Page 4 of Whiskey Proposal

Zack half turns toward the rumble of Brooks’s pickup. “Excuse me while I grab my case from inside. Emerson would like to talk out here.”

I’m sure as hell not going in that house. Especially not with a man who toyed with me. My stomach twists on itself. This feels too much like the time I got invited to a birthday party when I was twelve. I arrived at an empty house and heard laughing down the block. Never did get an explanation, but all those girls have moved away. I made sure of it before I drove in.

Lane’s hooded gaze doesn’t leave me. “Fine with me.”

When the lawyer disappears, my restraint snaps. Flames lick along my veins. “You knew exactly who I was.” I don’t even make it a question.

The briefest flash of regret darkens his eyes before the intensity in them surges. “Yes, Emerson. I’ve always known who you are.”

CHAPTER TWO

Emerson

One month ago . . .

I stand in the parking lot of Foster House Whiskey Distillery and gaze at the tall structure in front of me. My stomach is wringing like a dishrag, but everything’s been squeezed out. If I can land Foster House, it will be the biggest account yet. It’ll attract more clients. The difference in my bottom line would mean buying a brand-new outfit instead of thrifting. It would mean renewing my lease instead of finding a cheaper apartment.

The man inside could change my life.

As long as he doesn’t pair my last name with anyone he might know in Huckleberry Springs. The distillery has a site in my hometown. The smaller Foster House Gold distills more than whiskey, adding vodka and gin to the mix. But even if anyone associated with the place knows of Hutch and his reputation, they shouldn’t pair my name with his.

I tuck my phone into my purse and stride across the parking lot. I’m in Denver. I’m not Hutch Langley’s daughter here. I’m the owner of a fledgling marketing company. The owner works in Denver, and I’ve heard he has a flat on the top level of the brewery that he stays in when he’s working. Otherwise, he lives in another small town in Montana.

I’m safe.

Lifting my chin, I enter and nearly trip at the sheer beauty inside. Four stories of windows let in the natural splendor of the land. The same timber that made up the mine remains, lining the ceiling and walls between the glass. To my right, tall silver stills take up their own massive room and shine in the light pouring through. Four flights of stairs flank the back wall. Their wooden and metal matches the rugged but elegant atmosphere of the rest of the place.

Thanks to my mom and her yearning for more than what she had, I’m attuned to the quality and expense of something. This place screams it from the inside out.

A man grins at me from behind the desk. Tastefully placed racks of merchandise make a path toward the placard that announces the beginning of a tour line. Beyond that is a wooden bar with a line of stools in front of it. The tasting area.

I’ve studied Foster House—their history, their branding, and their advertising efforts. I also listened to an interview with the owner, Myles Foster, who strives to keep things fresh while respecting the history. He might not have been talking about marketing, but he should’ve been. Myles Foster is notorious for giving a hand up to people who’ve had obstacles in their path to success, especially people who used to be foster kids, like he once was.

I’m not sure if my situation is enough to pour a glass at the Foster House table, but it’s worth a shot. Besides, the other distillery site is in my hometown, and a curiosity about this place was a stronger motivator than I want to admit. I’m not going back home, but maybe I can just snoop a little bit, from far away?

“Welcome to Foster House,” the guy in a bright yellow polo shirt says. “How can I help you?”

I smile in return. “I have a meeting with Mr. Foster.”

“Ah. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He types on a keyboard, then looks up. “He’ll be right down.”

Down. His office must be upstairs. Up all those stairs.

A faint ding sounds moments before a tall man turns from a hidden hallway in the back.

He’s married floats through my head, but damn. A girl can appreciate the view. The black slacks tailored to perfection only make his legs look stronger and more powerful, the material accentuating a powerful stride. He doesn’t have a tie, and his light-gray shirt has the top button undone, but that doesn’t detract from the confidence he exudes.

His gaze hits me immediately, and I sway. I had a chicken as a kid that laid eggs as blue as those eyes. Wynter Foster is one lucky woman. Though I thought the owner and CEO of Foster House was older, Myles doesn’t look much older than me.

His eyes glitter with a hint of a smile. “Miss Langley?”

“Em, please.” When he’s close enough, I stick my hand out. Perfunctory. Professional. I repress the nervous titter. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Foster.”

His rough palm encloses mine. This is not a guy who’s pushed papers all his adult life. Does he haul the barrels around on his shoulders? How expensive is that watch? Is it one of the ones carved out of whiskey barrels?

“You can call me Lane.”

God, his voice is the richest whiskey. The kind that burns my palate if I don’t concentrate on the sip. Wait. “Excuse me? You’re Lane Foster?”