Page 5 of Whiskey Proposal

The corner of his mouth tips higher. “I’m sorry you weren’t notified of the change. You’ll be meeting with me today.”

Tension bunches between my shoulders. Shit. Anxiety swells and makes the room spin. I draw my hand back, missing the heat of his touch.

The six degrees of separation between me and Foster House made it a safe target to pitch despite its Huckleberry Springs connection. I’m done with my hometown, but my intrigue led me right to the slack in their marketing. I wasn’t about to let my past get in the way of possibility. Now here I am. Only it’s not Myles from Bourbon Canyon. It’s his younger brother. Who lives in Huckleberry Springs. Hutch’s nearest neighbor. My dad loves him.

He tilts his head, studying my reaction. “Is that okay, Em?”

The smooth richness of his voice centers me when it should send me spiraling, but he’s not looking at me with pity. There’s no recognition in his eyes. Just that calm scrutiny.

He doesn’t know I’m the daughter Hutch decided not to raise. He doesn’t know my dad basically shoved me out the door with my brother after years of ignoring our existence. Okay. I can do this.

I’m here for a reason. I’m here to push my fledgling company out of the nest. I have the meeting. Better not fuck it up. “It’s great. No trouble at all. I know you and Myles take turns working here.” Do I sound like I stalk them? I mostly researched Myles, since he’s the one I was supposed to be meeting with. I watched his interviews and not his brothers’. “I’m sorry. I mean you and Mr. Foster.”

He chuckles, and it rumbles right to my core, settling between my thighs. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated, but I’m not getting turned on during a pitch. “He’d insist you call him Myles. It gets confusing otherwise. He’s in Bourbon Canyon for his son’s birthday. You’ve got me. Let’s go to my office.”

A lot of girls would love to hear those words.

I steel myself as I follow him. I can do this. I’m competent. People want me. They want to work with me. I continue reciting my mantra until he stops at the elevator. He presses the button and stands back so I can enter first.

“Do you, uh, live here?” I’m probing, but I have to know he doesn’t recognize my name.

“When I’m on site, yes. Myles doesn’t leave home for too long anymore.”

Most of my tension drains out of me, but some stays in reserve. Good thing I used “Em” just in case. It’s not a big jump from Emerson, but maybe it’s enough.

The doors open to a sprawling office. One entire wall is windows.

“Whoa,” I breathe as I get off. A front-row view of the mountains right from his desk.

I used to have that from my front porch in Huckleberry Springs. Longing drags on my heart, but I push it aside. Denver has mountains too.

“Sometimes I take it for granted.” He gestures to a chair, but he doesn’t go behind the desk. “Would you like a tasting?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t, but thank you.”

“It’s not a drink. A taste.”

Intrigued, I sit and cross one leg over the other. His gaze dips to my bare skin and skates away.

Pleased that he might be affected a fraction of what I am, I consider his offer. “If it’s not too much.”

Then I’ll leave. After all, a handsome, successful man is only ever good for me when it comes to business.

“I can’t help but show off our product.” His sexy smirk buries itself in my belly and ignites a tiny flame. He goes to the bar along the wall.

Yes, I’ll definitely leave after this. “It’ll help me to confirm the quality you’re selling.”

He shoots me a grin over his shoulder, and it detonates the butterflies in my stomach, sending them tumbling in a million different directions.

He returns with a wooden holder containing four small plastic tasting cups and sets them on the edge of his utilitarian desk. “I could use a Glencairn glass, but it’s easy to get too much with those.” Instead of going behind the desk, he takes the chair next to me and hands me one with the lightest amber whiskey. “It’s the weakest proof. Have to get your palate ready.”

Amber whiskey barely covers the bottom, but it’s enough for a taste. I roll it around on my tongue and ponder. If only he’d told me which line it was. I studied them all. Racking my brain, I summon all the descriptions I can and pair them with what’s in my mouth. “Notes of oak, cherry, and . . . vanilla.”

Surprise lights his eyes. “You’re good.”

I preen like he gave me a gold star, but I just picked some common descriptions. “I enjoy going to tastings.” I’ve gone to two. “But I don’t like to drink a lot.”

Understanding flickers in his eyes, and the stress from earlier returns. Does he know who I am? Worse, does he feel sorry for me? An alcoholic dad, heartbroken after his wife left. I can’t take the pity. I select the second cup.