Page 29 of Whiskey Proposal

“I’m getting it running again.”

I whirl back around. “For who?”

“You.”

The sound I make might be a gasp. A cry? I don’t know, and the loss of control that sends me reeling in this moment is too powerful. I huff out a breath like I’m going to tackle him. I went from pure desire to shocked confusion and now I’m just angry. At everything. At everyone. At him.

He drops his arms and takes a step closer, concern etching into his handsome features. “Em, you okay?”

It’s the Em that’s the last straw on a rickety pile of sticks. “Why did you ingratiate yourself in every part of my dad’s life? Were you afraid me and Brooks wouldn’t sell to you after Hutch was gone? But if you get him to turn everything over to you, then you don’t have to worry about getting caught stealing?”

He recoils like my words are a smack across the face.

“You’re more refined now, so your tactics are more refined too?” God, that’s so unfair. I remember a lot about growing up, and Dad’s big, messy heart is at the forefront.

“You’re doing it again, Emerson,” he says tightly.

My irritation could fuel the cute firepit in his backyard. “Doing what again?”

“Trying to piss me off. It’s working, by the way.” His jaw goes so hard.

I lift my chin, ready to wave the red flag at the pawing bull. “It’s not my fault it’s easy to do.”

“No. It’s not easy to do.” He says it with a frank confidence that leaves no doubt. “You’re pushing me away. You’re afraid. I understand, but⁠—”

“You don’t understand anything!” I slide out from between him and the pickup. “You have people. You have money. You have everything. I have Brooks, and that’s only as long as he doesn’t have anything else in his life telling him to get rid of me.”

A quizzical expression lights his face, and there’s the pity. I can’t stand to see it, and I’ve said too much. If I stay, I’m only going to hurl more unwarranted insults at him and reveal embarrassing things about myself. I’m not scared. I’m sad.

I’ve gotta go.

I storm out, hoping he doesn’t come after me. Yet there’s nowhere I can go right now that won’t have some essence of him. Just my empty apartment, and I can’t go to Denver and leave Brooks high and dry.

Maybe I will check out that office of Lane’s. Maybe it has a lock so I can be pathetic in private.

Lane

I’m in the rickhouse to pull a barrel of one-year-aged whiskey to dump and bottle tomorrow. The door squeaks open, but I keep searching the line of barrels on the lower rack for the right one.

Steps head right for me. Whoever it is isn’t here for work. They’re here for me.

I know it’s Cruz before he talks. The other guys have asked if I’m doing okay, but they’re not as pushy as my brother.

He stops behind me. “What’s going on?”

Nothing. That’s the whole problem. “Why do you think something’s going on?”

“Because you’ve been in a pissy mood all week.”

I have. Emerson stays in her room until I go to work, and she’s locked in my office after I get home. I worked the tasting room again last night, and she was in her bedroom when I got home. We’re not even tiptoeing around each other. It’s like I’m living alone once more.

I turn to face my brother. Goddamn, he looks happy. Worry for me aside, Cruz practically floats around the distillery these days. “I can just be in a bad mood.”

“Sure. But you’re a newlywed.”

“You know it’s not like that. We’re not going to a Maine lobsterfest for our honeymoon.” I’m not losing myself in her every night. I’m not waking up to her. There’s nothing tying us together but a couple of pieces of paper. One for the trust and our marriage certificate.

“Maybe you should gorge on lobster. You’d be less cranky. Go to Maine. Take Emerson.”