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I take a sip of my whiskey and let her finish.
“Same as your whiskey. I don’t like to drink it, it burns my throat, but I like the smell of it on your breath and the taste of it on your lips,” she says sweetly, and I am glad I am sitting down because those words from her almost have me choking on my latest release.
“Here’re your burgers,” Lacy interrupts, sliding our plates in front of us, and Victoria smiles wide as Lacy retreats, like she didn’t just tease me with her words.
“Okay, moment of truth…” Victoria says as she picks up her burger and takes a big bite and nods to me in approval. She moans as she chews, and I grab my whiskey glass so hard I am surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hand, and then I down the entire thing immediately.
This woman makes me feel completely smitten in every way imaginable.
I have beenin the city for most of the week, and as I sit in our high-rise office, I can’t wait to get back to Whispers and back to Victoria.
“Okay, gents, well, I think that is everything,” Valerie Van Cleef says, smiling. One of the richest women in the country has just done a business deal with Whiteman’s Whiskey, placing us in all her hotel establishments countrywide. It is a good deal, one that I was hesitant about atthe beginning. Whiteman’s is exclusive. I don’t produce our whiskey for the masses. The value of our brand is in its limited editions and unique high-quality development. Our clientele are wealthy families, millionaires and billionaires. That’s why our friend, President Harrison Rothschild, named it the only whiskey he drinks when he indulges. When he made that statement, our sales went nuclear.
“Great to see you again, Val. Looking forward to seeing Whiteman’s in your VIP lounges,” I say as I stand, shaking her hand.
“Don’t forget, we have that fundraiser for the Bloomer Books Literacy Program in Baltimore next week,” she reminds me, and I nod. I don’t go to many galas these days, but I do support the Rothschilds, and I know Valerie is close with Huxley and Lucy, just as we are.
“We will be there,” Connor says, and she smiles as she shakes his hand. He walks her and her small team out as I sit again.
My time in the city, even though it is only every month or so, is time I prefer to be home, yet I know business doesn’t work like that. Connor doesn’t love being here that much either. Our deals are always done with the top end of town, and while Whispers is becoming extremely popular with the wealthy and celebrities, the city is still where many deals are done. On previous trips, we spent the week working, eating out at fancy restaurants, and meeting ladies. Usually, with Sawyer or one of our other friends in tow. But this time, it is different.
“That’s all done. Shipment dates have been organized, and Lacy is getting our marketing and our PR agencyonto the strategy. A few more weeks and it should be all easy sailing,” Connor says, stepping back into the boardroom. I nod, thinking about the special batches of whiskey I have made, aged a little less than I prefer, but this line will be more accessible for those who frequent Van Cleef establishments.
“It’s all going to plan, then,” I say mindlessly.
“It is. On track.” He pauses, looking at me. “Soooo, are you bringing Victoria to the gala?” Connor asks me, and I take a breath.
“I haven't asked her yet, but I will.” I nod to him.
“So going public in the city already. I heard you took her to the bar the other night, so it must be going well?” Connor says as a question, and I smile. I haven’t stopped thinking about her. It is going well. Really fucking well.
But I also can’t stop thinking about who ran over her rosebush and put a fucking rose inside her home when she wasn’t there.
“She was certainly unexpected,” I say honestly.
“I like her. She is good for you.”
“Is that your way of giving me your approval?” I ask him. Because it matters. What Connor thinks matters a lot.
“You don’t need it, but you have it. Does that mean she is someone you plan to have in your life for a while?” He looks at me seriously.
“I’m working on it.” I’m not able to stop my smile as my mouth curves up of its own accord. Just thinking about her makes me happy.
“If you're happy, Dad, I’m happy,” Connor says, and I swallow hard. I don’t like not being able to see her when Iwant. When I am home at the distillery, I know she is only a minute away. Since Gertie had her babies, I had been with Victoria every day until I had to fly out for this trip. I did what I needed to at the distillery, and then every night, I went over to help her lock up the animals and we had dinner together. I spent the night with her, making her moan my name over and over, and then struggled to leave her in the morning. Now being miles away is harder than I thought it would be.
As if the universe feels sorry for me, my cell chimes, and I see a notification from her. Clicking into her socials, I see she has posted a photo.
“Cute,” Connor says, and I look up at him quickly, seeing him looking at his phone as well. “I can’t believe she called the kids Gabriella and Gemma. Is it a ‘G’ theme or something? And what is up with the name Gertie?” He huffs a laugh, and I smile wider. Like my son mentioned, she is a little crazy.
“Don’t say you are following her too?” It is becoming clear that my son has latched on to her social media, and we are looking at the same image of my girl, who’s looking beautiful carrying two baby goats, one under each arm.
“Everyone is, Dad. Her social channels are extremely popular. Look at how many likes she is getting. She has hit a gold mine,” Connor says, and I frown as I look back at the image of her. All I see is her beauty, her grace, and her smile. The way her face lights up, her eyes glistening with pure happiness. The breeze pushes her hair to the side of her face, framing her cheeks and flowing over her shoulder. I see the way she is holding those baby goats sotight, as if they were her own children and she doesn't want to let them fall. What I don’t look at is the amount of likes and shares and comments, and when I do focus on that, I feel unsettled because there are literally thousands and they are increasing by the minute.
“I think someone was in her house the other day…” I murmur to Connor. “The rosebushes, the ones she mentioned I ran over. That wasn’t me, and it wasn’t her, but whoever it was, they also left her a rose inside.” The anxiety of familiar panic runs up my spine. The same feeling I got when I searched for Connor's mom for months and months and in the end couldn't find her. When I found out she was okay, the relief was there, but the pain didn’t subside.
“Maybe it was Jasmine or Lacy?” he says, already knowing what I am thinking.
“I think someone was there who shouldn’t have been,” I tell him, my nostrils flaring as I look at him. I have given my security team all the information I have on Marie and Victoria’s father, which, to be fair, isn’t much. But something in my gut tells me that he isn’t a good guy.
