Sweet Agony

by Christy Pastore

  He shoves a hand into my hair and kisses me. “Good. We’ll discuss the details in the morning over breakfast.”

  My arms snake over his shoulders. “Fine by me. Now let’s get back to this making out business.”

  Brant

  Caroline’s resting on her side and the faint light casts a shadow over her beautiful skin. I’ve been awake for a half an hour. Her hand is tucked under the pillow and her blond hair is piled on top of her head.

  She stirs and rolls onto her back. I resist the temptation to kiss her. Instead I ease off the bed.

  There wasn’t a thing that I could do about my feelings for Caroline back in the day, but I can do something now. I can explore them, which at the moment are completely overwhelming. And my chest aches—in a good way.

  I make my way down the hallway toward the living room. I scoop up my t-shirt and tug it over my head.

  “Alexa, play my morning briefing.”

  The latest news and weather play in the background as I shuffle around my kitchen. I walk to the coffee maker and refresh the water and fill up the beans.

  I peer into the fridge and then the pantry. Fuck. Nothing. I should have picked up some fresh muffins from the bakery over in Mayfield when I was there yesterday morning.

  There’s a coffee shop on the corner that sells baked goods. I slip on my Nike’s and run down the stairs and out the door.

  It’s raining, so I do a full sprint to the coffee shop.

  I push open the door and the bells chime out. The barista waves to me. “Welcome to Paska Coffee and Company.”

  “Morning,” I say, as I step up to the counter. “Two cheese danish and two plain bagels. Cream cheese on the side.”

  “All right,” she says. “Any coffee with that?”

  I shake my head. “Not today.”

  She bags up my order and then rings me up. I pay and I’m out the door in five minutes. As I run back to my place, Caroline’s words from last night come back.

  “I don’t eat cake because of you.”

  When I stop outside my door, I glance at the bag. Danish isn’t cake. It’s fine. I unlock the door and step inside.

  “Morning,” Caroline says, her voice is low and raspy.

  She’s standing in my kitchen wearing my shirt again. Fuck me, she’s stunning.

  “Hi,” I say and set the bag on the counter.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Cheese danish and a couple bagels. You like carbs?”

  She nods. “Yeah, but I’m in need of coffee. I’m afraid I don’t know how to work your industrial contraption.”

  I laugh. “I’ll make you a cup if you grab us some plates from the cupboard—the one by the double ovens.”

  I pull down two mugs, making one for her and then one for myself. Caroline busies herself with the task of plating the food while I plug in the toaster for the bagels.

  She slides onto the barstool at the end of the island. I sit next to her.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” she answers, before taking a bite of her danish.

  “Why don’t you eat cake because of me?”

  She blinks up at me. “Do you remember when you surprised me at the movie theater . . . cupcake in hand?”

  “Yeah, it was your birthday.”

  She laughs and bobs her head. “Yeah, well, after you blew me off . . . or so I thought, now I know the truth”—she bumps her shoulder against me—“I’m considering cake again, in all forms.”

  I tip my coffee mug to my mouth. “Good to hear.”

  She smiles and props her foot up on the barstool. “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

  I set my mug back onto the counter. “Shoot.”

  “Where are we going on our date and when?”

  I wink at her. “How about tonight?”

  She cuts into the flakey crust for another bite. “I can’t tonight. It’s our last wedding of the season and I have to be there to oversee the festivities.”

  “How are things going with the events?”

  “So far so good. It feels odd to say the wedding season is over in mid-August. But we haven’t been open for long. I’m grateful for the small success that we’ve had. I’m ready for the down season, honestly. But if Ma has her way, we’ll be expanding year-round—booking hayrides for the fraternities and sororities at Elliston. Concerts. Oktoberfest events. Christmas village type stuff. She wants to have an ice sculpture contest. Can you imagine?”

  “That all sounds pretty great to me. I can probably get you a discount on bourbon if you need it.”

  “I might take you up on that because I had an idea,” she says, and swipes the napkin across her lips. “My great-grandparents used to host secret moonshine tastings and game nights during the days of Prohibition. I thought it might be fun to have a reenactment of sorts. I’m still working out the details, but I’d like to do something in their memory.”

  “Sounds cool to me.”

  “Are you ready to take the lead at Cardwell Bourbon?”

  I blow out a deep breath. “I had a lot of time to think about it, so I feel like I’m completely ready. I just hope I can do as good of a job as my pop.”

  She raises her coffee mug. “You will. It’s the job you were born for—literally.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, we’ll see. So, how about I come hang out with you tonight. Is that allowed or will I be considered a wedding crasher?’

  She smiles over the rim of her mug. “You can come hang out with me. I’m the boss.”

  “Do you like being the boss?”

  I ask the question already knowing the answer because pride fills her voice and her face lights up.

  “It has its moments for sure, but yeah, when someone calls and thanks me for making their wedding day so special—it’s a feeling that I can’t describe. As far as managing people, that has been one of the most challenging aspects of being the boss.”

  I swallow and nod. “I know what you mean, managing people isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ve seen some really awesome managers . . . bosses and I’ve seen some total train wrecks. When I was first starting out, I had a manager that would borrow authority. Using the old phrase—’I’m not the only one who feels this way.’ Some how he felt it provided more validation to his concerns.”

  Caroline scoffs. “Yeah, there was a teacher like that at the high school. She’s gone now, thankfully, because she was a complete bitch.”

  “Speaking of women acting like assholes,” I drawl. “What’s up between you and those two gals from last night? Sorry, I can’t remember their names.”

  “Courtney Leigh and Whitney. They were terrible shrews in high school—I’ll spare you all the mean girls’ drama.”

  “You handled them pretty well, I thought.”

  She laughs and slaps her palm against the table. “Yeah, I was doing a stellar job. And that’s why you rode in on your white horse and told them we’re dating.”

  I layered my hand on top of hers. “We are dating,” I remind her.

  “Were you serious about coming to my reunion with me?” she asks, meeting my eyes.

  “I am. I’d love to go with you.”

  “I’m not even sure that I want to go.”

  “Why not?” I ask and take another bite.

  She laughs and stabs at her danish. “I know that not everyone is the same person that they were when they were teenagers. Most of us have changed and evolved, but I make an effort to see the people I want to see and going out of my way to reunite with people I wasn’t close to seems odd and insincere.”

  “I totally get why you say that. I spent most of my ten-year reunion listening to people talk about their kids and accomplishments. Two of my closest friends couldn’t make it—one was out of town on business and the other had concert tickets.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think Jillian will make it. You might remember her, she was my best friend back in the day. She and her husband live in Chicago. Last time I talked to my ot
her friend, Olivia, she was dead set on not attending. High school was hell for her. And now that I think about it, I haven’t seen her since the fourth of July. Man, I should call her.”

  “I think the last person that I chatted with on the phone was my brother, Weston. And that was weeks ago.”

  “I hate talking on the phone,” she admits and polishes off the last of her pastry. I watch as her mouth closes around the tines of the fork.

  Damn. Everything she does is sexy.

  I sip my coffee. “Me too. I’ve been to many meetings that could have just been an email and that’s how I feel when a phone call could have been a text.”

  Caroline bobs her head and laughs. “Right? Like with a text you avoid all the unnecessary, time-consuming small talk and greetings. You just get right to the point.”

  I wipe my mouth on the napkin and stand. “What time do you have to be home?”

  She glances at the microwave for the time. “I’ve got some time. My mother is taking care of Julep, that’s my dog. Why? What did you have in mind?”

  I pull Caroline from the barstool. “Back to my bed. I wanna do a little more making out before you leave me.”

  “I like that idea.”

  She rolls up onto her tiptoes and her lips move over mine and my pulse pounds in my ears. She wiggles against me as my hands knead the globes of her ass. Caroline has a great ass. It’s firm and that perfect peach shape. I spent a fair amount of time staring at it while she was on the dance floor last night. And familiarizing myself with it during our make out session.

  “Brant,” she moans.

  That’s all it takes for me to scoop her up and carry her off to my bed.

  Caroline

  It’s been four hours since my make out session with Brant and I still feel his lips on mine.

  I never dreamed that things would escalate so quickly with him. Never dreamed I’d get to actually kiss him. And his kisses are so good.

  That first night when I saw him, if you would have told me that we’d be making out days later I would have laughed my ass off.

  Julep comes running into the bathroom as I’m curling my hair. “Hey, girl. It’s about time for your dinner, yeah?”

  Tonight’s wedding reception starts at seven. The bride and groom chose a late afternoon ceremony at one of the local Baptist chapels. I had exactly thirty minutes to get over to the barn and open it up for the catering staff.

  I let Julep out the back door to do her business while I dump some food in her bowl. She hurries back making a beeline for her food dish.

  And just like Julep, I scurry back to the bathroom and finish curling my hair. A few more curls and a quick fluff, I’m ready to get to work.

  “Ma will be here to take you out in a few hours. Don’t wait up, girl.”

  After I make sure that Julep is all set with fresh water and a few treats, I pull open the back door and trek up to the barn.

  The catering crew is right on time. The metal slide of the door sends an excited shiver up my spine. The fragrant scent from the flowers washes over me as I enter the barn.

  The cocktail tables are bourbon barrels anchored on top of iron stands. Each barrel has a circular wooden table top. In the middle of each table are glass vases filled with assorted wildflowers. The tealights give off a warm glow as soft music pipes in from the sound system.

  I grab my agenda just before Chrissy, the caterer, checks in with me. As the final touches are underway, my phone vibrates with a text message from the wedding coordinator. She lets me know that pictures are wrapping up at the church and that the guests are on their way.

  “Appetizers are ready to go,” Chrissy tells me.

  “Great. Thanks.” I pivot toward the bar. “Hey, Billy,” I call out. “How’s the booze situation?”

  He gives me a thumbs up and takes a pull from his beer bottle.

  I side-eye him. “No drinking on the job.”

  He scoffs. “Please, you and I both know that every single female here tonight is gonna have me doing shots with them right after the father-daughter dance.”

  I shake my head. He isn’t wrong. Billy’s nickname is Mister Tonight. He’s not exactly Mister Right or Mister Right Now. He’s just the guy for that night.

  On my way to the stage where the band will set up, I stop midstride when I see Brant walk through the side door of the barn.

  Holy gah . . . he’s wearing a suit. His body was made for Levi’s, but holy shit if he doesn’t give suit porn a run for its money.

  I’m frozen to my spot until Brant’s eyes find me. Then somehow, I manage to move one foot in front of the other. He looks insanely hot wearing a black suit with a crisp white shirt. The top two buttons are undone and exposing a dark smattering of hair. The proper amount.

  When I’m standing in near him, it takes all my self-control not to pull his lips to mine and drag him into my bedroom.

  “Wow,” he says, raking his eyes over me from head to toe. “You look amazing . . . like super-hot.”

  My hands smooth over my sleeveless black, Mulberry shift dress. I get all my dresses from a website called, Rent from My Sister’s Closet dot com.

  “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  His smile widens. “This old thing.”

  Reaching for him I hold back a scoff, because I know that for Brant being a financial guy in Manhattan, this suit came with a four-figure price tag. The fabric is soft, like silk under my fingertips.

  His lips fuse to mine and a loud whistle hits my ears. I don’t mind one bit.

  “So,” he says, digging his fingers into my hips. “Can I help you out or do I need a work permit?”

  I laugh against his lips. “You sit right here at the end of the bar for now. Billy, this guy is my guest so you get him anything he wants from the Cranberry Ridge stash.”

  Brant cuts his gaze toward me. “You have a stash?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Bourbon, whiskey, vodka, beer, and wine. I keep plenty on hand for emergencies. It’s all legal. Sorry, no Cardwell Bourbon, though.”

  He smirks. “Not yet anyway.” Brant takes a seat on one of the stools at the end of the bar and I can’t help it, my eyes drop to his lap as his dress pants stretch across his thick thighs.

  The vibrations from my cellphone pull me from my Brant induced haze. Jet Keddie’s name comes up on my screen. He’s the lead guitarist for the band, Bourbon Dixie.

  “Hey, Jet, what’s up?”

  “Caroline, hey, bad news, Duke’s dad had a heart attack and he has to fly home to Ashville.”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. What can I do?”

  He blows out a heavy breath. “We’re pulling up now, but we don’t have a lead singer. Gracie can sing about half the set list. I can take the lead on two songs. Boone is only backup vocals.”

  My fingers splay against my forehead. “Okay, okay, just come on in and we’ll figure something out.”

  “Okay, see ya soon,” he says.

  The call ends and tap my phone to my forehead.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod and feel the tension rising in my shoulders. “I just have a little problem with the band.”

  Brant pulls me toward him. “No one’s around, sugar. So why don’t you gimme a kiss? That’ll help ease your tension.”

  My eyes dart around the space as his hands slide down the sides of my ribs. I nearly crumble in his arms.

  I lick my lips and a smile breaks out on his face.

  His lips press to mine and most of the tension evaporates. A heavy cloud of desire winds its way up my spine and replaces the stress. Brant wraps his arms around my waist as he deepens our kiss.

  Before we take it any further, the band comes in the side door equipment in hand.

  “Brant Cardwell?” Boone shouts from the doorway.

  “Well, if it isn’t Boone Russell. How you doing, man?”

  Boone dumps his stuff at the stage edge and hustles toward us. “Holy crap, I heard you were back in tow
n.”

  Brant stands and gives Boone the “man hug.” “Yeah, I’m going to work at the distillery.”

  My gaze pings between the two of them. “How do y’all know each other?”

  Boone smiles. “Brant used to help me and my pa bail hay.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. “You did?”

  He nods. “Yep, helped mend the pasture fences after the tornado touched down back in 2001.”

  Boone smiles and clasps Brant’s shoulder. “Helped with the barn repairs too.”

  “Didn’t know you were so good with manual labor,” I joke.

  He cocks a brow. “I’m very good with my hands. Handy guy to have around.”

  I feel my insides heat. Because I know that he is in fact good with his hands.

  Jet and Gracie join us at the bar and they start chatting about their lack of a lead singer and start discussing the set list.

  Boone drags his gaze to Brant. “You still sing, Brant?”

  Brant laughs. “Only in my shower.”

  “Back in the day, we used to go down to Mayfield Falls. We’d load up the trucks with coolers of beer, light up a fire and this guy”—Boone pats Brant on the back—“would play the guitar and sing all night.”

  Brant Cardwell sings? Holy hell.

  “What do you sing?” Jet asks.

  “Just about anything from Brooks and Dunn to The Eagles.”

  “Take a look at the set list,” Gracie says and slides it toward Brant.

  Brant glances at the paper before picking it up. He’s quiet for a few moments.

  “Okay, I can sing this one.” He points to the sheet of paper. “And if we take the tempo a little slower on this one, I’ll knock their socks off. I can definitely lay down some Kenny Chesney.”

  Boone clasps his hands together. “Fantastic. Let’s go warm up.”

  Brant turns to face me. “Guess it was a good thing I came here tonight,” he says.

  I smile and nod. “Can’t wait to hear you sing.”

  He lowers his mouth to my ears. “Let me know if you have any requests, darlin’.” He kisses the corner of my mouth and squeezes my ass.

  My smile is wide and slow. “Maybe you could give me a private encore?”