Page 61 of Whiskey Proposal

“I appreciate it.”

He dips his head. “Tell everyone ‘hi’ from me and the family, especially if you see Mae. The kids love Grandma Mae.”

Each time I hear that, my chest expands to two miles wide. “I’ll fit it in while I’m kicking my niece’s ass. Elsa thinks she can win against me in horseshoes, and again, I’m going to have to prove her wrong.”

He laughs. “She kicks my ass. I’m glad someone can take her.” He slaps my shoulder and exits through the distillery.

I busy myself with refills. A half hour before closing, only a few tables have people. I duck into the storeroom to stock for tomorrow. When I come out with a bottle of Butter Barrel, Juneberry vodka, and lavender gin, Emerson’s on a stool at the bar. She’s still wearing the ponytails and overalls. Whatever the reason, she’s committed to the look, and I’ll have dreams of taking her out of those damn things for the rest of my life.

She cocks a brow when she sees me. “You’re always in that storeroom. Is there something good back there?”

“There’s nothing but goodness back there. Our best work.”

She smiles and pulls a menu toward her. “What do you recommend tonight?”

I set the lavender gin on the counter. “It’s a gorgeous summer night. I have just the thing.”

“I don’t like gin.”

“You haven’t tried our gin.” I get a long-stemmed glass. In a shaker, I add the gin, a squeeze of lemon, and sparkling wine. I shake it with some crushed ice and strain it into the glass.

“What is it?” she asks when I slide it in front of her.

“Our take on a lavender French 75, only we infuse the gin with lavender instead of using a lavender simple syrup.”

She takes a tentative sip. “Hmm?” She licks her lips and tips the glass again. “It’s really light and refreshing.”

“Good though?”

“Yes, but not in your face about it.” She tips her head. “Kind of like you.”

“I’m not in your face?”

“No.” She swallows a bigger amount this time. “You wait for your opportunity.”

The back of my neck heats. “Are you talking about the trust?”

“No. I’m talking about when you come out of the shower in nothing but a towel. And when you cook dinner. When you do things like fix an old pickup that meant nothing to anyone but an old, lonely alcoholic, and you do it just in case his kids come home.”

“You did. Come home.”

“It’s not my home.”

I lean my forearms on the counter. “Why is that?” She stares at her glass, her gaze following a string of bubbles from the bottom to the top of the liquid. “Have you gone into the house yet?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

Instead of asking her why, I wait. People at two of the tables get up and leave. “Thanks for coming,” I call to them.

Emerson’s still not talking, so I push away. When I’m cleaning empties, the last table leaves. I nod and smile at them, turn off the open sign, and lock the door.

I return and dump out the ice and various citrus peels.

“My mom always wanted better,” she says, her voice barely audible. The glass in front of her is empty. I take that and add it to my pile to clean too. “She wanted nicer clothes, more brand names, and hell, anything new. But Dad liked to have fun. Not wild parties, but he enjoyed ranching. He liked hanging with the animals, and it didn’t bother him if we had money or not. He liked staying home, brewing his own beer and being with his family. The family she left.”

I keep loading our small dishwasher and cleaning up the counters. If my mundane activities are getting her to talk, then I’ll clean this whole place by hand.

“She blamed him, she blamed Brooks, and she blamed me on her way out.”