Page 25 of Whiskey Proposal

“They’re Ethel’s. Or what I have left of Ethel’s eggs.”

“Is that why you agreed to the marriage? To keep getting Ethel’s eggs? My brother said they’re the best ones he’s had in years.”

I groan, only half-pretending at dismay. “I’m never going to experience her yolks again.”

“I’m afraid not. Hillary doesn’t like a big variety for breakfast, and for some reason, she loves a hard-boiled egg with avocado toast. Brooks jokes that he’s raising a millennial.”

I smile at the open way she shares what she loves about her niece. It’s one of the few times she’s open with me. “As long as the eggs are given the appreciation they deserve.”

“She’ll enjoy them. Why don’t you have chickens?”

I take out the bacon and eggs. I’ll take a chance and make extra. If I ask again, I might scare her away, but if they’re there, she might join me. “I’m away too much. Cruz would feed them for me, and he’d get some of the eggs and meat of course, but life is finally slowing down, and I didn’t want to keep adding more. Now he and Elodie have their own chickens. Which brings me to your question about Mae.”

“Oh. Right.”

I bite back my smile when surprise flits through her expression. She thought I was avoiding the topic like her, but I’ll talk about the Baileys all day long.

“Mae took me and Cruz under her wing the first time she met us.” I talk as I prep our breakfast, enjoying the company. “We were grown-ass men too, and I even had a job. But I gave it up quickly once I saw what I could learn from Myles and the Baileys.”

“Doesn’t she have, like, seven kids?”

I nod. “Three boys and four girls.”

“And the girls started as foster kids?”

Myles and Wynter are both pretty open with their histories. Then there’s Wynter’s sister Junie, who’s a country singer. Their family history is well known, thanks to them. “Yes. They were adopted shortly after Myles left. The Hennessys fostered with her too. That’s how Myles found them. He wanted to buy the old mine.”

“And he did?”

“In a roundabout way. The guys sold only the mine and used the profits to reinvest. Cruz and I invested. That place is all of ours.”

“What a great legacy.” Her gaze shifts to the window of the sliding door that faces the trees that line her dad’s place, or rather, Brooks’s place. Technically hers for a little longer.

“I’d be nowhere without connections.”

A divot forms between her brows and vanishes just as fast. She doesn’t like that comment. Because she doesn’t feel like she has a network?

“So Mae put me and Cruz to work. We learned about cattle, equipment, and then distilling. Mostly, we learned about hard work and what it’s like to have townsfolk embrace us instead of looking at us sideways.”

“Why would they do that?”

I look up in time to catch her raking her gaze up and down my body. Another smile I have to hold back. The bacon sizzles, and I whip the eggs, keeping it simple. If I take too long, she might decide that locking herself in my home office is just fine.

“Believe it or not, we weren’t always upstanding citizens. I wasn’t that rebellious, but I didn’t have a lot of fucks to give. I worked and paid bills and assumed it was us against the world. Then I met my brother.”

She lets out a delicate snort and opens her laptop. “Hutch would say you got lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“Me either.” She closes her computer before it fires up. “You know, I’ve always wondered why they called getting laid ‘getting lucky.’ As if women—and guys—don’t peacock. As if we don’t dress to impress, wear our hair and makeup just so, as if we don’t spend hours figuring out our partner. At my last job, I landed a cupcake account the firm had been hitting up for a while. I studied her business, tried all her cupcakes, even the gluten-free ones, and then I asked her what her company meant to her. No one had asked her that before. I got lucky.” Her nostrils flare. “It’s a lot of work to get lucky. I’m resourceful. I’m scrappy.”

I study her. She’s taken hits to her personal life, and she keeps her head down and keeps going. But she’ll work her ass off while doing it. “I can see it, Scrappy.”

She makes a choking sound. “You can’t call me that. Scrappy’s an annoying dog in a kid’s cartoon.”

I click my tongue against my teeth. “Wrong again, Scrappy. Adults watch that show.”

“Adults like my brother. He says it’s because Hillary likes Scooby and Shaggy.” She returns my scrutiny. “You’re telling me that you watch cartoons?”