Page 53 of Whiskey Proposal

She grimaces, and it’s as fake as the rest of her actions. “It’s a little used, isn’t it? I got it from a gal in Columbus.” She stuffs her hands in her back pockets, and it only pushes her breasts out farther. I have a love-hate relationship now with those overalls. “I can’t afford new. So used it is.”

“Used is just fine.”

Her eyes narrow. “I also wanted to tell you—I need the pickup.”

“Go ahead. There’s a spare set of keys by the door.”

“No. Dad’s pickup.”

So Hutch is Dad for this charade? “Why?”

“It’s mine.”

It is. “I replaced the carburetor, manifold, distributor, and water pump. It’s got fresh oil, but I want to tackle the rust around the fenders before it eats away more of the body.”

“I’ll park my car in the garage then. The pickup will suit these roads better.”

“I’ll get it out of the shop as soon as I get changed.”

She tips her head and there’s that sweet, syrupy smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

When I turn, I catch the beat of alarm passing through her eyes, then her smile is back in place. Whatever’s in the house scares her while also delighting her. Time to find out what it is.

I take my time. I’m not playing a game, but I can toy with her, just a little. I get to the door and look back. She’s bending over, petting Lady, but she’s peeking under her armpit.

I cock a brow and walk in. Nothing smells or sounds different, but my gaze lands on a painting of a giant cock. A painted bantam rooster stares into my soul from above the entry that leads into the hallway between the kitchen and living room.

All right then.

I toe off my shoes and carry them with me through the house. Oil paintings of hens are strung across the top of my wall, above the art from my family. Honestly, those are quite tasteful.

A peek into the kitchen reveals salt and pepper shakers—a hen and a rooster. Hot pads and trivets—all chicken themed. The whole house is chicken decor. My muted grays and log browns are covered with more artwork, throw pillows, hell, a blanket, and figurines that are all various shades and colors of chickens.

Treading all the way through my house, I don’t bother to find out how far the cluck invasion goes. I head to my room, and right there, dead center of my neatly made bed with a pewter-gray duvet, is a giant pillow. In the middle is a needlepoint red rooster, and around it is the phrase Give Your Cock A Rest.

A choking sound leaves me. The saying is crude and the rest of the place is garish. Then a low rumble leaves me, growing louder, until my laughter echoes off the few walls that aren’t covered with chicken images.

Emerson

The man is as immutable as a wall. He’s outside dressed in worn jeans that are still nicer than the pairs of thrifted overalls I bought. I finish topping off the chickens’ water and cleaning out the coop. I’m dusty, and I’m not sure what I got on my face when I scratched it while prepping the used and abused shed.

“You thrifted the chickens?” Lane asks, squatting down, letting the hens run around him. Lady’s used to chickens, likely from having ventured next door when Hutch was around, but she’s still curious. She doesn’t like being locked on the other side of the fence Brooks helped me set up. Her whines send a ripple of clucking through my new but used little flock. The lone rooster runs past Lane.

“That’s Phillip,” I explain. “He’s infertile.”

Lane cants his head to look at me. “How do you know?”

Seriously, what does he think of the changes I made in the house decor? “The previous owner said there’s never been a fertilized egg when he’s around, and she didn’t get more roosters. She’s moving into town and was hoping to give everything away at once. I found her post. The flock came as a full package.”

Lane nods, then he snaps his arms out and catches a hen, clamping her wings down and drawing her into his chest. All of it is so smooth, the hen barely flinches.

He runs a hand down her back. “They’re used to being handled.”

“She said she gave them lots of love. I was worried she wouldn’t sell. I got grilled on what I planned to do with them.”

He glances up at me, his big hand continuing to stroke the bird. Lucky gal. “What’d you tell her?”

“That I’m a newlywed, and my dear husband has such a big place that it’s empty without a yard full of chickens. I haven’t gotten to enjoy their little buk-buk-bawks in ages.”