A New Foundation by Rochelle Alers (philippa perry book txt) 📕

at the same time Taylor alighted from the SUV. Reaching for the case with the cue sticks, Taylor grasped the velvet bag with the bottle and handed it to Dom. “Careful with the prize.”

Dom opened the bag and smiled. “This Balvenie Caribbean Cask 14-year-old single malt whisky will go nicely with my collection.”

“Nah, son.”

“Who are you calling son? I bet I’m older than you.”

“You,” Taylor countered, smiling.

“Nah, Taylor. I just celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday.”

“I’ll be thirty-six in November, so I’ve got a few months on you.” When meeting Dominic for the first time, Taylor realized despite the fact he was graying there wasn’t a single line on his face or around the brilliant dark green eyes. Tall and almost rawboned, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his lean body. “What I’m going to do is beat the hell out of you, and then I’m going to crack open that bottle and have a few shots and you’re going to join me rather than sit back and admire it on your shelf.”

Dom laughed loudly. “You talk a lot of shit, old man. Let’s go inside and have a go at it. Better yet, why don’t we crack open this baby and sample it while we play?”

Taylor gave him a direct stare. “I thought you wanted to add it to your collection. Could it be that you’re afraid I’m going to beat you?”

“Not really. I’m more than confident that I can hold my own, but when I saw that you brought your own cue sticks I realized you’re no novice.”

“In other words, you realized you couldn’t hustle me.”

A flush darkened Dom’s face under his tan. “I don’t hustle folks. I’ve lost some games and won many more.”

“Okay. Let’s go inside and find out if you’re going to win some and lose many.”

Taylor had to admit that Dom just wasn’t good. He was an expert. In fact, his eye-hand coordination was comparable to that of Joaquin, who could’ve turned pro if he hadn’t chosen to become a landscape architect.

They played the best of five, and Dom won three and Taylor two. After each game they took a shot of whisky, and Taylor knew he had to stop; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get behind the wheel and drive. “I’m done.”

“Don’t you want to play one more?” Dom asked.

“No. What I need to do is sober up before I leave.”

“I have two extra bedrooms where you could crash.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You won’t be imposing, Taylor. After all, you do own this cottage.”

“My family owns it,” Taylor said, correcting him. “I’m going to sit here for a while.”

“I’m going to the kitchen to make some coffee. You’re not the only one feeling the effects of the whisky. This is the first time I’ve tasted The Balvenie. It definitely lives up to its reputation, and drinking it is a lot more enjoyable than staring at the bottle.”

“I agree,” Taylor drawled. He rarely drank hard liquor, but when he did it was only from his father’s bar. The soft and lingering notes of toffee and vanilla with a hint of fruit on his palate made the single malt whisky exceptional.

Dom returned with two mugs of steaming black coffee. He handed one to Taylor. “Drink up, old man. I added a couple of shots of espresso to yours.”

Taylor smiled. “Don’t push it, son.” He took a sip of the hot brew, grimacing when it burned his tongue. Staring at Dom while waiting for his coffee to cool somewhat, he wondered what had made a supposedly healthy thirtysomething-year-old man live alone on an abandoned estate.

“I forgot to ask if you wanted milk in your coffee.”

“No, thanks.” A beat passed. “Do you like living here?”

Dom stared at Taylor over the rim of his mug. “Yes, because it’s all I know. I was born here, and I’ll probably die here. The only time I left was when I enlisted in the service and then attended college, but like a homing pigeon I came back.”

Taylor knew very little about the caretaker. “What did you study in college?”

“I have a master’s in Business.”

Taylor was surprised by Dom’s revelation. He did not want to believe the man was licensed plumber and had earned a graduate degree yet was content to live on an estate in the role as a glorified maintenance man. It was obvious Dom had his reasons for wanting to live out his life on the Bainbridge property.

He managed to finish the coffee, and the extra caffeine was enough to clear his head and jolt him into alertness. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, pushing off the sofa and coming to his feet.

Dom also stood. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m good.”

“Aren’t you going to take your cue case?” Dom asked as Taylor walked to the door.

“No. I’m going to leave it here for when we play again.”

Dom followed Taylor to the door and opened it. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“No shots,” Taylor said.

“No shots,” Dom repeated, laughing loudly.

Taylor paused. “Oh, before I forget. The architectural historian is coming tomorrow, and I want you to give her one of the remote devices for the front gates. Her name is Sonja Rios-Martin, and she has no set work hours. My schedule is filled with back-to-back interviews, so I doubt I’ll get to see her.”

“No problem.”

Taylor made it home and once he opened the door to his mother’s condo he cursed himself for engaging in what he thought of an as asinine frat boys’ game. He did not want to believe that he’d waited until thirty-five to do shots.

Never again, he mused. It would be the first and last time, he vowed as he brushed his teeth and rinsed with a peppermint mouthwash. He stripped off his clothes, leaving them in the hamper, and stepped into the shower stall. Ice-cold water rained down on his head and body before Taylor adjusted the temperature to lukewarm.

After drying off, he walked in the direction of the guest bedroom and fell across the