Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance

by Caroline Tate

  So he’s looking for a reaction from me. And that’s exactly what I’m refusing to give him. Rolling my eyes, I open the door and retreat back into the house, heading for my wine glass. If this guy thinks we’re going straight back into how things used to be between us— a twisted game of cat and mouse— he’s sorely mistaken.

  After I hear him move both boxes into the open foyer, he walks in the kitchen and finds me at the counter trying to look busy.

  “I don’t like gestures,” I say plainly. Taking a sip of wine, I feel my heart start to pound at his presence in my kitchen. Five years we went without seeing each other, and this is not okay.

  Stepping closer, he leans against the wall by my refrigerator, eyeing me. Suddenly, I grow hot under his stare. And my evening outfit of lounge leggings and an oversized knit sweater feels way too casual in his all-important presence.

  “Oh, come on, Ri. How do you know it’s a gesture? You haven’t even seen it yet.”

  My stomach swimming with nerves, I shrug and pop open the Merlot to pour myself another drink. Need more alcohol to ease the tension in this room. Immediately.

  “You want any?” I ask, tipping the bottle in his direction. I already know his answer. Just trying to show a little Southern hospitality.

  “Do you have whiskey?”

  Scoffing, I shake my head. “Do I look like I drink whiskey?” Contemplating my own words, I suddenly remember him basically bottle-feeding it to me from his flask in the garden at the Better Lives event five years ago. “Don’t answer that. I don’t. Not any that you would approve of, at least.”

  Cameron scrubs a hand over his jaw, his expression drawing into something sour. “You act like I’m some kind of whiskey monster. I drink wine occasionally.”

  “Great,” I say, flashing him a forced smile. I pour the red into the empty glass meant for Becca. “Here.” Sliding the tumbler over the counter, I watch his face as he grabs it and gulps. His dimples appear in the sour face he’s making, and I absentmindedly lick my sweet, plum-flavored lips wondering what his lips taste like tonight.

  He furrows a brow at me after a few beats. “Fine, you’re right. I don’t love it. But there are people out there that swear by this stuff. You know what Merlot means?” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He walks over to the kitchen sink, setting the glass in it, and starts opening each kitchen drawer, surveying it, closing it, and moving on to the next.

  “No. What’re you—”

  “It’s like a nickname. It means little blackbird in French.”

  Something tight inside me snaps, and I want to challenge his arrogant ease-of-being in my kitchen. Turning to the other side of the room, I plant myself in his path, digging my hip into the drawer he’s about to try opening. “You rummage through everyone’s drawers like this?” I ask, lifting my hardened gaze to his.

  Towering over me, he cocks an eyebrow as if he’s up for the game tonight. “I’ve already been in your drawers, sweetheart. On two separate occasions.”

  As he moves around me to get to the next drawer, my jaw goes slack and my stomach aches with an unnerving fire. Stepping in his path again, I plant my hands behind my back, pinning the next drawer shut. “You’re not funny, Cameron. What are you looking for?”

  He smirks and bends down, his lips hovering just above my hairline. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. And I’m looking,” he whispers, his words staccato and full of heat. Bending closer and reaching over my shoulder, he nearly presses his bicep to the side of my face, and I can’t peel my eyes from him. I feel stuck in a perpetual stupor this close to him. How I can almost feel the electricity of his skin on mine even though we’re not touching. “For this,” he finally says, pulling a knife from the wooden knife block behind me.

  Without a word, he smirks at me like he can read the obnoxiously turned on part of my brain. Slowly taking me by the wrist, it’s as if he’s giving me a chance to retreat. But I don’t. Because this is the first time we’ve had any sort of physical contact in five years, and I don’t completely trust myself right now.

  His grip is strong as he leads me to the foyer, but I can’t help imagining what it would feel like if I let him slide the warmth of his hand down my arm and between my thighs. Good grief, Riley. Shut up!

  Dropping to one knee on the woven runner where the boxes sit, Cameron sighs. “This is how you—”

  “I know how to open a cardboard box,” I interject, my voice now free of anger. “You don’t have to be such an asshole.”

  Smirking, he glances over at me. “Why not? You love assholes.”

  “No, actually. I don’t.” Crossing my arms in defense, I step closer, peering over his shoulder to watch him open the box.

  With a knowing shrug, he dips the tip of the knife into the tape, slicing it the length of the cardboard. “I may be an asshole. But you love me.”

  I scoff as soon as the words leave his lying mouth. I don’t love him. At least I’d never told him such a thing. Besides, how do you love a person you haven’t known for five years? Trying to love someone like Cameron is like trying to light a match in a windstorm. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment if you even attempt such a feat. “You’re delusional. And you weren’t always an asshole.”

  As he slices the second box, he resumes his position towering over me. “Aw. You mean that? That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He motions for me to dig in the boxes.

  “You should’ve warned me, you know,” I say, squatting in front of the cardboard, not wanting to even engage with whatever’s inside it. “About the delivery. I could’ve been in the shower or something.”

  “It’s a pity you weren’t,” he croons, causing my stomach to flip. Again. Asshole.

  “Go on now. Open it.”

  Sighing, I pull open the top. Inside is a large bundle of something wrapped in silver metallic tissue paper. My insides start to churn as realization sets in over what this is. It’s an entire roll of the cinnamon vicuña wool I’d bought earlier today. “What did you do?”

  Digging deeper, there’s another bolt of vicuña. And beneath that, three more bolts. In the next box, I find four bolts of dark-dyed Italian Cashmere wools— all like the ones I’d purchased this morning from Millie. “You’re completely mental,” I say, dazed, my voice flatlined in shock at how much this all would’ve cost him. “This is—” I pull out one of the rolls and run my fingers over the creamy-textured wool. “This is so much more than I bought. Why would you—”

  “Is it?” Cameron asks, cutting me off. He watches me handle the material with a smirk. Reaching over, he tucks a loose section of my hair back behind my shoulder. “I needed to repay you somehow. And you wouldn’t accept money, so—”

  “No.” Shaking my head, I look up at him with a furrowed brow at his ridiculous stunt. “No, Cam. This is practically the whole store. You can’t—” My words fail me. “I can’t accept this.”

  “Interior design, right?” he asks. “Millicent told me a little about what you do.”

  I balk at the thought of her having anything decent to say about me. “I started my own business five years ago.”

  “How did I miss that?” He turns to me and eyes my collarbone.

  “Well, for starters, you dropped off the face of the planet after you jumped headfirst into your grandpa’s whiskey business.”

  He tucks his chin down to his chest and scratches at the back of his head.

  “Look, Cameron. I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

  Shaking his head, he turns to face me. Staring at me for a second, I feel his eyes travel up and down me as if I’m some prize he’s just won. “How about you consider it interest, sweetheart,” he drawls, his eyes suddenly and completely engaged in my concern.

  My breath catches in my throat at his arrogant confidence and his ridiculous use of the sweetheart pet name again. In this moment, I want to deny him. I want to only see him as my brother’s best friend, but I can’t. Instead, I feel a di
stant warmth growing between us as he shifts closer. It’s a warmth I haven’t felt with him in years, and the intoxication of it all comes rushing back to me like a waterfall. Pushing the ideas from my mind, I clear my throat. “Interest?”

  Taking the bolt of wool from me, he lays it back in the box and squares me to him with slow, steady hands. He brushes his fingertips over my collarbone, lingering at my pearl drop necklace as if he’s admiring every single piece of me, how much I’ve changed since we grew up together. He touches the pad of his thumb to my lips, and I let him.

  “What kind of interest?” I ask, trying to pry my eyes from him. But he takes my head between his hands, and I’m stuck in his magnetic hold.

  “Perhaps we can come up with something together,” he whispers, leaning in. And suddenly, he presses his lips to my forehead in some sort of soft, melancholy deliberation, and I can’t help but give in to him.

  Closing my eyes, I sigh in nostalgic pleasure. My heart pounds so fiercely against my ribcage that I swear Cameron can feel it vibrating through me. I want to hug him. I want to reach my arms around him to let him know I never stopped thinking about him for all those years. Each and every one of them. “Good grief,” I whisper, not able to stop myself.

  Pulling his head back, he searches my eyes for something. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head in his hands as he slides his thumbs over my pink cheeks. “Nothing. I just—” Locking eyes with him once more, I swear I’m telling him everything without even meaning to. “I missed you is all,” I whisper, not fully realizing the weight of my words before they rush from my lips to his cheek.

  “Did you?” he hums, his voice hanging on the edge of an euphoric rasp. Tonight, I hear every ounce of joy in his tone like a low, melodious wind chime, the notes hitting me in gentle waves. “That’s probably a good thing. Because I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since I saw you this morning,” he breathes, his words blazing hot against my skin. “And now, here you are in front of me.” He presses his thumb to my mouth again. “With your beautiful, wine-stained lips begging me to kiss them.” He grins and lowers his face to mine. “Might I need to do something about that?” he asks, pushing my hair away from my neck and running his same thumb down my jawline as if he’s admiring my pulse.

  Without even thinking, I nod under his spell. And those three words— I missed you— are all it takes for him to indulge me.

  Without any other ounce of lingering preamble, Cameron’s mouth crashes down against mine in a ravenous brawl of hot, sweet Merlot lips. In an instant, he pulls me flush against his firm body, wrapping his thick arms around my waist. When he backs me up and presses me against the wall of my foyer, I gasp into his mouth, taken by the surprise of him wanting me so fiercely. I relinquish all control as he grabs at the hem of my sweater, ripping it up and over my head with a toss to the floor. My hair goes static against the movement, but he brings a hand up to the back of my head, holding me in place. He plunges his tongue deep into my mouth, searching me, sucking me of everything he’d missed for all those years. And he tastes like wood and syrupy fruit.

  Reaching up I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him as close as I can in my own strength. No matter how much space I’d needed growing up, being around him as an adoring friend, a tagalong girl obsessed with her brother’s best friend. But tonight, I need every inch of him. No space left undiscovered between us.

  When he pushes me back against the wall and pins my wrists to my side with a grunt, his heady, amber scent rolls down me, cradling me in its richness.

  “Cameron,” I moan, sounding out his name in a whisper like I haven’t spoken it in five years. Every. single. syllable.

  When he drops to his knees, I feel a burning low in my tummy. I breathe his name again like it gives me life, like I’m invisible if I don’t let it surround me. And I still don’t know why, but I am inconsolably desperate for this man tonight.

  Before this morning, I hadn’t seen Cameron in five years. Over those years and without even meaning to, I’d find myself craving him, fantasizing him during the late nights spent soaking in a bubble bath or sprawled out alone watching TV Land reruns on television. Or even more embarrassingly, during sex with other men— even though that’s not a polite thing to do, I couldn’t help myself. Because it somehow felt easier to imagine it was him inside me.

  “Cam,” I say again as his lips travel down my sternum, planting kisses until he reaches my breasts. But I’m burning for him tonight. I feel like a fire, fanned and ready to spread. A wildfire ripping through a dry forest, flames licking, devouring everything in its path of innocence.

  Running my fingers through his thick hair, I push his head further down, not wanting him to take his time tonight. I’ve been craving him for so long now. And now that I finally have him, I can’t wait a second longer. He grunts at this realization and skims his lips down my abdomen. I claw at the back of his shirt, pulling it up his back and over his head. I rub my palms as far down his back as I can reach just for skin-to-skin contact. His muscles form grooves, his body hot and white against the dimming light of the evening that floods in through the windows of the dark foyer.

  “You’re an eager little bird tonight, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He purrs deep as he reaches around and plants his palms on my ass overtop my leggings, kneading me in glorious ways.

  “Stop calling me that,” I say between breaths.

  “Yes, ma'am,” he grins, planting another series of kisses down my tummy.

  Feeling his lips on my skin makes me tremble, my knees starting to grow weak. I feel like I could split right in two, break open like a firework exploding out into the night with all the heat and excitement built up inside me. Planting my hands in his hair, I steer him further down me, desperately wanting him to have me tonight.

  “I love how horny you are,” he growls between nips at my tummy.

  “Shut up,” I whisper, nearly breathless from the anticipation of him tasting me.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He traces his nose further down my tummy until he reaches the elastic band of my leggings. With his teeth, he bites the black elastic and peels my leggings down further until I can’t stand it any longer. In my current state of lust, his pace is excruciating, and while he may want to take it slow, I’m starved for him. I nudge his face away from my stomach and roll my leggings to my ankles, stepping out of them. Grabbing his bicep, I pull on his arm, and he follows me over to the living room.

  “Hey, now. Pace yourself, sweetheart,” he teases, sweeping me up with a grunt. Carrying me over, he plops me onto the tufted sofa with a generous laugh causing me to squeal in delight. I can’t help but smile at his playfulness as he descends upon me, admiring my nearly naked body like I’m some sort of lounging shrine he’s never laid eyes on before. “I’ve been wanting to taste you since that night at the Gordon House.”

  Propping up onto my elbows, I furrow my brow at him. “The night of the white tie?” I say breathless, acting like it’s a stretch for me to even remember what happened that night. But it’s not. I remember every last detail.

  Dropping to his knees, he nods, parts my legs, and pulls me closer to him, sending a shiver through me. Lifting my legs up, he drapes them over his shoulders, one-by-one, and kisses each of my thighs, sliding his palms down the outside of my legs. “Better Lives Charity Ball. You were wearing that white dress.”

  “Gown,” I say.

  “Hm?” His eyes grow wide and his stare is salacious.

  “Gown. Not a dress, Cam.”

  “Did you ever get the wine stain out of it?”

  Inwardly rolling my eyes, I lift my head and stare at him, setting my face in stone. “If you didn’t have the decency to ask me five years ago, why do you care now?”

  Cameron blinks at me as if he doesn’t understand.

  “Will you just hurry up and—” I let my voice trail off and lay my head back. I’m a well, full to the brim. And he’s about to taste water for the first time. I chew on my
bottom lip to give my mouth something to do besides yearn for him.

  Looking up at me from between my legs, his expression is one of euphoric intrigue. “You’re not very patient tonight. You usually like to take things slow.”

  Squirming under the pressure of his grasp, I blurt out into the dark living room something I’d been thinking ever since he walked into my house tonight. “I can’t go slow with you.”

  Raising an eyebrow, his grin caps a guttural groan. “Is that a promise, sweetheart?”

  Suddenly, the doorbell rings, freezing us both in our tracks. After a split-second of silence, Cameron leans in as if he’s going to finish going down on me, but I wiggle free. “Stop!” I screech as quietly as I can. “It’s Becca.”

  “Who?” Cameron pulls away from me.

  “My assistant,” I say, scrambling for my sweater and leggings at the front door. “Just a second,” I call out to the closed door.

  Cameron’s behind me, but when I turn, I have to work to corral him back through the foyer to the kitchen. He’ll leave through the side door, because there is no freaking way I’m telling Becca what almost just went down in here.

  “Are you kicking me out, Pratt?” he whispers harsh. As if teasing and leaving is so far out of the realm of possibility for him.

  “No.” I sling my sweater back on, my hair frizzing wild under the fabric. “Fine, yes. Go on already.” Climbing back into my leggings, I nudge my shoulder into him to get him moving toward the side door again, and we’re a tangle of frantic whispers.

  Pausing, he grins at me and tilts his head inquisitively. “Hear me out. Am I at liberty to think about what just almost happened back there? Because that makes me want to do some very dirty things,” he drawls.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he looks at his watch. “Can I take you out then? That’s the least you owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you anything,” I snap. “Your dog—”