysterious Doctor Crane from Indianapolis. Night, Ma.”
“Night, Caroline.”
The August heat rolls over me in waves as I run up the hill toward the barn. Ma and Joseph stay in the main house and I live in the tack house. After Daddy passed away, Ma kept the name of the farm—Cranberry Ridge—but sold off all the equipment and the soybean fields, then sold all our cattle at auction.
With the money from the sale of the herd, she had the iconic “red barn” that sits at the top of the hill restored and renovated into a beautiful space where we host weddings and parties nearly every weekend. And some people hire me to coordinate their events, like fundraisers and holiday parties.
Back in the day, my great-grandmother loved to entertain. She and my great-grandfather would host an annual barn dance and game nights. My great-grandmother was known to regularly host the local garden club meetings too. And during Prohibition, my great-grandparents held secret moonshine and bourbon tastings in stables.
I unlock the door and toss my keys onto the credenza. It’s been a very long and ongoing process but this summer we finally finished converting an unused space of the barn into a living area. Just off the great room there’s a picture window with a view of the stables. With the help of Pinterest, I was able to transform the space into a reading nook.
Between my part-time job at the restaurant and planning events, I have little time for reading. But all that’s about to change with the school year right around the corner. I’m one of the secretaries at the high school. And since the wedding season slows down then, I’ll be able to do more lounging in my reading nook catching up on all my missed reading.
I pull open the sliding doors to my bedroom and inhale the smell of fresh lavender thanks to all the fans I have running to keep the room cool. The air conditioner is on the fritz, again. Fortunately, it’s just in the tack house. The stables are nice and cold. Lucky horses.
After I strip out of my clothes, I toss them into the hamper, then pull on my sports bra and running shorts—a sports bra and running shorts that I designed.
While I was finishing up my degree, I couldn’t shake my interest in fashion. A jock by nature, how could a girl who loves to jump hurdles, hike, run with her dog, and jump rope for the fun of it possibly be interested in fashion?
Gasp! An athlete interested in trends and style . . . say it isn’t so!
My idea for developing hi-tech, hi-touch materials—not your typical mesh of neon colors—is just a pipe dream, but at least I had enough money to make a few cool pieces back then.
My hands smooth through my blond hair and I toss it up into a ponytail. I quickly pull on a pair of socks and lace up my purple Asics.
My phone pings with a text from Haven:
Happy Birthday, hooker! I hope you had a wonderful day.
Me: Thank you! I got your gift too. The clutch is gorgeous but you did not need to do that.
Haven: I know I didn’t BUT I wanted to.
I’ll never be able to get Haven the kinds of stylish and luxurious gifts she
sends me. Well, maybe not never because we had a really good season at Cranberry Ridge and I’m already booked up for next summer. I’m staying optimistic . . . I think.
Me: You are the best! Love your face.
I hear the sound of Julep’s tags clacking against the metal loop on her collar, and then feel her jump up onto the bed. “Hey, girl,” I say, giving her head a good pat, then scratching her backside.
Setting my iPhone on top of my dresser to bend down and tie my shoes, I ask Julep, “You wanna go for run with me?”
She dips her head onto the bed, covering her snout with her paws. Julep’s an Australian Cattle dog, and per her breeding, she’s supposed to love having tasks to do.
“Not even on my birthday, huh?”
I snatch my iPhone off the dresser, then I plug in my headphones. I’m out the door and popping my earbuds in just as the sun dips over the tree line. As my feet hit the pea gravel, I press shuffle on my cardio list. I can’t afford a monthly gym membership at the moment, and there’s only one fitness center in the town. It’s fancy and brand new thanks to the downtown revitalization project.
The smell of molasses hangs heavy in the air as I run closer to the river and the hilltop where the distillery sits overlooking Mayfield. My hometown isn’t exactly a bustling city, just a small-town with one big draw—the bourbon distillery. Rosemary Hill is revered as the crown jewel of the Kentucky Bourbon Trail. And it’s owned by the Cardwell family.
The Buzzy Bourbon Blog loves to keep the tales going. “Bad Blood: Cardwell snatches land from Stratton and builds an empire.”
It’s a tale as old as time. My great-grandfather, Clarence Stratton, lent his best friend, Samuel Cardwell, money to open up his distillery. He also sold Samuel a good portion of our family’s land at an extremely low price. Apparently, Samuel Cardwell promised to take good care of the land and told my great-grandfather once he struck it rich, he would give him a piece of the business.
But there was one flaw in the business transaction, nothing was written down. Samuel Cardwell paid back the loan in full, and that was it. When my great-grandfather traveled to Indiana to visit his ailing sister, it was rumored that Samuel made a play for Rosemary Belcourt, my great-grandfather’s one true love. Rosemary and Samuel were married a few weeks later, and as an additional slap in the face to my great-grandfather, Samuel named the distillery Rosemary Hill.
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