Page 43 of Bourbon and Proof

“Hadley!” I shout after her.

She walks backwards to the doorway a few seconds later—in my white dress shirt. “Yes, darling?” she sing-songs, coming into my space with a pep in her step.

Taking out her phone, she pauses the music that’s still spilling down the stairs and through the hall. Shania turned into Florence, which then turned into Britney, and then some girl screaming “please” and “espresso.” I actually like the last few. “I needed a little lyrical pick-me-up after today.”

If it was anyone else, she’d seem fine and not the least bit jilted by the men trespassing, the hard ride here, the vast change of events that have her in front of me, waiting for rules about our newly decided relationship. But I know her—probably better than Lincoln does—the music helps boost her mood, and the long shower was to relax her tension and calm her thoughts. Shehad nail polish on when she went into that bathroom, but it’s been mostly picked off, except for a little left on her thumbs.

“That’s mine,” I say, nodding toward her.

She points to herself, and then slowly smiles wide, and I already know she’s about to break my first rule before she opens her mouth. “Patience, Daddy.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble quietly to myself. I hate how that word affects me when she says it—like it rolls over my skin and settles at the base of my spine like flint, just waiting for the heat from her to strike.

She kicks up her Kentucky accent and jokingly says, “I don’t want you ruining my reputation.”

I look down her body—her thick, muscular legs and the rest of her hidden beneath the cotton poplin. “I meant the shirt,” I say, trying to appear bored by her. To be clear, I’m never bored with the shit this woman says. But it’s like feeding a monster, and sexual innuendos can’t be involved in what we’re about to discuss. “We need to work out some details. Come in.”

She perches herself on the leather club chair in front of the chess set. Pointing to the board, she asks. “Should we play while we chat?”

I prefer to play quietly, but she functions best doing a few things at once. Griz is like that too.

My office is exactly where I function best—a space to work and think, surrounded by some of the things I love the most. Chess. Bourbon. Pictures of my family in black and white on the farthest wall. A long bookshelf that holds a fair amount of books I still haven’t found the time to read and a few special editions that I’ve collected over the years of ones that lingered in my mind longer than most.

Staring at the board, she studies the pieces carved from old bourbon barrels. “This is a pretty set,” she says, picking up a knight and running her thumb along the natural wood that’sbeen polished and stained. But then she sucks in a quick gasp, jolting as her gaze flicks to the window. “My horses. I completely forgot?—”

But I cut off her worry immediately as I shift and fix my pieces inside their squares. “Lady and Fergie are both in the largest stalls. They’ve been fed, and I guarantee Griz gave them a peppermint or two when he got back home.”

She sits back, her eyes watering slightly. Legs tucked underneath her, I’m still not sure if she’s wearing shorts or even underwear underneath, but I divert my attention to her mouth. Fingers pressed against them, she’s trying to decide what to say or what to hold in so those tears don’t actually fall. “Thank you,” she says softly. It makes me feel like I’ve done something right, especially knowing that most of this agreement serves me more than it serves her—or at least that’s what she needs to believe.

“Your move,” I tell her, nodding to the board.

She wipes beneath her eyes and glances at the bar cart in the corner. “I’ve already been day drinking. Might as well keep going.” Her mouth tips up at the corner, that small dimple pinching. “Pour me something?”

She sits up higher as I get up and pour a few fingers in each glass. I pluck them from the cart and find her already looking less frayed. A pawn moves one spot closer to my side of the board as she watches me come back to sit. “Don’t you ever just throw on a pair of sweats and relax in your own home? You have the glass of bourbon, a game in front of you, but still all business.”

I stop the glass halfway to my mouth. “I am relaxed.”

“You’re still wearing shoes,” she says, like it’s an accusation and not an observation. She leans forward, bending at the waist, giving me a ridiculous view down the oversized white shirt. It isn’t a secret that Hadley has an incredible body, but I only allow myself specific parts to look at in one sitting. I’ve already had aneyeful of her thick thighs and toned calves—if I look at more, I’ll want more.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she gets frustrated at the distance from the chair to the floor and shifts off, moving to her knees. She loops her fingers in the laces of my shoes, kneeling in front of me, focused on a task I never asked her to complete. When she loosens the ties completely, she pulls off the shoe and tosses it across the room. “If you’re going to wear a suit while I’m braless and in pajamas as we negotiate our life together, then I need a little bit of the playing field leveled out.”

It isn’t fucking leveled by a long shot.

She glances up at me through her long dark lashes, a smirk tugging at her lips when she sees my tightened expression. “Does this turn you on, Ace?”Yes. “Me in front of you, on my knees like this?”Fucking hell.

My mouth waters, and I run my thumb along my lip, trying to calm my dick down and keep from fucking this up before it even starts. I straighten in my seat as I clear my throat. “Get up. We’re going to talk about some rules and limits?—”

“Fine,” she huffs out, then mumbles something about me not being any fun. “You realize who you’ve asked to marry, right?”

“I do,” I tell her as I move my pawn forward next to hers. A King’s Gambit would be her first thought—a risky choice, but it doesn’t surprise me. She’s always the player to put someone all in after only one round of poker or setback.

But I prefer something slightly less aggressive and more controlled. I take her pawn by advancing my rook. She’s going to look at moving more pawns, perhaps even her bishop, but she’s a ballsy player—like with everything else. And while I’ve never played a single game with her, I’ve watched her wipe the floor with Lincoln plenty of times over the years. She let him win for a stint right after Olivia died—he knew they were pity wins, but she did it anyway.

“Which is why we need to talk about our hard limits.” I pause, searching for the right words. She expects me to keep my important pieces guarded, but I move my queen instead toward her pawns and just out of reach. “And expectations.”

“I’m listening,” she says as she takes one of my pawns.

“It would be believable to tell everyone that we’ve been quietly carrying on a relationship since Lincoln’s wedding. You admitted to always having feelings for me, we slept together, and?—”

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