Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance

by Caroline Tate

  Whiskey Heart

  An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance

  Caroline Tate

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  13. Songbird Preview: Chapter 1 Ellie

  14. Chapter 2 Ellie

  15. Chapter 3 Mason

  Also By Caroline Tate

  About the Author

  Thank You!

  Copyright © 2018 by Caroline Tate

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.CarolineTate.com

  Chapter 1

  With the click of my heels on the cobblestone sidewalk, I navigate the frigid walk from Bay Street to Savannah City Market with the shame of last night’s one night stand weighing heavy on my mind. Normally, I take pride in the fact that I’m not a no-strings-attached type of girl. Seriously, just call me a marionette when it comes to sex and relationships... I need all the strings. I’ll take the awkward first dates and the obsessive text messaging any day. The overpacked baggage and the mindless girlfriend duties, and everything else that comes along with being in a committed relationship. Because that’s what I’m good at, and that’s all I’ve known my entire life. Except for last night.

  Oh, good grief. Last night: My first (and last) one night stand. Don’t get me wrong. The inner sex goddess in me is currently high-fiving myself, because I should be proud of scoring. But my Southern belle outer shell is screaming at the top of her pretty little suppressed lungs.

  The truth is, I didn’t mean for the casual one-off to happen. I just got lost in the moment, I guess. That huge, beautiful moment of being adored by a stranger presented itself to me in between watermelon negronis on the heated balcony of Arabella’s Nightclub. Because when a cute Silicon Valley startup whiz asks if he can play you a round or two in Virtual Reality Mario Kart, you obviously say yes. So I found myself falling into the back of a taxi with him just before he ushered me into his downtown condo. And only then did I realize the ramifications.

  But what can I say? The sex was good. Not the best I’ve ever had. But when you’re twenty-nine and single (and head over heels horn-balling it, though I shouldn’t admit that), no amount of tech trickery is too much in my book.

  Maybe in my next life I could enjoy the kind of satisfaction a one night stand type of lifestyle has to offer. But for now? I’m still Riley Pratt. Straight-laced rule abider. Self-starter interior designer. And motivated southern chick with a killer resting bitch face. Just busting my hump to make my own way of life in Savannah without sticking out like a sore thumb. Still glued to this beautifully haunted city that knows me a little too well in all the intruding ways. And at least, for now, I know better than to let myself regularly taste the one night stand type of freedom. Never again.

  From the outside looking in, the storefront of Millicent’s Couture appears like any other shop downtown. It’s quintessential, old town welcoming vibe is the art and soul of Savannah, Georgia. The white-washed brick and distressed stoop of the shop is nestled behind a row of sweeping oak trees that are bathed in a collage of autumn leaves. A vibrant pop of red mums is potted in a farmhouse bucket and occupies the step to the front door of the shop. And the scent of cold, spiced chai from the ice creamery down the street blankets the entire block. Running a hand through my slept-in, still-tangled hair, I hug my pea coat tighter to me and check my phone one last time before stepping inside the shop.

  The ding of the bell above the door is faint and sends a quick shiver down my spine as I enter. “Hello?” I call out into the inventory-crowded space. Miss Millie is nowhere in sight, so I head straight for the wools.

  Inside, Millicent’s Couture is a whimsical, rundown place that’s packed to the brim with the finest culled fabrics from around the world. The entire shop is lined with metal shelves that contain bolt upon bolt of textiles— cottons, lace, linens, furs, and silk. Novelty and trims— all of it in every imaginable color and pattern. Luxuriously Yours is her brand slogan. Some of these fabrics— like the specific bolt of Italian Cashmere Wool I find and immediately consider for my client— will cost me a few hundred dollars. Per yard.

  “Luxuriously broke,” I whisper to myself, sarcasm dripping from me this morning. “Hi, Miss Millie,” I call out again hoping to rouse her. Moving down to the specialty shelf, I finger the vicuña wool. Tucking a wayward strand of blonde hair behind my ear, I look up and finally catch a glimpse of the little old lady milling about. She emerges from her office to straighten the fabric wreaths and holiday draperies in the front window. “Miss Millie?” I call out once more, a little louder this time.

  She doesn’t hear me or is blatantly ignoring me. Either could be true. But over the past six years, I've learned she has a habit of being rude to some of her customers. Including myself. And that’s something only an older Southern woman can get away with in these parts of the city.

  Focusing my attention back to the matter at hand, I consider the vicuña wool— soft and delicate. Cinnamon-hued, and not unlike the color of last night’s handsome brunette. As I glance at the handwritten price tag hanging off it, I swallow hard and am immediately sobered. Crazy as it sounds, a few yards of this fabric would nearly deplete my personal bank account. But my client, Selene Langford, has hired me to decorate the entire downstairs of her mansion for the winter months. She wants new pillows and specialty curtains and a reupholstered armchair. And while this official holiday sprucing is a yearly tradition for her, she wants to go all out this year. Some may think it ridiculous, but I don’t blame her. If I was made of old money the way she is, I’d probably do the same after a remodel.

  Besides that, Selene is notorious for her annual Christmas gala in December, inviting only the wealthiest and most privileged from all over the city. And believe me when I say she belongs to a glimmering social circle. Thrilling her with the outcome of this interior project could really drum up some top-dollar clients for RP Designs, the interior design business I started after college. I’ve worked for Selene for two years now, and she’s made it clear as crystal that this gig is the most important one I’ve done for her. The gala will be her unveiling of the new downstairs. A christening of it, if you will. And her words ring through my head as I run my fingers over the exquisite wool. “Riley, dear. This could be the pinnacle of your career. If my friends want you, all of Savannah will want you.”

  Pulling the half-empty bolt of Italian cashmere wool from the rack, I tuck it under my arm and keep searching. Heading to the silk aisle, I stop at the golds. Yellow gold or rose gold? Last year we went with a crimson dye. But from our conversations, Selene sounded thrilled at the idea of gold to accent her new living quarters.

  “Good morning, Miss Bischoff,” I hear someone say. It’s a man’s voice— odd for a shop like this. Especially so early in the morning. He speaks again. I can’t make out what he’s sa
ying, but I hear that Southern twang in him. Familiar and deep as an aged bourbon. Regardless of who it is, I shake my head knowing he’s in for a rude awakening, because being ignored by Miss Millie straight-up stings. Doesn’t matter who you are.

  “Hi there, honey. How are you today?”

  Scoffing, I furrow my brow. Stalking further down the aisle, I peek to see who in the heck could have garnered such a dramatic response from her, but they’re both hidden by the massive display of quilting supplies right by the checkout counter.

  Not once has that lady asked how I am. In fact, I can’t remember an occasion where she’s spoken more than ten words to me. Ever!

  “I’m good, I’m good. How are you, ma’am? I like what you’ve got going on here,” he says, his voice now a few shades quieter. And a few shades too charming, if you ask me. No way this man is actually hitting on Millie. Good grief.

  “Excellent, honey. Look, I’ve got everything ready for you. Just had to gather it. And I threw in a few fabric swatches you can give her.”

  My jaw drops. I’ve asked Millie for fabric swatches multiple times. Never has she given in to my request without harping on the extra charge. I feel a heat climbing up the back of my neck at how stupid this is. Who in the heck is this man? So special that he gets the red-carpet treatment from Millie. What is he? The freaking mayor?

  “That's why you’re the best,” the man replies with a chuckle. “Thank you.”

  The register rings, and Millie laughs— also something I’ve never heard her do. Turning, I head back down the aisle, moving over to the next one so I can get a clear view of this man wooing the unwooable.

  “Oh, one more thing. I’ll bring it up front. Just a second,” Millie says.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I have to stand on tiptoes to peer between two wayward bolts of white lace. I can’t see much. But I can tell it is most definitely not the mayor. Someone much younger which causes me to roll my eyes even harder. He’s tall and wears a black baseball cap and a tight white T-shirt. Doesn’t he realize how chilly it is outside? I tug my coat tighter around me, suddenly self-conscious even though he can’t see me. My eyes travel from his well-built upper back across his broad shoulders and down his muscled arms. I can feel the masculinity and ego radiating off of him from here. Absentmindedly, I lick my vanilla-glossed lips. And then, when my eyes finally focus on the whole of him from behind, I notice it. Beneath his arm is tucked a wide, wiggling corgi bottom.

  Suddenly, as if I’ve been caught snooping, I snap my eyes back to the fabric and pop down below eye-level. Millie doesn’t even allow dogs in here! I once witnessed her calling the non-emergency police when a woman brought a teacup chihuahua through her doors. And that dog was swaddled inside her purse!

  “Freaking sellout,” I whisper, madly brushing my frizzy hair from my face. Sure, the guy’s hot. But no one is so handsome that they deserve special privileges. Clearing my throat, I wrinkle my nose out of annoyance.

  “Hello?” the man asks, his voice aimed in my direction.

  My eyes grow wide as marbles as I realize he’s probably just heard me. With the bolt of fabric still weighing me down, I speed walk back toward the end of the shop, disappearing into the button and trim aisle.

  “Here you go, honey,” I hear Millie say with a hint of sugary sweet sadness in her voice as she comes out of her office. Honey, honey, honey.

  “Bye now, Miss Bischoff.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes at their entire exchange. Had Millie seriously just pulled a Mother Theresa over some muscle-bound pretty boy and his precious corgi? I assumed she had more Southern wit about her than that, but apparently not.

  After the honey hunk leaves, I circle back around and pull the vicuña wool from the shelf, heading toward the cutting station. As I approach, the bolts of expensive wares threaten to spring forth and fall from my arms. With a sigh, I dredge up my Southern manners and smile at Millie who is flipping through a textile magazine at the checkout counter. “Hi, Miss Millie,” I say. “I just need a few cuts this morning, please. If you don’t mind?”

  She grumbles something and shakes her head. “Just a minute.”

  Closing my eyes, I decide that if I was a hot piece of man, maybe she’d be more apt to help me. Laying the bolts down, I unbutton my coat, the warmth of the shop now getting to me. Checking my phone in my purse, I tell myself I’m not hoping to hear from last night’s mystery tech whiz. I vaguely remember tapping my number into his phone before sex, but that could just be wishful thinking on my part.

  Millie trundles over to the counter, her silver hair in a staunch bun. “How much?” she asks, her voice deadpan. She pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Seven yards of the pine green and rose gold, and four yards of the vicuña, please.” I grimace at the thought of how much this will cost. Thank goodness for my company credit card.

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “It’s luxury,” she says, laying a protective hand on the wool as if she doesn’t want me to have it. She might as well backhand me with the tagline of her shop. And I know what she’s trying to say. You can’t afford this.

  And she’s right. But still.

  “Yes, ma’am. My client wants only the best. I figure you’re the only shop in the city that fits the bill,” I add on as polite as I can manage.

  Millie doesn’t respond. Instead, she measures the material and makes the cuts, pinning each fabric and placing them in separate paper bags.

  Not remembering my manners, I lean over the counter closer to her. “Miss Millie, who was that man?” I ask, not realizing the words as they pass over my lips.

  Millie purses her lips and shakes her head in a quick there’s no way I'm answering that gesture. “Your total,” she says, sliding a hand-calculated piece of paper across the counter to me. And I nearly faint as I read the over-fourteen thousand dollar total. But then I remember— this is what Selene wants. Only the best.

  After paying, I struggle to gather all my bags as well as my purse. I consider making two separate trips to my car but decide it’ll annoy Millie if she has to see me again when I circle back around for the rest of my stuff.

  A biting breeze swoops around me once I’m outside. I breathe in the heady scent of cinnamon and fall leaves as I head west toward my parked car. There’s something magical about late fall in the South. More specifically, Savannah. It transforms from a hot, steaming nymph of summer to a breezy, chilled goddess of autumn. A stocky dad with his two little girls who are wearing black witch hats with green, elaborately-painted faces trundle past me. Smiling, I think of falls past— bonfires and s’mores on Tybee Island, hayrides out at the Grayson Farm, the haunted streets of downtown Savannah that carry her eerie character so well.

  My cell phone suddenly rings, pulling my mind from the past. Carefully, I edge a bag of fabric from my left arm to my right. Lifting my knee, I try to maneuver one more bag over so I can fish for my phone, but this won’t work. Carefully, I move over on the sidewalk next to the ledge of the toy shop where I’m able to place the bags down. Rummaging through my purse, I retrieve my phone.

  “Hey, is everything okay?” I ask Becca, my assistant. I’m not expecting to hear from her til at least noon.

  “I just got off the phone with Victoria Mace,” Becca says, her voice sounding panicked. “And Lord, I don’t know how you deal with that woman sometimes. She’s a nut.”

  “Totally,” I sympathize. “What did she say?”

  “Welp. I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you Victoria decided she wants to change her entire color scheme for the suite,” Becca sighs. “Three weeks before project deadline. Can you believe it?”

  Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. My mind is not quite in a place to be dealing with client drama so early this morning. “Yeah, that sounds about right. We’ll have to accommodate her, Becca. Unfortunately, we have no choice.”

  She lets out a wavering breath. “I know. At least it’s her wallet we’re b
urning, I guess? If there is an upside.”

  And then it hits me. If she’s changing her color palette, she could want a redo on everything. Furrowing my brow, I turn and look down the street. It looks like it could rain any second now, the clouds fat like tufts of cotton. “Does she still want the staircase?” I ask hesitantly. She’d requested a custom-made spiral staircase. We went over this a hundred times to get it right. Wrought-iron, imported from France. And my stomach clenches thinking about her wanting something different now.

  “No staircase. It’s the wrong color.”

  “Maybe we could have it painted,” I huff.

  “I tried that on her, too. She said some spiritual healer told her black isn’t a color she should be focusing on. Apparently black means closure? Which is news to me. But she says she’s not ready for it to be anywhere near her.”

  “Oh, good grief.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and tilt my head skyward. Neither of us will say it aloud, but that’s a ten thousand dollar staircase. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” I say at Becca’s nervous laughter. “We’ll just have to use it for a different project or something. We’ll off-load it somehow.”

  Suddenly, as if in slow motion coming from behind me, I hear paper rip and a low, elated series of growls. Spinning around, I gasp in horror as it takes my mind a few seconds to catch up to the scene I’ve just discovered: My thousands of dollars in fabric are being strewn over the dusty sidewalk. By a freaking corgi.

  Chapter 2

  “No, no no!” I yelp just before hanging up on Becca. My stomach crashes in horror at the scene unfolding in front of me. Dropping my purse to the sidewalk, I frantically grab at the fabric to keep it off the ground, but the little shit of a corgi has a strong hold on it. “Hey, stop that!” I shout as if there’s any chance he understands me. But he’s not listening. Switching gears completely, I put on the sweetest voice I can muster. “Let go, puppy. Come on, please,” I sing sounding like a sugary frenzy through gritted teeth. But the dog keeps backing away, the fabric tight in his jaws, his haunches engaged and determined to not let me have what’s mine. And it’s in this moment that I realize: I’m losing in life to a dog.