Page 50

Ace

The shift of the clutch is addictive in her car.

“I get it now,” I say as I downshift to make the turn into the driveway.

Throwing the clutch and shifting up so I can push it, and then cut the corner and floor it, I glance at her in the passenger seat to see she’s smiling.

She’s looking at me like she either wants to murder me or devour me. “I like your car.”

“I’d like to do very naughty and delicious things to you right now,” she says, rubbing her thighs together. “Who knew that Atticus Foxx could drive a car like this?”

Putting the car in park, I point at her. “Stay,” I tell her and throw the driver’s door open. Walking around the front, I open her door and take her hand to help her out.

“This entire vibe—I’m going to burn the world, drive like the devil, open my door—is really working for me.”

I kiss her forehead, lacing my fingers with hers. “Kicking your ex in the dick for being a mouthy asshole is working for me, too.”

“We’re not going to the house?” she asks as I veer her toward the stables.

There’s something she needs to see, and as much as I want to show her exactly how turned on that little show and what she spouted off to fucking Chief Hawkins just made me, I promised her over a game of chess that I’d be honest with her.

“I want to show you something first,” I say as we make our way through the stable doors and to the back, past the horse stalls.

Her two horses, Lady and Fergie, have been calling this place their home since she moved in, but upstairs isn’t a spot I ever let anyone see.

There are plenty of hidden places inside the main house, at the distillery, and inside the main offices, but this spot is just for me. Griz knows it exists, but nobody else.

“How did I not realize there was an entire space up here?” she muses as we make it to the top of the spiral staircase.

It’s tucked behind the last stall and looks more like it leads to a utility space.

I’ve always liked the idea of things hidden in plain sight; it makes for the best reveals and reactions, much like the way her breath catches as I open the door.

It probably says a lot about my feelings for her too— hidden in plain sight .

Up here has the same footprint as the stables below—more long than wide.

The sprawling counter along the length of the space operates like a workbench, with its dark oak top.

Its drawers are made of the staves of oak barrels before they were fired and bent into shape.

The tools and hung notes look more like Lincoln’s work benches inside the distillery.

But she knows what all of this is right away.

“You’ve been making bourbon up here?”

I shake my head and move toward the limited barrels stacked along the opposite wall.

“Something just for me. It’s nothing like Grant did with his Cowboy Edition or what Linc does every day, but I was so caught up in the business of Foxx Bourbon, I started forgetting why I loved it.

The core of what we did. So I messed around, got lost in discovering what I loved about it all over again.

This”—I tap along the side of one of the barrels—“is mine—just for me.”

It isn’t as nice of a space as the secret room upstairs at the distillery or meticulously decorated like the main house, but it has things spread throughout that are reminiscent of a younger version of me.

There’s nobody to impress up here, no expectations, just the things that I like the most. The sound system is connected to an amplifier and a nice-looking record player.

My mom had a huge record collection that collected nothing more than dust for a lot of years when cassettes and CDs took over.

It was a jackpot-find when we dug through forgotten storage.

There are sketches that my father created when he was younger, framed and hung—some of them better than others.

And there are a lot of pictures—moments that seemed insignificant at the time.

Nothing like birthdays or holidays, just the random summer afternoon or breakfast for dinner.

A collection of moments that don’t need to be measured, but simply looked at and remembered every so often.

I nod toward the end of the room—the oversized couch perched under the large round window.

In the summer, it’s hot as hell up here, but this time of year, especially at night, it’s exactly the kind of spot that pairs well with a glass of bourbon and a refreshing Kentucky breeze.

On the draft table, there are maps of Fiasco layered on top of one another.

“You do know they have computers where you can access all of this now,” she says as she runs her fingers along the papers.

“I’m aware, but some things need to be laid out like this.

” I point to the map I have spread out on the floor.

It’s a massive bird’s-eye view of Fiasco.

“That’s a view of every business that’s currently in the process of taking out loans from the bank that they can’t afford or ones that are tapping into their owner’s savings just to keep the doors open and electric on.

” There are more than a half dozen prominent businesses highlighted and another five coming really close.

I watch her eyes scanning the properties of her favorite places, sadness filling them as she lingers on Crescent de Lune, then Hooch’s and Loni’s, even the hardware store and flower shop. She cares more about the community than she does her own business, even when she’s struggling too.

“Some have been hit harder than others. Marla inherited the building from her father. And she’s never relied on tourism to keep her doors open.

But the hardware store needs an investor, and you’ve seen the signs for lighter hours at the flower shop, and then Loni’s closing.

” All of them had nothing to do with Wheeler’s bullshit, but they’re suffering just as bad, if not worse, than some of the horse businesses that were directly impacted.

“Your father made a mess and had no idea the impact it would have.”

She closes her eyes and exhales, like she’s absorbing the burden, and that wasn’t my intention. I want to show her how we can help make it right. “Hadley, look at me.”

As her eyes open and lock on mine, they shine like she’s holding on for dear life to not start crying. “Why do you have all of this?”

I rub at the back of my neck and take a leap at pitching this to her.

“I have it because I’m not going to sit back and do nothing about it.

I could easily invest, bail them out of the debt they’re in, but it’s a band-aid.

It’ll keep happening unless we can boost tourism and get it back to what it was before. ”

Her attention goes back to the paperwork, and she takes in the architectural plans, blueprints, and 3D renderings. When she realizes what I’m saying, what she’s looking at, she turns to look at me over her shoulder and smiles. “You’re giving people another reason to come here.”

I clear my throat. “I’m going to try.”

“What else aren’t you telling me, darling husband?”

There’s plenty. But the most important thing to discuss is what would affect her the most. “You’ve been given the keys to your father’s entire estate while he’s under house arrest and providing he’s incarcerated. I know the ballpark numbers of what that looks like.”

She nods, letting me finish my point.

“I want you to use all of it. Pay debts to the people who did nothing wrong, and the rest, invest it where it could count.”

She rests her thumbnail between her teeth, working over what I just proposed. At the end of the day, I may have access to what’s hers, but it isn’t my decision. I simply want her to take the lead and stop allowing her father to have any type of power over her. “And then what happens?” she asks.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Maybe initially that was the plan, but she needs to understand the moving parts and the main player.

“Your father will inevitably find out there’s nothing left.

Likely from his attorney. Then they would need to choose either to abandon him or work pro bono.

And if we’re lucky, then he ends up exactly where he belongs.

And the mess he made might not be fixed, but it’ll be funded. And that’s a start.”

She nods, biting her lip, knowing all too well how risky this will be.

As she’s about to say something, she does a double take at the far side of the room.

Squinting and head tilted, she sets the blueprints down and heads right in that direction.

It doesn’t hit me what she’s looking at until it’s too late.

One of the drawers along the top was left open and the papers that were covering it must have shifted when I opened the big window. She holds up a pair of dark pink satin and lace panties, and below it, the unmistakable black envelope with cursive white handwriting. I swear I stop breathing.

“Hadley,” I say, coming up behind her.

“How do you have these?” she asks, turning around to look at me. I can tell that she hasn’t worked out why or how just yet. “I send them to a person in Colorado who pays me exactly one thousand dollars per pair. Every month. For the past?—”

“Five years,” I answer, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Give or take.”

Her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “You? This was you?” she says, flustered.

There aren’t too many times in my life where I’ve been at a loss for words, but right now is one of them.

And it seems the same can be said for her as she stares at me, and then the panties, and then me again.

I never considered this ever happening—her finding out and realizing the level of crazy this turned into.