The Bourbon Thief(83)

Tamara slowly nodded. “Right.”

“Good. Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

She pinched him. Hard.

“Now, that was uncalled-for,” Levi said.

“Oh, it was called for. So was this.” She pinched him again.

“You’re asking for it, Rotten. One of these days...”

“What? You gonna finally turn me over your knee one of these days?”

“No. I’m going to turn you over my knee today. Right now and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He hoisted her up over his shoulder, squealing and laughing, and carried her up to the bedroom. She called him every name in the book as he did it—monster and brute and animal and beast and the very devil incarnate—and he seemed to take them all as compliments. He yanked her jeans down to her ankles, threw her over his lap and slapped her ass so hard she screamed. It hurt so bad, laughing and screaming at the same time. Like being tickled times a thousand. Then he pushed her onto her back and finished what they’d started earlier that day before Bowen had so rudely interrupted them to tell them they were millionaires.

As they lay in bed afterward, half-naked and all tired, they made their decisions.

Levi was right. Running away to Charleston or anywhere else wouldn’t solve any problems. Whatever her mother threw at them, they could catch it. They wouldn’t let it stick. They wouldn’t let it hurt. They’d be smart and not let her anywhere near them. They’d get in and get out as fast as they could. They’d sign the papers and hire a good man to handle closing down Red Thread for good. And maybe while they were there, Tamara would finally work up the courage to tell Levi the whole truth.

Then, as he’d promised, they’d come home to Bride Island.

Tamara stretched out on top of Levi and wondered how he would take the news when she told him.

“You promise you won’t let anything get between us?” Tamara asked, tracing a heart on his chest over his heart. “No matter what happens?”

“Nothing’s gonna happen, Rotten. And yes, I promise. But, you know...just in case...”

“What?”

“Pack your gun.”





28

“Nobody Does It Better” cooed on the radio and Tamara turned up the dial, sat back and let the highway winds buffet her face.

“This song’s about me,” Levi said as he merged onto I-75 going north. “I told Carly not to write it, that what happened between us was just between us, and if she wrote a song about me, women would be knocking on my door the rest of my life. But would she listen? No, ma’am. She would not.”

“I hate to tell you this, but a man wrote this song,” Tamara said.

“Okay, so maybe it’s not about me.”

“It could be, though.” She turned her head and smiled at him. “Nobody does it better than you.”

“High praise from an ex-virgin.”

Tamara laughed. “Just because I don’t have anything to compare it to doesn’t mean I don’t know it’s the best.”

Levi grinned behind his sunglasses, white teeth showing.

“Don’t make me pull this truck over.”

“Next rest stop, forty-seven miles.” Tamara read the sign on the side of the road.

“Don’t tempt me. We’re making good time.”

“Keep driving,” Tamara said. “We’re almost there, anyway. I can survive until we get to Louisville.”

“Maybe you can.”

Tamara squeezed his knee and went back to staring out the window. They’d packed up the truck last night and headed out at first light that morning. If they kept their stops to a minimum, they’d make it to Judge Headley’s office before five and could get the paperwork signed today. Tamara’s fears about going home had lingered right up to the moment they crossed the Tennessee border into Kentucky. Then, like magic, the fear evaporated like rain on a hot sidewalk. What did she have to be afraid of? This was her home. The road curved and rounded corners and everywhere Tamara looked she saw tall green trees and farmhouses hidden among them. As they traveled north, the trees turned to pastures, the small farmhouses turned to large farmhouses. White stables with red trim. White stables with green trim. White stables with black trim. White fences that stretched for miles. And horses and horses and more horses, grazing and running and making the whole world look like a summer scene from a Currier and Ives calendar.

“You’re smiling, Rotten.”

“I’m happy,” she said. “It’s so pretty here. I’d forgotten how pretty. And it smells good.”

“Doesn’t smell like a salt marsh, that’s for sure. And we’ve got hills again. Good to be back.”

“Feels like home,” Tamara said. “Is it home to you, too?”

“Of course it is. Born and raised here. Mom’s buried here. My family’s here.”

“I’m here.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“You know, we could buy a place in Louisville,” Tamara said. “I loved our house in town. It was nothing like Arden. It was a normal house. Only four bedrooms—not ten.”

“Normal? Is that why you loved it?”

“It was Daddy’s house and he made it a home. I had friends there.”