Page 37 of Filthy Twisted Devil

It’s not Ryan, though.

Eden’s face turns an electric pink as her eyes dip down to my hand holding my towel together. “Sorry,” she blurts out. She spins around and covers her eyes with her hands, like she needs double protection against the sight of me mostly naked. “I should've called first. The building let me up because I’m your girlfriend, but I’m really not and—sorry. This was stupid.”

“It's fine. Sorry, I don't normally run around my apartment in just a towel. I heard you moving and thought you might be Ryan trying to prank me.”

“Why would Ryan be trying to prank you?”

“Because I might have borrowed his lucky Richard Mille watch without asking,” I admit. “It went with my outfit, and I forgot to return it before his tournament. He can be superstitious, and, well, filling my apartment with stinkbugs or replacing my mattress with a waterbed full of Jell-O wouldn’t be beyond him.”

“Guys are weird.” Still facing away from me, she holds up her tote bag. “I was visiting Brinley, and I thought I’d stop by with your contract for the Twisted Devil holiday party. I can just leave it on the floor or something.”

“No, uh…is the contract ready for me to sign?”

“Yup.”

“Would you mind waiting while I put some clothes on? I promise, it won’t take long.”

“It’s fine,” Eden squeaks. “Just—just go.”

As quickly as I can, I towel dry my hair and throw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. For a second, I consider putting on something nicer than what are essentially my pajamas, but in the end, dressing up would feel weird, too. I’m just signing something quickly, then Eden’s leaving.

Unless I can come up with a reason for her to stay.

When I emerge, I find Eden standing at the kitchen counter, looking at the prototype cherrywood whiskey bottle.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“It’s a sample bottle from our manufacturer. Showing us how Maura’s label will look on the cherrywood whiskey.”

“It’s beautiful.” She tilts the bottle, examining it in the light. “I love the color story. You don’t see a lot of liquor bottles in glass this color.”

“We wanted to visually imply the flavors. The dark red glass reflects the fruity undertones, obviously, but we tried to make it darker so it wouldn’t come across so literal.”

“Then you nailed it.”

“Well, you won’t know that until you try it.” I pause. “Do you want to?”

She looks up from the bottle. “I thought it wasn’t ready yet.”

“It’s not. My master distiller finished his initial mix, though. I’ve got a bottle in the living room.”

She hesitates. “I really should get back to my place. I have orders to place for the next Flair event.”

“Oh, come on. You can take a break for one night. We can take some pictures for your brothers if you really feel like your time’s wasted. I’m just curious what you think.”

And I really am. Eden’s taste is impeccable. The way she planned James and Maura’s baby shower proved it. She thinks about the customer experience in the same way that I do, from before they even engage with our product—parties or whiskey—to how they feel after it’s done.

“I guess I can do the orders tomorrow,” Eden says finally, and I grin.

“You won’t regret it.”

I grab two glasses and bring them to the coffee table. Eden sits next to me on the couch, leaving a good foot of space between us—no room for accidental hand touches or thigh brushes. I try not to be disappointed. Instead, I focus on watching Eden’s face as she sniffs the whiskey.

“I’m not a whiskey connoisseur, you know,” she says. “I know I'm supposed to smell it first, but I don't know what I'm supposed to be smelling.”

I shrug. “You don't have to smell anything. But if you want bonus points, tell me if there are any flavors you can make out, like fruits or spices.”

Eden sniffs again. “I think I smell…vanilla?”