Page 34 of Whiskey Proposal

“He told me about that. And the chickens.”

“Oh, he hated butchering.” She falls quiet for a moment. “Mom liked money, and she’d get so pissed when he wouldn’t make money off each and every animal.”

“Did he give them a reprieve that often?”

“Yes and no, but when the year was tight, the price per head was low, then yeah. She was extra irate when he kept Daisy. She always did love things more than people.”

“You know it’s an issue with her and not you?”

“I’m not a kid anymore.” She looks at me with a sad smile. Deep in her eyes, no, she doesn’t know. Not really.

“We might not be kids anymore, but those feelings never leave us. Not really.”

The green and brown in her eyes get brighter, more distinct. “You’re not what I expected, Mr. Foster.”

“Likewise, Scrappy. I’ve got one more thing you won’t expect.”

Her gaze drops down my body before she replies. “Oh?”

“Mae always said hot summer days call for cold ice cream. I happen to like mine with a little Butter Barrel.”

“Ice cream and alcohol? Ever heard of root beer?”

“I don’t brew root beer, Em. And you haven’t tasted Butter Barrel.”

I get to the garage door of my house first and open it for her. When she walks by, I inhale her lily-and-vanilla scent mixed with the outdoor smell that’s become my home.

“What kind of ice cream do you have?”

“Vanilla goes best with Butter Barrel.”

“This Butter Barrel? It’s intriguing.”

“It tastes like its name. We get the base from the main distillery. It’s one of the first whiskeys we aged, but we can’t sell it in the tasting room since we don’t make every part of it there.” I smirk. “But the owners can take what they want.”

“Nice perk.”

In the kitchen, I wash my hands and take out two rocks glasses. I dig out my premium French vanilla ice cream and add a scoop to each glass. Then I select the Butter Barrel.

Emerson crosses her arms and watches me, hip kicked out. “It shouldn’t surprise me that your dessert of choice includes whiskey.”

“It’s in my blood and on my taste buds.”

“You and your brothers are apparently united by more than a last name.”

“Our first names too.” I pour a shot of whiskey over each scoop of ice cream and get a spoon for each of us.

“First names— Oh! Myles, Lane, Cruz. Is that why you’re a mechanic?”

I pause, opening the door of the fridge to get some cherries. “Never thought of it like that. Maybe?”

“Or do you just like to fix what’s broken?” She peers at the jar of cherries in my hand before snatching it from me. “Bourbon cherries?”

“One of the perks of being associated with Copper Summit Distillery.” I slide a glass of ice cream and whiskey toward her. “The Baileys make them for their tasting room at Copper Summit, and Mae brings me a jar when she thinks I’m running low.”

“Do you tell her if you’re not?” She opens the cherries and digs out three for her glass, and then one for mine.

I lift a brow, and she smirks, dropping in two more. I like this playful side to her. “I don’t have to. She just knows.”