Page 59 of Whiskey Proposal
“No problem.” She’d like the bakery, and it’s the least I can do for Brooks’s help with the chicken shed.
Hillary sprints into the house, and when she runs back out, we load up.
“This is so old.” She runs her hands over the dash.
“Not one single airbag.” We’re lucky it has seat belts.
I push my hair back. I’m not all glammed up. Who am I going to see? And why do I care what they think? I should’ve gotten more compassion and less criticism as a kid. Hillary likes the way I am, and I put a whole lot more stock in what and who she likes.
“It’s so cute,” she says about the bakery when I park in front of it.
She chatters about her chickens when we walk in. My anxiety keeps trying to fill my head, but I breathe through it and concentrate on my niece. She’s happy.
I open the door and let her go in first. She continues talking, only she switches to how yummy everything looks.
A group of tourists is ordering, all women. One turns around and smiles at Hillary. Her smile freezes when it hits me, and her gaze drops down from the denim cutoff overalls to my cowboy boots. I’m not outlandish, but my brain doesn’t know that. I’m back in class, in pants that are too short and a knit sweater that my mom left behind. Her lips purse and she faces forward. The friend next to her looks back. I stiffen and Hillary’s words about the muffin of the day fade. The two women exchange a look, then lean their heads close and murmur. One chuckles.
My skin crawls, and I want to run.
Then there’re warm hands on my arms and a hot mouth at my ear. “Order whatever you want,” Lane’s deep voice caresses my eardrums. “My treat.”
I sway back into him and his heat just as my inner Miss Independent rises up. I glance back and he looks just as good as he did this morning. He skipped shaving, and a dark shadow dusts his jaw. He’s in his black Foster House polo, and I don’t have to check him out head to toe to know he’s wearing jeans and boots. I got to see him at the breakfast table. A part of my day that’s becoming my favorite.
“I can get it.” I twist farther into him.
“But then I can’t spoil a couple of girls who deserve it.”
The women in front of me turn again at the sound of his voice. Lane still has his arm around me, and appreciation fills both of their faces.
I should be ashamed of my smugness. I should be treated decently in my own right—no hot guys necessary—but I’ll take it. I’m extra raw from their initial perusal.
“What are you going to get, Hillary?” he asks, oblivious to getting checked out.
While they discuss the merits of a gooseberry muffin, the first woman steps back.
I steel myself for the oncoming insult and cross my arms.
“Excuse me. Sorry to bother you.” She gestures to my overalls. “Where did you get those?”
Her friend turns. “I told her I would look like a cherry tomato in those, but you’re so cute in them.”
My brows rise and my thoughts spin to keep up. Where is the insult? Have they gotten so sophisticated I can’t hear it? “I’m sorry?”
“She made them,” Hillary proudly announces. “Cut ’em off herself.”
“But the hem’s so even,” the woman says, bending to inspect my thighs. “I could never get my cutoffs to look right.”
I’m too stunned to move back. Horrified that I turned a leg out so she can see more of my work, I stand straight. Lane splays his hand at my side, and I absorb strength from his touch. “Yeah, I found a few pairs in a thrift shop, but I wanted a cooler set for the summer, so I cut the legs off.”
The second lady tugs on her arm. It’s their turn to order. They both smile at me, and I still flinch, expecting a snide twist to the interaction. There isn’t one. Just open friendliness.
Impulsively, I step forward. “For what it’s worth, you wouldn’t look like a tomato, and who cares about uneven hems?”
The first lady elbows her friend. “I told her that too.”
I fall back with my niece and Lane. He places his hand on my hip again, and I do nothing to move it.
“I have a four-pack of red velvet already, FYI.” He gestures to a table with a bunch of men watching us. “Figured we could have them in the morning.”
