Page 48

Hadley

May: Charcuterie, a dirty martini, and a side of Griz

“Alright, Griz,” I sing-song as I pad down the stairs.

Griz has an entire space down in the basement of the house.

It’s a wine cellar that weaves into a finished theater room, and then off of that is Griz’s.

The walls are lined with shelves of books and that messy clutter that feels more warm and cozy than hoarding and chaotic.

When he said he didn’t want to go to the Oaks race this year, I was a little surprised.

Every year since I can remember, Griswald Foxx would attend.

He’d don a hat that reminded me of Newsies and wore his nicest pair of Wranglers and boots.

I stop short when I hear two voices. Before I turn the corner, the smell of cloves wafts from his office. He isn’t much of a smoker; sometimes, he’ll puff on a cigar for a special occasion, but even then, it’s rare.

“I’ve tied up as many loose ends as I can,” Griz says to someone. “It needs to be enough. I’m not getting any younger. And I’d like to finish out this life my own way.”

I swallow down the emotion that statement pulls from me. I haven’t thought much about Griz not being around. His age isn’t lost on me, but he’s healthy, and if you asked anyone, they'd confirm he looks more like he’s pushing sixty and not eighty.

A woman’s voice says quietly, “You know the deal with how this works, Griz. You can’t just pack up and go there.”

I’m clearly not supposed to be listening to this, so I move back upstairs quietly and take a look at the car that’s parked out front.

An old truck, not one I recognize. I sit in the kitchen and wait for her to leave, neither of them seeing me sitting and sipping on a drink as she makes her way out the front door.

Griz isn’t expecting me to be at the house right now.

Ace is at the distillery, working through all of the last-minute Ditch the Derby prep with Laney and Lincoln.

Everyone else is heading to Louisville for the day or taking it easy before the entirety of the Foxx properties is inundated with bourbon lovers and tourists.

My phone vibrates along the counter. It feels like my stomach knots every time I hear it telling me there’s a text.

UNKNOWN

You realize that by ignoring this, it’s not going away?

Do not push me. You may be fucking my brother, but do not fuck with me when it comes to paying for what’s been promised.

HADLEY

Governor?

That asshole. I smirk, knowing he has no plans to answer my question. I’m not shaken knowing who this particular threat came from. I’m starting to replace anxious thoughts with anger every time another unknown text comes through.

“Are you going somewhere?” I ask as soon as Griz walks back inside.

His head swings up fast, not expecting me to be sitting at the long counter, casually enjoying my sparkling water.

He changes course and pads into the kitchen, sitting down next to me.

The size of this house makes it feel inviting, but it also gives a sense of privacy.

I imagine that’s one of the perks that’s kept Griz and Ace living together all this time.

“How much did you overhear?” he asks, swiping a piece of cheese from the cutting board.

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I know better than to listen in on conversations. Eavesdropping never did me any good.” Popping a grape in my mouth, I take a minute to decide if I want to know the answer to the question I’m about to ask.

“Go ahead, ask whatever it is you’re going to ask, Hadley Jean,” he says, and then swipes a slice of apple.

I inhale deeply, my heart beating a little faster as I ask, “Are you dying?”

He barks out a laugh, followed by, “What? No, I’m not dying. At least not as far as I’m aware. Hell, don’t jinx me like that. You hit my age, and even thinking it might be bad luck.”

I can’t help but get teary-eyed as I laugh with him. “Between taking your official retirement from bourbon?—”

He cuts me off, “I ain’t never retiring from bourbon, Hadley Jean. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s keeping me alive at this point.”

“You know what I mean. Handing over the company.” I glare at him and add, “With stipulations. And now, hearing that you’re tying up loose ends...”

“You said you didn’t eavesdrop,” he tuts with a quirked eyebrow.

I pinch two of my fingers together, leaving the tiniest gap. “A smidge.”

Plucking two pieces of cheese, he pops them in his mouth. “Is this girl dinner that I’m eating right now?”

I smile at him, nodding. “My version of it, yes.”

He hums. “You realize it’s charcuterie, right?”

“Yes, but I have French fries in the air fryer and need to whip up a martini. Then it’s perfect. Want to join me?”

He nods, giving me a look like it was silly to even ask, and then rests his elbows on the counter. “I would rather not tell you all the details. I had that meeting purposely, so nobody, especially my grandson, would ask too many questions.”

“Griz, if you tell me we were just here eating a delicious girl dinner together tonight, then that’s our story. A perk of officially being your granddaughter-in-law,” I whisper.

His eyes look glassy, but in typical Griz fashion, he makes the emotion disappear with a simple tilt of his mustache. “I like the sound of that—not just the innuendo of keeping this between us either. I mean the part about you being something I’ve felt in my heart for a long-ass time now.”

My chest warms, the backs of my eyes burning. “Don’t get sappy on me. I need to get my bearings for what will hopefully be a rowdy and packed house at the bar tonight.”

He nods, and just like that, switches the mood. “Alright, you need to tell me what we’ll need for these martinis.”

“You’re going to have vodka?” I laugh out as I pull out the blue cheese from the refrigerator.

“I’d prefer gin, but I’ll have whatever you want to serve up.” He gets up from the counter, on a mission. “And in case I forget to tell you, having you in this house and married to Atticus feels like it was always meant to be.”

A part of me agrees. The part that’s fantasized about more than just being with Ace Foxx.

The part that wanted to be a part of this family in any way I could.

I swallow down the nerves of knowing that this all began as an agreement.

A convenient, contractual marriage, and now, after all that’s happened, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to ever want to leave it.

Thousands of people come to Kentucky early in the week leading into the Derby.

Bourbon tours are nonstop, day and night, and guests who want to experience the sexiness of a hidden speakeasy know to look for Midnight Proof.

There isn’t a sign out in front of Crescent de Lune; instead, it’s a series of clocks stuck on 12:00 that serve as breadcrumbs toward the staircase that lead to the double doors of my establishment.

It feels secretive and seductive for out-of-towners.

Part of the fun is hiding and finding—almost as much as building out cocktail menus curated specifically to the season. Or in this case, the occasion.

“A mint julep,” a woman’s low voice says as I make my way down the length of the bar. I’m one of those people who thinks someone looks familiar. I know a face if I’ve seen it—there’s no need to play coy about it either.

I didn’t need to study her to know that I’ve seen her before. “That’s rather predictable—would you like me to make my version of one? It’s not on the menu.”

I hadn’t seen her face, only her profile before. I expected her to be pretty, but she’s striking—high cheekbones on par with Geena Davis, full lips with no bow in sight. I wanted to absorb just a fraction of her confidence. “If you’d like.” She nods.

“We haven’t met,” I say as I flip a chilled shaker. “Officially, at least.”

She rests her elbow on the bar, her long white nails matching her platinum hair. “I know who you are,” she says with a slow, menacing smile. “For quite some time now, in fact.”

I pluck three brown sugar cubes, along with a stalk of mint and a small scoop of crushed ice. Slightly more aggressive than usual, I jam and twist the steel muddler into it. “Mind elaborating on that?”

“I’ve known Ace for a long time.” She tilts her head to the side, pausing for a moment as her eyes rake over me.

“And I know how important you are to him. I take it he’s told you about me?

” She sits back in her chair, just as the music for Faye’s burlesque performance ramps up. “The Jeweler? Maybe more?”

I nod as I swipe a lime wedge along the side of a short rocks glass, and then dip the edge into mint-infused sugar.

Pulling the bottle of Foxx 100 Proof, I eyeball two and a half ounces, give it a shake until the shaker frosts on the outside, and double strain it over one large ice cube with a lime frozen at the center.

“Good,” she says, as she slides a hundred-dollar bill across the bar. “Welcome to our fucked-up little family, Hadley Foxx. My number is in your phone.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it and turn back to give her change, but she’s gone.

With my brow pinched, I peer over the crowd and along the main room for her, but it’s like she was never here.

The only thing that remains is an untouched mint julep and text on my phone that reads: If you ever need a favor, let me know.

Somehow, her name is already in my phone, along with her phone number and email. I won’t overthink how it got there, but it seems like I passed some kind of approval having met her and knowing who she is to Ace.

I take inventory of the faces that pack the house tonight.

Some I recognize, but there are more I don’t.

Oversized hats and fasteners are still on most who had been in Louisville earlier in the day, on their second wind of drinks and fun by now.

I smile at my busy servers and keep an eye on the overserved that Brady consistently keeps turning away at the door.

I’m eager to duck out and see how Ditch the Derby is going.

Laney sent out pics of her and Lincoln clinking glasses and another handful of images that showed off a crowded distillery that bled into the hill along the main building.

They had set up a main stage for bands to play throughout the day and a row of food trucks to keep everyone happy.

They managed to do what they had set out to do—offer something different for a day that thrives on tradition.

I’m proud knowing how much hard work it took to put on an event like that.

As I glance at the clock, and it’s only just after 9:30 p.m., I decide that a perk of being the boss is leaving when I want to. “Faye, are you going to the distillery?”

She smiles and leans against the bar. “Lincoln said the girls were fading fast, so he took them home. I’m going to see my crew after my last set.” She glances around the room. “You should go. Your crew can handle it.”

The truth is, I want to see Ace. It’s always been that way.

While Lincoln was the reason I found my way to the main house or the distillery most of the time, Ace was my quiet reward.

But now, it’s wildly different. Of course I want to see Lincoln and support Laney, but I’m going for him.

To see my husband, show off a little, stir up some gossip, and know that when he kisses me hello, he won’t hold back. Not anymore.