Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance

by Caroline Tate

  “A long month,” I remind her, knowing exactly what she’s implying. It’s a nod to the whole turns out I really was just another one of his Savannah chicks non-blowup with Cameron. Non-blowup because I never approached him about it. I just let our feigned relationship or non-relationship dissolve into winter. Putting the car into drive, I hook a right out of Selene’s private driveway toward the flower shop. “I’m headed to the florist right now. I need to place an order for a few clients. One needs staging for her condo, and the other needs,” I let my words sink with a lingering exhale, not even having the energy to finish my thought.

  Becca hums in concern. “Greenery?”

  “Yep, that's the one. That’s the word I was looking for.”

  Becca drops her tone, becoming serious. “You okay, Riley? I know things have been weird for you lately. But if you want to talk, I’m always here.”

  I smile through the phone, though I doubt she can hear it in my voice. “Thanks, Becca. Everything’ll be fine. Not too much more to put up with today, though I doubt I'll be back to the office anytime soon, so enjoy your evening. But call me if anything else comes up, okay?”

  I hadn't paid much attention to the new address when Becca sent it to me earlier this afternoon. But as the GPS on my phone leads me down Shore Road, I realize the potential magnitude that this client holds. I wonder, for a second, if Selene hadn’t recommended me to one of her socialite friends. Because this neighborhood isn’t made up of commoners by Selene’s standards.

  The road is dotted with huge, beautiful two and three-floor homes that look straight out of a charming little storybook. When I pull onto the black-paved driveway of Lucinda’s house, I first notice the swath of massive live oak trees surrounding the property, stately and whimsical, like they’ve been reaching out to one another their whole lives. Grabbing my bag from the back seat, I feel tiny against the backdrop of the house. I ascend the warped stairs of the wraparound porch to the front door. It’s navy as a bruise and scuffed at the bottom, worn from years of use with no touch ups. But it has character, and the color of it pulls me into the rustic farmhouse atmosphere of the place.

  I ring the brass doorbell. Catching a wayward glimpse of myself in the half-window that frames the door, I run a hand through my hair and quickly straighten myself. Followed by a quick lipgloss check, pressing my nervous lips together. As I compose myself, I take three deep and calming breaths. But when the door opens, I’m met not by a woman named Lucinda. But by the 6-foot 4-inch towering figure that is Cameron Alden.

  Opening my mouth to speak, I can't get my words to form. Stammering, I cock my head at him and force out the one question I’m able to ask right now. “What in the freak are you doing here?”

  But before he answers, I come to a disturbing realization, and my stomach plummets to my toes. I know exactly what he's doing here. Or who he’s doing here. He must literally be doing Lucinda Dankovich.

  Furrowing my brow, I shake my head at him. “Looks like I was right,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest in defense.

  Lifting an eyebrow he ducks his head. “What were you right about?”

  I roll my eyes and study him. This man doesn't look guilty at all. But then I remember he does this all the time, hopping from one woman to the next, none of them really meaning anything. Why in my right mind would I ever think I was the exception to his lifelong rule?

  “You and I had sex two weeks ago. You told me you wanted to try this,” I say, motioning between us. “And now you're with some other woman. Staying at her house? You move on pretty quick,” I scoff, hoping he feels my burn.

  Realization sets in on his face. Donning a maddening grin, dimples and all, he chuckles.

  And there it is. This is a joke to him. Not a single line of remorse written on his face. I hoped for a little bit of sorrow or even some embarrassment over me finding him at another woman’s place. But, clearly, there's none. Cameron is just pure, unadulterated pleasure as he smiles at me, watching. Waiting for me to make the next move.

  “You’re an animal,” I say, shaking my head at him. I hope he can read the disappointment in my voice. In my eyes even. But instead, he laughs again. I feel ashamed. Right now, we’re two friends bickering about a drunkenly casual bet made at a bar one night. And I hate this about myself, that I’ve become this insecure girl throughout our entire time together. “What is so funny, Cameron?” I ask, my voice teetering on the frustrated edge of emotion.

  “What's funny,” he growls, now clearly putting on a show for me, “is that you think I slept with a woman named Lucinda. Lucinda doesn't even live here. This is my house.”

  I drop my jaw. “What are you talking about? This Lucinda woman called my assistant and—”

  “You’re right. She did. You’re not the only one fancy enough for an assistant,” he smirks, running a hand through his hair. “Lucinda is my assistant. And she's a damn good one, at that. I bought this place outright a few months ago when I realized I wanted something further out in the county. I wanted river access and a pool, a place where I can not be surrounded by people every day.” He lets out a huff and raises his eyebrows at me, the tension seeping from him. “Riley, I looked up your design business. I asked Lucie to book me an appointment because I have work that needs to be done here. And Lord knows, I can't do it on my own.”

  I let time soak into the space between us. Silence infiltrates as I try to process everything he’s just told me. And in this moment, it is very clear to me that I know nothing about this man. “You sleep with her?” I ask, my voice sounding small as I throw my glance through the front door and to the floor beside him. My cheeks are hot. I’m flustered and embarrassed, and though slightly relieved, I’m annoyed at my role in the entire situation— jealous, demanding girlfriend who’s not even his girlfriend. Get a grip, Riley!

  “No, sweetheart. No sleeping with her.”

  “Promise?” I ask, my stomach finally unclenching. I feel like an insecure little twat, but I can’t stop myself from asking.

  He holds out a pinky to me. “Promise. Now, get in here. And yes, I actually have work for you to do. I did my research, and you’re the best in town.”

  As I walk in, I get an uneasy feeling about being here. It’s not my territory, and I still don’t know this man in front of me. The man I let inside me over the past month. Casual or not, I’d lost myself in the game of it. And here I am, insecure and mad at him for something that isn’t even his fault.

  Turning to me, Cameron reaches over and touches my chin, bouncing my gaze up to his. “But if you can't tell, this was also a way for me to be able to spend time with you. Since you're so busy otherwise.”

  Pulling away from him, I furrow my brow. “What?”

  “Besides, how else am I supposed to get in touch with you if you keep ignoring my texts? You go and disappear on me and not expect me to follow up with what happened?”

  “Sorry,” I shrug, the reality of what he’s done just not setting in. He’s used my own business as a way to see me. “I've been busy with work and stuff.”

  “Work and stuff? You've been ignoring me for two weeks straight.”

  He's right, but after what happened that last night in his apartment, finding his texts from Mary-Grace, I couldn't bring myself to face him. Especially knowing he was still seeing other women. Because maybe Becca was right. Maybe playing it casual with a man you may or may not have an extra side of feelings for is way too dangerous. But I do have to give him credit for keeping it real, being honest. Because the truth is it still stings like hell.

  “This doesn’t feel right,” I say crossing my arms. But I follow him further into his kitchen anyway.

  Cracking open the lid, he hands me a water bottle from his marbled kitchen counter. “Which part? Me buying your time? Or you actually coming?” Waggling an eyebrow at me in gest, he grins.

  But it’s not funny. Not today. I’m way too on-edge about everything else to deal with the innuendos right now. “Are the jokes necessa
ry?” I straighten my blouse, suddenly becoming uncomfortable in his presence. He rubs at the back of his neck, and I can’t stop watching him. Like I want to soak him up with my eyes forever. Like if I look away from him, he’ll vanish, me never seeing him again. But then I realize what he’s just said to me. He’s buying my time.

  I feel my cheeks grow red hot with anger under his stare. And I want to disappear. From the beginning, I’ve made it very clear I don’t want anything to do with his money. And here he is trying to buy my time?

  “Let me show you around.” Putting his arm around my shoulder, he leads me to the den. Everything is bare, no decorations or rugs or shelving or trinkets, just plain white, empty walls. Rooms that throw back echoes of our shoes against the hardwood.

  Further into the house, I let him lead me to a room with no windows toward the back of the house. “The theater,” he says, nodding at the massive screen on the wall. There’s three rows of four oversized seats tucked into one another. “The seats recline. Good for private time.”

  “Oh,” I say casually, even though I’m losing it on the inside. “I’d hate to know how much sex you have in here.”

  “Come on, that’s not fair,” he scrubs a hand over the dark scruff on his jaw. “It’s not like that. You’ve got to at least give me the chance to win here.”

  His sentiment sounds strange. Win what? “No, I don’t. I don’t really owe you anything.”

  “Can we, at least, talk about things?” He steps closer to me. “I mean, what happened back there, Pratt? We were having such a great time. Mind-blowing sex and all. You left me hanging and naked in bed. That ain’t right.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I shake my head at him in denial. And though I feel bad about bringing it up, I can’t help myself. “Who’s Mary-Grace?”

  His humorous expression and dimples recoil as a certain realization hits him in the gut. “Mary-Grace?”

  “Is it really worth the victory, Cameron? If you have to cheat to win?”

  His face drops, and he knows I’m not playing around any longer. “Riley, she was someone I saw a year ago. Right when I moved back to Savannah, we ran into each other out one night.”

  “And you fucked,” I say, finishing his unsung thought. Just so he doesn't have to.

  “Yes,” he hesitates. “But it didn't mean anything.”

  “Kind of how ours didn't mean anything either.”

  Furrowing his brow, he squares himself to me, approaches me like he knows that once he touches me, this entire issue will dissolve. Because he intoxicates me, and he knows it. Tilting his head, he gingerly brushes my hair behind my ear. “I meant what I said that night, Riley. I want us to try this.”

  “I thought we would,” I say, my voice airy, feeling the white hot urgency of tears sting my eyes. I inhale deep then exhale, hoping the air between us steadies my emotions before I crack in front of him. “I thought so, too. I really did.”

  “I swear it. She means nothing to me.”

  “I believe you,” I say, meaning it. Taking another deep breath, I feel it coming. Another nail in the coffin of what we possibly could’ve been for each other. “I just.” Looking up at him through blurred eyes now, I try to smile. “I don't think we can be anything other than friends.”

  “Riley.” The way he says my name, the melancholy bass in his voice rips my heart open. “Sweetheart, I don't know if I can be friends with you.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek and takes my water bottle from me, setting it on the arm of one of the theater seats.

  Backing away, I know exactly what he’s trying to do. He wants to kiss me. Because if he does, he knows I'll relent. I’ll give in to this notion of being with him despite anything or anyone else he has going on. But I don't want to. And so it’s in this moment that I acknowledge the fact that I have to be the one to leave. Again. “I'm really sorry,” I whisper. “I can't do this right now. Work comes first, and since we're not in a relationship, there's nothing here.” I take a deep breath and will away the tears. “And I think that if you'll think about it, too, outside of all this,” I say, waving my hand at his crotch, “you might see that I'm right.”

  Cameron’s eyes glaze over as he clenches his jaw.

  “I’m sorry. It's all my fault. I thought I could be with someone and not have feelings for them. Disregard their sexual past and whatever, but I can’t. I was incredibly wrong. And in order for me,” I say, laying a hand on my chest, “to not be dragged into the madness of it, I am politely bowing out.” I feel my heart thump wildly underneath my rib cage, and I so desperately want for him to refuse me. To tell me no, that I can’t leave him. To demand that I stay, that he's finished messing around with other women. I want him to admit that he can see himself with me in the long run. Please just tell me. I scream this over and over again in my mind waiting for him to speak.

  Cameron sighs, his entire face contorted in concern. He looks forlorn, creased at the edges like he can't believe the words I've just said. But what did he actually think would happen one day? Two friends can't go on in a sexual continuum forever. Not without one of them tipping the balance over the other. And it was me who tipped the balance. In fact, I didn’t just tip the balance. I threw myself off the scale, diving headfirst into a sea of torment.

  “Okay,” he says plainly, his voice deadpan. His jaw still wavering from tension.

  “Okay?” I’m confused for a split-second. Until I realize this is it. He’s not willing to fight for me. For us.

  Cameron nods and puts his hands on his hips, his expression clouding with further confusion.

  And my heart drops. No fight, no hold, he's letting me walk away from him. Because no matter what he says, I'm just like the rest of the girls. “Okay,” I finally say, matching his tone. And I turn from him, heading back through the kitchen to the door where he laid my jacket and bag. I shut the door behind me in a slow, fluid motion thinking he’ll be busting through it any minute now. And when I reach my car, I sit there for three whole agonizing minutes with the vents blowing heat on me until I realize one thing. Cameron is letting me go.

  Chapter 12

  Pulling my keys from the ignition of my car and climbing out, I'm wearing a navy blue velvet dress that comes down to my thighs. No real classy way to exit a car wearing a dress, if you ask me. And from the backseat, I grab the woven basket that holds my green bean casserole dish that I've just pulled from the oven before leaving the house. The collar of my dress itches my neck again as I reach the doorbell of my parents' house in Chatham County. I feel like a five-year-old, Peter Pan collar and all. Gray frilly knee-high socks with a casual pair of black flats to finish the look. Don’t want to be scolded by my mom for not looking formal or ladylike enough.

  My parents are hosting Thanksgiving at their place this year since they’re off to Colorado for Christmas in a few weeks. Their front porch is decorated with gourds of all shapes and vibrant pumpkins. Harvested, dried stalks of corn in rustic bouquets that frame and hang from the front door. Small-town country vibes is what she must be going for this year.

  I consider ringing the doorbell once more but decide against it since I’m supposed to be welcome here. Instead, I knock as I let myself in.

  “Come in, honey,” my mom shouts from the far side of the kitchen.

  I imagine she's probably wrist-deep in a turkey, stuffing it as I round the corner. Balancing my basket in my arms, I unravel my scarf from around my neck. But when I find her, she’s pouring champagne into glass flutes as a man in a tall, white chef’s hat pulls a turkey from the double oven.

  “Hi, honey,” she coos, smiling. Looking down at my arms, she eyes the basket. “What've you got there?”

  Sliding the basket on an empty piece of tiled countertop, I shake my head. “I thought we were all bringing dishes? I didn't realize you were having it catered, Mama.”

  “Oh,” she sighs. “Well, that’s just fine. I’m sure it’s still edible, honey.” She kisses me on the cheek and peeks into the dish, her ey
ebrows lifting in concern.

  “What?”

  “Well, nothin’. It’s just eat up with ugly in there.”

  “It’s fine, Mama. It’s not supposed to be a pretty dish.”

  “If it’s not edible,” she sighs, “we have plenty more. Alfred is doing us up right this Thanksgiving,” she says, nodding over at the chef.

  “Is Ethan here? Did he make it home?”

  Mom stares at me like there's some piece of bad or awkward news coming down the pipeline.

  “Yes. Ethan,” she shouts, walking to the stairs. “Ethan, your sister’s here.”

  Walking back into the kitchen, she hands me a flute of champagne. “Drink up before anyone sees you, honey.”

  Her comment is strange, but I feign a smile as I take a gulp, the bubbles burning my throat in the coldest way possible.

  “Now, tell me. Did you ever get anything figured out with that staircase you were so worried about?”

  “No, ma'am, not yet. But as you like to say, if there's a problem, the universe will take care of it.”

  “That a girl,” she grins, softly pinching my cheek.

  Suddenly, I hear footsteps descending from upstairs. “Hey sis.” Ethan says, bounding around the corner. He’s wearing navy slacks and a green sweater, and his hair is wet like he just climbed out of the shower.

  “Hey, we match,” I say as he envelops me in a hug. I hold the hem of my dress up to his pants.

  “How about that,” he laughs. “You plan it like this, Moms?”

  “Now, you know I can't keep tabs on either one of you. Will you grab the red wine, please? That's all Mr. Dowd will drink. He and his wife are said to be here soon.”

  “Where's dad?” I ask, opening the pantry and searching for the wine. I haven’t seen him, and usually he’s attached to her hip.

  Ethan eyes himself in the reflection of the china cabinet. Ruffling his hair, he runs his hands through it as if that's helping him dry it. “He's out back stoking the fire. Hey,” he says, turning to me. “Come here. I want to show you something.” He eyes mom who’s arranging the appetizer platter. Walking me into the empty dining room, he seems hesitant.