Page 82 of Every Move You Make

“Castle Whiskey?” I exclaim. “I have a bottle at home! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to see this exact look on your face when you found out.”

“We flew here in coach!”

“Yeah,” he says, craning his neck. “We’re not doing that on the way back.”

I huff out a sigh as he strips off the rest of our clothes and pushes me into yet another warm shower—a huge, stone shower with a glass door that makes absolutely no sound when it moves. That’s how youreallyknow people are rich.

But this time my brain isn’t lost in a sexy post-jerk haze—it’s focused on the way he washes his body. Without showing off, he cleans himself like a man who’s comfortable and at peace.

Sudsy dirt and airplane grime trickle into the drain as we rinse off, and Dell reminds me to relax. Again.

Freshly showered, he’s looking so goddamn good in his jeans that hug his round ass and thighs like a second skin. He’s wearing a simple black T-shirt with his company logo on it, but it’s the belt and boots that are doing it for me.

When we’re ready, we make our way downstairs through the grandiose foyer, down another wide hallway lined with huge pieces of art and sculptures of horses, where almost everyone’s gathered, cocktails in hand, sitting in a parlor ofsorts.

A freakin’parlorcovered in lazy basset hounds lounging on couches and rugs and in front of huge fireplaces.

“Do you drink whiskey, Isaiah?” Reed asks, taking a crystal tumbler from the shelf.

I clear my throat, “I do.”

“Here,” he grins with ease, handing me a glass of it poured over one large cube of clear ice. “This is our small batch Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me what you taste,” he urges.

“Reed,” Mary Ellen chides.

“Now hold on,” he drawls. “Let the man talk.”

I sniff the familiar whiskey and take a sip. “Lemon. Vanilla. Caramel. Citrus.”

His brows furrow. “No pepper?”

“Oh, here we go,” Steven chuckles from his spot on the tufted leather sofa that looks like it costs more than every piece of furniture I own combined.

Reed harrumphs, “There should be notes of bl—”

“—black pepper,” everyone answers.

“Exactly!”

I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m not picking that up. But y’know, I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”

Liam shuffles over to tug on Reed’s shirt and whispers, “Papa, dinner’s ready.”

“Say it louder so everyone can hear ya!” But Liam tucks himself behind his grandfather’s legs. Someone is painfully shy.

“Alright,” Reed smiles, picking up Liam in his arms to stride into the dining room next door. “You know, our son hasn’t brought home anyone in years, Isaiah.”

“Dad,” Dell warns.

“You must be pretty special,” he teases, and heat floods my face.

Thankfully I have a moment to collect myself when we all sit and Mary Ellen leads us in grace. But that moment is short-lived.

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