Page 21 of Whiskey Proposal
“Hey, Edna,” he says. “Did you want me to whip up a mint julep for you real quick?”
“No, I’ll let you two talk.” She gives me another half hug. “You’re coming to Hookers and Booze, right?”
“Excuse me?” I’m not interested in either. But . . . I’m intrigued. What’s happened to Huckleberry Springs?
Her face crinkles in a smile. “One Monday a month, we have a crochet afternoon. Elodie brings treats.”
“Elodie Palmer?” She was quiet in school, and one of the people I missed when I moved.
“Elodie Foster now.” Edna’s smile is as proud as if she walked Elodie down the aisle herself. “She left for many years, but she’s back and running the bakery in town. Dee’s Sweets.”
Lane’s sister-in-law. A business owner. The Fosters are digging roots deep in the area. And like Elodie, I moved, and now I’m back and married to a Foster. Only Elodie likely did it all willingly. I’ve got one foot out the door and on the other side of city limits.
“She brings goodies,” Edna continues, “and one of the guys waits on us. You’re coming on Monday, Lane?”
He’s bent over a tablet on the counter. Lifting his gaze, it collides with mine. My heart rate climbs up. “I’ll be there.”
There’s a challenge in his voice, like he knows that I don’t want to go, and that I’ll come up with an excuse.
Don’t take the bait. Be the bigger person.
But the stubborn side of my DNA comes out. I’ve been known to run—from home, from relationships. But not this time. “You’ve got one more hooker to add to your roster.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Emerson
After Edna leaves, I hover by the edge of the bar. How did I get roped into returning on Monday? For a crochet club? I don’t want to ingratiate myself into any part of this town. But then Edna could always get me to do things I swore I wouldn’t, like returning to class or not knocking out Macy Klein’s front teeth after she teased me about my too-small pants and shirt.
“You’ll hurt your hand and then it’ll get infected, Emerson,” Edna said. “You don’t want a rabies shot, do you?”
I smother a laugh at the memory.
Lane slaps a menu in front of the seat I’m closest to. “Sit.”
He rounds the bar to check on the couple in the corner. I slide into the seat only because it’s easier to watch Lane out of the corner of my eye. He’s relaxed when he’s chatting with them, open and friendly. A perfect business owner. Watching him is like listening to someone in an interview who’s had media training versus someone who hasn’t.
The realization sinks in. He’s got manufactured charm. How much of my interaction with him has been genuine? I want to say all of it, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on. He’s holding back.
Yes. That’s it. Lane Foster is a restrained man. I’ve known one of those before, and when he left himself go, he drowned himself in a nightly case of beer. Lane isn’t Hutch, but that night I was in his office, he was just as careful not to share his personal life with me. I sensed it then, but it’s obvious now.
When the couple leaves, he flips the sign on the window.
I checked how late the tasting room was open. It’s not even time for last call. “I didn’t think you closed this early.”
“It’s close enough.” He returns to behind the bar. “What can I make you?”
He closed for me? No one else is in here, and no one’s driving in, but my first instinct is to feel special. I brush it off. No matter how much I want to be, I’m not special.
I purse my lips and spin on the stool to study the menu. I’m met with a variety of descriptive cocktails. “Who comes up with all these?”
“We all do. Cruz and I got a mixology certification years ago, shortly after Myles started teaching us the ropes. His wife, Wynter, taught us a lot too, but we did the course anyway.”
“Then pick one for me.” I push the menu away.
A glint enters his eye. The smallest smile curves his lips. He puts the menu away and opens the vodka he brought out for Edna. “By the way, the guys know about the trust and us. They’ll probably tell their wives. Other than that, the public will think this is real.”
“I guess that’s for the best.”
