“Okay. If that’s what it takes to make you pay attention to me.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, Holly—trust me, I’m not going to have any trouble paying attention to you.”
Chapter Four
ROSS HAD BEEN at the distillery for nearly a week now, following Holly around everywhere and learning more than he cared to about processes.
Today had been a long day in which she’d cut him no slack, and Ross was ready to head back to his home near Louisville and crash with a couple of beers and some Netflix. But first he planned to swing by and check in on Martin and the team before they pulled out for the next race.
He intended to stay in close contact while working at the distillery because nobody—his father in particular—had told him he couldn’t. Wasn’t going to be easy to walk in there and see the team preparing for a race without him, but he needed that contact with the world he loved.
He exited the building and walked over to the LaFerrari, which he’d driven again today. The parking lot had emptied out for the most part, though there were a handful of cars left. He got inside and started it up, loving the smooth growl of the powerful engine. He glanced up in time to see Holly come outside, phone to her ear, face scrunched in serious concentration. When wasn’t she serious?
He had yet to see her do more than crack a grin here and there. In fact, whenever she did smile and he was near, she quickly wiped the smile from her face as if she didn’t want him to see her happy.
She’d given him hell this week, but he thought maybe they understood each other a little bit better now. She was a workaholic who loved what she did and she wasn’t planning to go easy on him for anything. He’d had to sit through team meetings and product discussions, and he’d learned about ordering the correct charred oak barrels and how long it took for them to come in. There’d been discussions about corn and mash and equipment, and his head was still spinning.
They’d also toured the barrelhouses and he’d listened to her talk about the aging process and which barrels were nearly finished and which were just beginning. She’d glared at him when he’d been unable to tell her which whisky was older. It was the ones at the bottom, which he damned well knew, but he’d been annoyed at how much he liked watching her walk between the aisles while making notes on her clipboard and he’d only half been paying attention.
Every day was something new. Every day was packed. Today had been a full day as well and he was ready to be done. But Holly stopped in mid-stride and put a hand to her forehead, nodding at whoever was on the phone as she did so. He watched with interest as she fumbled in her purse and came up with a set of keys.
Then he waited to see which car she’d unlock. He hadn’t stuck around this week to see her leave work so he didn’t know. His money was on the champagne Honda Accord sitting nearby. But she walked right past it and over to a white Jeep with the top down. It was an older Jeep, not the sleek models they made now. She slung her purse inside and climbed into the vehicle. A second later, she put the phone down and inserted the key into the ignition.
He couldn’t hear the Jeep over the sound of the LaFerrari, but he could tell by Holly’s expression that it wasn’t starting. She slapped the wheel a couple of times and then put her forehead on it. A moment later, she glanced over at him as if just realizing he was there. He didn’t know how she’d missed him but she’d been mighty engrossed in her conversation.
He should leave her there to stew in her meanness but he wasn’t that kind of guy. He switched off the ignition and got out of the car.
“It’s okay,” she yelled at him. “Happens all the time. It’ll start in a minute.”
“I’ll have a look.”
She frowned. “You couldn’t possibly—”
She stopped talking. Maybe she realized it was silly to imply he couldn’t tell what might be wrong, or maybe she’d decided it was futile to protest. Either way, he reached the Jeep and started to unsnap the clips holding the hood down.
“Turn on the lights, Holly.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He stepped back to have a look. The lights came on. “Not your battery.”
“I didn’t think it was. It’s the starter. It’s been kind of wonky lately.”
He found the starter and looked at it. He’d need a screwdriver to test the connection, but he didn’t have one. He didn’t actually want one either so he didn’t ask her if she happened to have one inside the Jeep. Instead, he closed the hood and clipped it. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
Why? She hated him. Why on earth did he want to subject himself to the only female he’d ever met who glared at him instead of batted her eyelashes and smiled?
Holly’s mouth dropped. Cleary, she was surprised too. “No. Oh no, I couldn’t trouble you. Besides, I need to go to the grocery store and run some errands.”
“With a wonky starter?”
“It’ll work in a few minutes.”
“Why don’t you just replace it?”
Her gaze slid past him to the LaFerrari. “I’m sure that’s easy for you to say, but a starter and the labor to replace it is about three hundred dollars. Which isn’t a ton of money, I’ll grant you—but it’s also not money I’ve wanted to spend if I didn’t have to.”
She was right. Three hundred dollars was nothing much to him, but for someone like her with a job and bills, it was probably a bite out of the budget. “I can put it in for you. That’ll save you a few bucks anyway.”
She was chewing the inside of her lip. “I don’t know.”
“Why not? Cars are my thing, babe. I’ll be happier replacing your starter than ordering whisky barrels and inventorying supplies.”
Her jaw dropped. “Did you just call me babe?”
He grinned, enjoying this more than he should. “Guess so.”
“Oh. My. God. You’re such a player.” She crossed her arms and tried to look stern but it didn’t really work. Not this time.
“Oh come on, Holly. You can call me babe too if it makes you feel better.”
“I’m not calling you anything. Except maybe jerk face.”
“Call me whatever you want. Just let me fix your starter.”
Her frown deepened. Then she sighed. He knew he had her then. “Fine. If it makes you happy.”
“It does. Now come on, get in my car and I’ll take you to the store and home.”
“What about my starter?”
“I’ve got connections. Let me get it for you and you can pay me back.” He wouldn’t take her money but she didn’t need to know that yet.
She twisted the key once more, unwilling to give up so easily. Nothing happened, not even a click. “I can ask one of the guys to take me home.”
“You want that starter?”
She gazed up at him with wide eyes. There were fine freckles on her cheeks and her skin was pale and smooth. Her hair was a dark auburn red, rich as the whisky they bottled inside, and lustrous. He imagined spearing his fingers into it. Spreading it across his pillow. His groin tightened.
Another shocker for him since he usually liked women who were more, well, jiggly with the curves.
“Yes,” she said.
It took him a moment to remember what he’d asked her. For a brief second, he’d imagined her saying yes to his unspoken thoughts. Jeez, Ross, get it together. Devlin and Jason might have taken the plunge into a relationship but that wasn’t anything Ross intended to try. Especially not with sassy Holly Brooks.
Besides, it was too much fun being the kind of guy who could take home a different woman every night. And if he had to work here for the foreseeable future, then maybe flirting with Holly wasn’t the best idea.
Except he liked flirting with her. He liked seeing her mad at him and then he liked it when she was forced to be nice to him for some reason. It annoyed her so much to be nice to him. “Then you know what you have to do.”
She made a face as she grabbed her purse and phone. “This is blackmail,” she g
rumbled as she swung open the door and jumped down. She headed for the LaFerrari without waiting for him. He followed, watching her ass shake the entire way.
Cute little ass. Two perfect handfuls.
“Not yet it isn’t,” he said beneath his breath.
But he wasn’t above a little blackmail if it got him something good. He’d save that for another day.
FOR THE SECOND TIME EVER, Holly found herself cradled in the Ferrari. The engine rumbled and purred as Ross smoothly navigated the car out of the parking lot.
“This is a really nice car,” she said, feeling all kinds of nervous and out of sorts. Why? She’d spent almost a week with him, forcing him to go over invoices and procedures before dragging him through barrelhouses. She hadn’t felt nervous once.
Because you’re in your element in the distillery. Out here? You’re in uncharted territory, girl.
“It’s a special car,” he said. “There was a waiting list—and no guarantee I’d get chosen.”
Holly gaped at him. “Seriously? You had to throw your name in a hat or something?”
“Something like that. Everything all right?”
“Huh?”
“Your phone call. Looked intense.”
She waved a hand as she stared at the red and black dash, the rearing horse logo. “Work. Nothing serious, just a delay on some paperwork we need. This is a really pretty car, by the way. Though I don’t know about a waiting list.”
He laughed softly. “Pretty. That’s just how Ferrari imagined people talking about this car.”
She rolled her eyes. “Make fun of me all you want, but it’s just a car. A pretty car and an expensive one. But it ultimately doesn’t have any purpose beyond other cars. It gets you from point A to point B and back again.”
He was still laughing. “You’re the first woman I know to sit inside a two million dollar exotic car and call it just a car.”
Holly’s belly dropped. “Two million dollars? For this?”
Oh God, that was unreal levels of rich. And she was riding around with him like they were chummy coworkers or something. Ross Blackthorne didn’t just live in a different world than she did. He lived in a different universe.
“Like I said, it’s a special car.”
“And you drove it to the distillery all week long. What if someone scratched the paint?”
“They’d better not.”
“Accidents happen. My God, I’d wrap this thing in bubble wrap and keep it in the garage if I were you.”
He snorted. “It’s okay, Holly. It’s meant to be driven. Would I be upset if it got scratched? Uh, yeah. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Besides, it’s insured.”
“I can’t imagine what the premiums are.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“So which grocery store am I going to?” he asked as he navigated the streets.
“I’m not sure I want you stopping at any grocery store, quite honestly. Just drop me at home and go wrap this thing up for the night.”
“Okay. How about dinner then?”
Holly blinked. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, you know. A meal? I eat, you eat. Food someone else prepares and brings to us?”
“I know what dinner is—but you want to park this thing in a restaurant parking lot?”
He shot her a glance. “Holly. Stop worrying about the car. It’s not your responsibility. It’s mine. If it gets dinged, then it’s my fault. I’m not going to blame you.”
She thought about it. She was hungry. But she’d been planning to go to the store, pick up a few things, and then head home to eat dinner alone and watch some television before crashing for a few hours. Her bestie had called earlier, wanting to go out tonight, but she’d begged off. Several days with Ross Blackthorne following her around had worn her out. And it wasn’t even Friday yet.
Mel found the whole thing hilarious, of course. “Ross Blackthorne?” she’d practically squealed. “The racecar driver? Oh em gee, he’s so hot!”
“And he knows it,” Holly had grumbled.
“He’s not dating anyone right now, you know.”
“And that affects me how?”
“Oh come on, Hols—he’s gorgeous and you’re working with him. He’s rich and handsome and—well, you’d be crazy if you didn’t try to get some of that.”
After Holly had gone on for five minutes about why there was no way in hell she was trying to get some of that, Mel had laughed and said, “Fine. If you don’t want him, can you introduce me to him?”
“Friends don’t let friends date Ross Blackthorne,” Holly had said. Mel laughed and then they moved on to other things. And now Holly sat in the man’s car, trying to decide if she should take him up on dinner or insist he take her home. If he took her home, the contents of her refrigerator were getting pretty lean, which meant it was probably toast for dinner.
“Earth to Holly,” Ross said, and she realized she’d been silent for at least a minute now. “Dinner. Yes or no? And I’m buying, by the way, so feel free to pick the most expensive restaurant in town.”
She ought to say no on principal. But toast wasn’t really appealing. Her stomach growled as if to punctuate the moment.
“Okay, yes, dinner would be nice. Thanks.”
“Great. Where do you want to go?”
She thought about it for a few moments. She could do expensive, soak him for something really great. But hearty and home-cooked was better in her book. And she didn’t often care for fancy. “Muriel’s has good Southern cooking. If that appeals.”
“Sure. Tell me where it is.”
The car ride was awkward. They didn’t talk much, except for her giving him directions. Finally, they pulled up in front of a little dive with faded blue paint, red shutters, and rusty gates propped against the building. Country decor, she guessed.
Muriel’s Diner was written in faded letters across the top. An old sign, the kind you changed the letters on, stood sentinel over the parking lot. Daily special - fried okra, catfish, hushpuppies, coleslaw - 10.99
The parking lot was packed, of course. Ross shot her a look. “You’re really testing me on the parking lot thing, aren’t you?”
“You said you didn’t care.”
“Okay, I care a little bit. But I’m going to make it work, so don’t say a word.”
A few minutes later, he’d parked the car at the very end of a row, as far from the next car as possible. The spot had the added bonus of being able to be seen from inside the restaurant, which she discovered when the hostess seated them at a booth by the window. Ross grinned as he opened his menu.
“See. Made it work.” He’d put on a ball cap and tugged it down before they came inside, and he sat with his back to as much of the crowd as possible.
It suddenly hit her why. Oh lord, she hadn’t thought of that. Ross Blackthorne the racecar driver in a Mom & Pop restaurant that was probably jam-packed with NASCAR fans.
At least the booths were high-backed. It helped. A little.
“I didn’t know it would be so crowded,” Holly apologized. “I mean I don’t usually come here for dinner. Lunch sometimes. It’s steady at lunch but never like this.”
Ross glanced around the restaurant. It was a typical Southern diner, with cracked vinyl seating, rustic wood paneling, and the kinds of smells that said you wouldn’t leave here hungry. She didn’t know what he was thinking but she suddenly felt bad that she’d dragged him here. He didn’t belong in a place like Muriel’s. He belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant with tablecloths and a sommelier. The kind of place where voices were soft and someone played a piano.
Where a woman with manicured nails and a clingy dress cozied up to him and hung on his every word. Where his presence wasn’t likely to cause a stampede when folks realized he was in the room.
“I should have picked something else,” Holly said. “I’m sorry.”
He met her gaze, his dark eyes flashing with humor. “
Don’t apologize. It’s quaint. And if the food is as good as the crowd seems to suggest, I’m sure I’ll be coming back often.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of place,” she said, viewing it through the eyes of a guy who drove a two million dollar car.
“They make really good food, right?”
“Well. Yes.”
“Then it’s my kind of place.”
The waitress appeared at their table. “Hey, Holly, haven’t seen you in a month or two.”
“Oh, hey, Glenda,” Holly said. “How have you been?”
Glenda’s husband had worked at the distillery when it was still under the Brooks family’s ownership, though he’d since gone to work for another distiller in Bourbon County. She didn’t blame him, but she’d hated to lose him.
“Great, hon. How’s your sister doin’?”
Fresh despair rolled through Holly at mention of Emily, but she kept a smile on her face. “She’s doing okay, thanks for asking.”
“Good, good. And Ricky? He enjoying working for that drug company in Connecticut?”
Holly clasped her hands on the table. “Oh sure, Ricky’s doing good.” Her brother had landed on his feet after the fire that destroyed the warehouses. He’d left the whisky business for good, and left her and Uncle Evan to deal with the aftermath.
“Well, great. What can I get you to drink, hon?”
“Iced tea, thanks.”
She turned to Ross. Blinked twice. “Oh my… are you Ross Blackthorne?”
Ross turned on his megawatt smile. “Yes, ma’am. Pleased to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it, her grin going all goofy. “Oh my word, the grandkids won’t believe this. Little Frankie is a huge NASCAR fan. You’re his favorite driver.”
Holly grew uncomfortable while Glenda peppered Ross with questions. But he answered them all, signed a napkin for Frankie and his brother David, and ordered a glass of water by the time it was all done. Several other patrons looked their way, but nobody else came over to disturb him. Probably because they couldn’t really see him well and weren’t sure if he was somebody important or not.
Ross: 7 Brides for 7 Blackthornes (Book 3) Page 4
