Some believe the rumors. Some think it’s just a story to tell people who visit the Bourbon Trail. It would be nice if we had something concrete to lay these rumors to rest.
My feet carry me over the bridge and through the woods that separates our property from the Cardwells. Once I reach the clearing, I stop to check my time. After two miles I’m just a little over my average.
“Being a year older can’t have made me slower already. Happy birthday to me.”
I walk toward the river bank, and stare out at the view in front of me—Belcourt Estate. It really is beautiful. I watch as seven thoroughbreds run through the pasture . . . acres of pristine farmland as far as I can see.
My eyes scan over the estate, taking in the trees, rolling acres of lush green land, rows of fences, and the magnificent stables. The main house is on the other side of the massive white barn, which I can’t see from where I stand. But there is no mistaking the white french country mansion.
“You know it’s impolite to stare.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a husky voice with a southern finesse that can only be described as someone who is born and raised in the south . . . Kentucky, but his voice still had that edge of refinement. Even after all these years I recognize his voice.
My eyes connect with a gorgeous pair of blue eyes. He looks like a cowboy wearing a navy blue and grey raglan and a pair of faded Levi’s. Another man has never looked so good wearing Levi’s. Leather cords wrap around both his wrists and the sunlight glints off his silver belt buckle.
For the love of fucks, he’s pretty.
I’m sweating my ass off in shorts and he’s not even breaking a sweat in jeans.
“I wasn’t staring I’m taking a break from my run and admiring the view.”
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “It’s a good view. Peaceful.”
“You’re trespassing, you know,” I interject.
“Am I?”
“Yeah, this is private property. You trespassed just past the big rock over there.” I nod toward the rock that is about ten feet from him.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I meant no disrespect. I just needed some fresh air and a long walk. I . . .”
I wave him off. “Relax, I’m not calling the cops, Mister Cardwell.”
He cocks a brow. “Mister Cardwell is my father. I’m Brant, just Brant.”
“Not claiming to be a Cardwell—interesting. I figured that you love throwing around your last name.”
My comment makes him smile. “I’m afraid there’s no escaping it now,” he answers, shoving a hand through his hair, which immediately falls back over his forehead. All that thick brown hair just begs for my fingers to weave through it.
My hands land on my hips. “What does that mean?”
“Just me being stubborn is all, I guess.”
He seems upset. Not that I care. I don’t want to be nice to him. With our history and given our families’ history, but damn it if he isn’t charming and as hot as sin as he was all those years ago.
“You okay?” I ask, despite my personal feelings.
His fingers scratch at the scruff on his chin. “Yeah. I just needed a place to think. Sorry I came onto your property. Thought it was ours.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Not everything in Mayfield belongs to the Cardwells.”
But one might think that they own the whole tri-county area. Southern royalty. Brant, his brother, Wes, and their sister, Haven, attended private day schools, elite prep schools and then went to universities out of state. When Brant was accepted to Cornell it made front page news in the Mayfield Journal. I figured when he graduated the mayor would have agreed to throw him a ticker tape parade.
While Haven and Wes stayed away from Mayfield, mostly, Brant came home every summer during college. And he and I spent one amazing summer together and then he went off to Columbia for grad school. After grad school he was hired as a finance guy for a big Wall Street company. Yeah, I follow his career. I’m irritated that I know so much about him.
While the Cardwell siblings were off at fancy schools, I earned my bachelor’s in business management at Elliston’s extension campus thirty minutes south of Mayfield.
Ignoring my comment, he shifts the topic. “I read the paper. I know that your brother is a starting point guard for Elliston University. I’m excited to see how the team will do this year.”
“Are you allowed to be an Elliston fan? I mean seeing as you’re an Ivy Leaguer and all.”
He picks up a rock and then flings it across the river. As much as I don’t want to, I find it nearly impossible to not watch his biceps flex under his shirt. The rock skips four times over the water. Impressive.
“Yeah, but Ivy League or not, I’m a Kentucky guy at heart. I love when the Colonels win. I want them to have a winning season this year.”
“Good to know.”
He eyes me up and down. “Athletics run in your family, huh?” he asks, scooping up another flat stone.
“Hardly.” I laugh. “I was on the track team in high school. I guess running just stuck with me.”
I told you that about me, dickhead.
The early evening sun begins to fade and I know I need to finish my run and shower. It’s going to be a very early morning driving up to Elliston.
“Well it was nice chatting with you, Brant. I gotta be on my way.” I begin jogging backward toward the footbridge.
“See you around, Caroline,” he calls after me as my feet connect with the wood on the bridge, and damn it if I don’t like the sound of my name rolling off his tongue.
Caroline
“Well, this is the last of it,” I announce, placing the box filled with towels and blankets on the corner of Joseph’s bed.
“Thanks, sis, you’re the best.”
My brother and I are a decade apart. Some days I feel more like a cool older aunt than a sister. Joseph was an oopsie. And I don’t say that to be cruel. Just ask our mother and she’ll tell you that she and Daddy only planned on having one kid, but Joseph was their happy accident.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Nah, me and Beau got this,” he says, leaning his tall frame against the wall. Beau Abbott shakes his head and continues tossing a tiny Nerf ball into the air.
Knock. Knock.
“Team meeting in an hour, boys,” Dylan Brooks, the team manager, announces from the doorway pointing to the clock on the wall. “Hi, Caroline.”
“Hey there, Dylan.”
“We’ll be there,” Joseph says.
“Tell your mama I said hello,” Dylan says and then walks away.
Beau groans. “Man, why does Coach wanna have a meeting so soon? Practice doesn’t even start officially until the end of next month. And that’s just pre-pre-season.”
“Once we get through the meeting, we can hit up the party at Jonesy’s place.”
“Don’t get caught drinking, you don’t want to jeopardize your scholarship.”
Joseph folds his arms across his broad chest. “Yes, ma’am. You want me to walk you out?”
“No, I’m good.” I pick up my purse and then give my brother a quick hug. “I’m going across the street to get a coffee before I head home. Good luck putting things away. And don’t skip class.”
He heaves out an exasperated breath. “Ugh, you’re so bossy. Kill joy.”
I take the stairs instead of waiting for an elevator. Move In Day for the athletes is always chaotic.
I pop into Colonels Coffee Station and order a vanilla latte.
“Name?” she asks, cocking her pierced brow.
“Caroline.”
I stare a moment at the cashier with the purple mohawk, then she looks at me and blinks. “Your order will be waiting over there,” she says, pointing at the other the barista who looks a lot like Miranda Lambert.
“Right, sorry.” I turn around run smack into a wall of hard lean muscle. “Ow, sorry.” I rub at my cheek. When I
step back, Brant Cardwell’s smug and beautiful face is staring down at me. The face that invades my thoughts more often that I care to admit.
“Well, if it isn’t you, again.”
“What’s up, bourbon boy? Are you stalking me?”
He laughs. “Uhm, not likely. I was about to ask you the same question.”
His blue eyes sweep down my body, taking in my outfit—slouchy overalls, a white tank top and sneakers. My stomach does a tiny little flip when his eyes reach mine. I can’t help but notice his jaw. The angle is impossibly perfect—strong and cut.
Something about the way Brant’s looking at me has me holding my breath. The tension in his body, and the ridged muscles in his neck, and the way he shoves his hands in pockets. Restraint. Like he’s holding back. Then it hits me, I’ve seen this look before . . . many years ago.
I smirk and head toward the other end of the coffee bar. I distract myself by messing with my phone while I wait. Brant places his order and then comes to stand beside me.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I ask, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I didn’t have time to put my contacts in this morning.
He stares at me. “I’m seriously here having lunch with a friend of mine. Well, we had lunch now I’m heading back to Mayfield.”
“Must be nice to lunch and lead a life of leisure.”
He continues to stare at me. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” I snap.
He smiles at me. “What are you doing here?”
“One vanilla latte for Caroline,” the barista calls out.
I raise my hand.
“And one flat white for Brant,” the Miranda Lambert lookalike says and bats her faux lashes. “Your drink rhymes with your name.”
Turning my head, I roll my eyes.
“I guess that it does,” he gives her a sweet smile and I swear I can hear her swoon. “Thank you, darlin’.”
We both turn and walk toward the door. “Twenty bucks says that she’ll go back to her dorm room after her shift . . . and you’ll be the star of her masturbation fantasy.”
His dark brow lifts. “Are you speaking from experience?”
I scoff. “Oh please, you wish.”
I push through the glass door and a kid on a bike zips by me knocking me right back into Brant’s frame.
Jesus, his chest is hard.
“Darlin’, if you want me to hold you, all you have to do is ask.”
Taking a deep breath, I turn to face him. “Ugh, you just . . . you make me . . . Ahh.” I storm off like a pissed off teenager. Probably because the teenage me is still upset with him.
Brant
Yeah, I remember her. I also remember that summer as if it were yesterday. The summer after I graduated from Cornell my whole life changed.
Twice in less than twenty-four hours, I’ve had the good luck to run into her. God, Caroline Stratton, she’s a woman now.
Of course, she’s a woman, asshole.
What’s it been? Twelve years?
Holy fuck.
Those blue eyes. That body. Her smile. I hadn’t forgotten that smile. Or the way she looks at me. It’s been a long time since she’s looked at me that way, but I’ll never forget how it made me feel.
I climb into my ’68 Mustang GT Fastback, same one I drove when I was in college, and haul ass off campus.
That summer meant everything to me. While I was in Mayfield, my little brother, Weston, Wes spent that summer plowing his way through Amsterdam’s red-light district. Drinking beer and getting his dick wet. Somehow, the little sixteen-year-old ass-wipe had convinced our parents to let him study abroad.
My sister, Haven, couldn’t get out of the small town we grew up in fast enough. The day after she graduated from prep school, she flew to California for the summer before starting college that fall at Stanford. And after that, she rarely came home. I never understood why, but I do now.
Undergrad was easy, a total piece of cake. But when August arrived, I’d be off to grad school in New York. Seriously conflicted about my choices, that was my headspace. I’d just spent four years on a college degree in international business and finance only to realize that I was completely fucking miserable.
I had other aspirations—film, television and music. If I came home and told my parents that I landed a spot as a country singer on a talent show they would have laughed in my face. Actually, I think my mother would have been all for it, since she never missed an episode.
I’d flown to Nashville on a whim during spring break and auditioned for Nashville’s Got Talent. And I’ll be fucked if I didn’t get a spot.
But I turned it down. Part of me had a sense of satisfaction that I landed the opportunity, but I couldn’t face my parents and say, “Hey guys, I know that you just spent a fortune on my college education, but as it turns out I want to be a singer instead. So, I won’t be going off to Columbia either. Okay, thanks. Nashville Music Row here I come.”
My father would have kicked my ass up and down the Kentucky Bourbon Trail all summer. Instead of admitting my real feelings, I bottled them up like the sad fucker I’d become and traipsed back to Mayfield. I banked my future on the hope that working at my family’s world-famous bourbon distillery would pump a renewed passion for business into my veins.
It wasn’t so much the family business that had fire roaring through my veins today. It’s her, Caroline. She still looks as young as she did back then.
When I met her at the movie theater that summer, I was twenty-two. She was seventeen and beautiful. Her smart mouth was funny as hell.
Unlike most girls . . . women that I’d met in undergrad, Caroline said exactly what was on her mind rather than what she thought she was supposed to say.
Blunt. To the point. Zero fucks given. And these days, hashtag no filter.
I want to talk to her again. Find out why she’s got such an attitude toward me. We parted as friends at the end of the summer. I thought.
Wonder why she’s so irritated with me?
Back then, I got the feeling that she didn’t have time for a guy in her life. Her senior year was important. Plus, she was on the track team. If memory serves, Caroline was also a dancer.
I turn onto the highway and set my cruise control. Forty minutes and I’ll be back in Mayfield. Maybe I’ll run into Caroline again.
I hope so.
I get back to my apartment in downtown Mayfield and change into pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I walk down the stairs to the gym. It’s quiet aside from one other person running on the treadmill—Jake Williams, apartment 2A.
He gives me a nod. “’Sup, man?”
I grab the treadmill next to him. “Not much, just gonna get five miles in.”
Jake nods to the screen. “Ten for me. Almost done though.”
I was lucky enough to find a place quickly. Reed Sinclair sold this place to me a few months back. He bought it when downtown was nothing but crumbling old buildings. Thanks to the revitalization project led by my sister’s fiancé, Tyler, this place is now worth a substantial amount of money. As an investment, I bought the entire building and had it completely renovated.
I pop in my earbuds and punch in my numbers. Setting the pace slow at first.
Mayfield is turning into a thriving town with shops, boutique hotels, cafés, and coffee shops moving in each month. I miss New York and the electricity of the city, but living downtown instead of at my parents’ place gives me the noise I need. Crave.
Speaking of craving. I’ve got a serious hunger for Caroline. She’s been on my mind. More specifically, her legs have been on my mind and I’m haunted by the memory of her sweet peach shaped ass in those running shorts.
And then earlier, standing in front of me at the coffee shop wearing those baggy ripped denim overalls and white tank top showing off her tanned skin.
Her blond hair was a wild tangled mess. It reminded me of just fucked hair. She’s gorgeous, like a sexy librarian and the girl next door r
olled into one fantasy.
Cole Swindell’s “Flatliner” pipes through my headphones and I increase the speed. My feet adjust to the tempo and I lose my thoughts in the music. I’m hoping a good steady run will ease the tension coiling in my body. But all the song does is continue my Caroline Stratton fantasy.
After my workout, I wipe down the treadmill. Once inside my apartment, I drop onto the floor and stretch out my legs, then barrel through three sets of push-ups and sixty crunches.
Blowing out a deep breath I walk to the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. I down half the bottle, but I can use something stronger.
There’s a bar down the street that hosts live music. And tonight, Slate Machine, one of my favorite country bands is playing. I should go out. I don’t know what my schedule will be like once I take the reins at Cardwell Bourbon.
An hour later, after I shower, shave, and dress. Caroline is still on my mind.
Just turn off your brain, push her out of your mind, and walk down to the bar.
I grab my keys and wallet before heading out the door. It’s about two blocks south of my building. It’s a nice warm evening. I pull open the door to Kenton’s and it’s filled up with the after-work crowd but there are a few open seats at the bar.
“Hey, Brant,” Luke, the head bartender, calls out.
I grasp his hand giving it a firm shake. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Just another day in paradise. What can I get you?”
“Bourbon.”
He grins at me. “I knew you’d say that. You want something from the grill too?”
I slide onto the bar stool. “Yeah, I think I should eat before I drink my weight in booze tonight.”
He pours a generous shot of bourbon into the tumbler. More than the recommended two ounces.
Luke slides the drink and a menu card in front of me just as someone slaps me on the shoulder.
Sweet Agony Page 2
