Page 5 of Whiskey Throttle
Hollister Morgan Harrington III.
A friend of Dominic’s for as long as I can remember. If ever the appeal of a younger man were to penetrate my self-control, it would be one as charming as he. He caught up with me in the hallway and guided me to a private hall when I broke down.
The tears were already flowing when I pushed through the doors of the ballroom. He offered me his initial embroidered handkerchief. Used his body to shield a passing patron to protect my privacy. Offer me his apologies on behalf of the two other men. My son for being so blasé about my emotions, and my ex for having none.
“I need a moment.”
I dabbed at my eyes, careful not to harm my makeup. Knowing the redness in my eyes would be hard to conceal.
He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t wait for agreement. Just turned and walked, confident, quiet, like he already knew I’d follow.
I did.
Down a narrow corridor, past roped-off galleries and staff-only signs, until he stopped in front of an unmarked door. He slipped something from his pocket, a sleek black key card, and unlocked it. The door opened into a room I had only heard of.
The men’s private smoking lounge.
Dark paneled walls. Cognac-colored leather armchairs arranged around a low marble hearth. Heavy curtains drawn tight. A cut-crystal decanter on a silver tray. The scent of cigars and aged wood lingered in the air, warm and masculine.
I had never been in here uninvited. Never without a chaperone. It wasn’t allowed. He held the door. I hesitated, for one breath, two, then stepped inside.
He closed it behind us and flicked on the lamp by the bar. Amber light spilled across the space, softening the edges of everything, even me. He moved to the sideboard, fingers brushing over cut crystal decanters filled with various alcohols like he was choosing a weapon.
Selected two tumblers and poured the whiskey. Neat. No hesitation.
“Looks like you could use this.”
He handed me one glass, then waved me over to a set of leather chairs facing the fireplace.
“I suppose so.”
The first sip burns. I relish it. He lifted his glass, watching me over the rim as he drank. The silence stretched between us, long and velvet-thick. The weight of the day peeled off my shoulders in slow, invisible layers.
“You’ve done this before,” I murmured, fingers curling around the glass.
He smirked, slow and knowing.
“What, comfort a devastated woman in a forbidden room?”
I arched a brow.
“I was going to say pour a perfect whiskey.”
He leaned back, one polished dress shoe hooked over the opposite knee, the picture of studied ease.
“I grew up around men who think liquor can fix anything. It's the one language I speak fluently.”
“And what does this mean, then? That I’m broken and you’re fluent in grief?”
His gaze held mine. Steady. Sure.
“No. It means I can tell the difference between someone who’s unraveling and someone who’s been holding the whole damn thing together for too long.”
My breath caught. I looked down at the amber swirl in my glass, then away. Anywhere but at him. The fire wasn’t lit, but the room felt warm. My skin felt too tight for the bones beneath it. My composure stretched thin and gleamed like it might shatter with one wrong word.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe not.”
