Page 63 of Whiskey Proposal

“In a way. It’s Myles’s place.”

“And you keep it running. An uncredited artist.”

“Not quite like that.” Yet I appreciate her insight.

“But I know,” she says. “I know you’re a big part of why this place keeps ticking, that you kept my dad’s now classic pickup going, and that those cattle are so unbothered because you take care of them.”

“I can’t do this without my brothers.” I pivot to face her and lean my shoulder against the glass.

“They can’t do it without you.”

She’ll never know how much it means to hear her say that. To know that she notices me. “Be careful, Em. I might start thinking you like me.”

She feathers her fingers along my collar and over my chest. “I guess that’s not a bad thing. Since we’re married and all. For a little longer.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Emerson

Lane fills up the office. Energy crackles in the air between us. The kiss in the tasting room has ignited every nerve in my body to the point of pain. Touching him is helping, and making it all infinitely worse. My skin is too tight, I can’t draw in a full breath, and I’m overwhelmed—by this place, by the view, by him.

I twine my arms around his neck. He made the first move all the other times, and technically, he did tonight too. Now we need to keep going or I’m going to combust.

He spins us until my back hits the window. “Are you afraid someone will see you up here?”

“I don’t care.” I regret leaving the tasting room. I could be wrapped around him by now. I would’ve fit perfectly on his lap. “But thanks for checking.”

And I mean it. He’s the kindest man I’ve ever met. The trust stipulations aren’t his fault. He’s as trapped as me. When the house is sold, I’ll be gone and he’ll be relieved.

Something like panic flits through me, but I bury my hands in his hair and drag his head down to me. My lips hit his and he braces his hands on the glass, kissing me senseless.

I yank on the collar of his polo. Why is this even on? I tug it up and he puts enough space between us so I can slip it over his head. I toss it on the chair across from his desk.

I trail my fingers down his hard chest, the scattering of hair tickling my fingertips. “You are just . . .” Perfection. I stop at the tattoo of a tipped barrel next to an upright one. Then I nudge him to turn around. “Is there anything back here?” A soft gasp escapes.

The ink on his shoulder blade is a truck just like my dad’s. My pickup. The one he fixed up for me.

I spin him back around. “When did you get this?”

His expression is hard again, but in a way I haven’t seen. Vulnerable. He’s afraid to answer. “When he told me the stories, and I saw your picture, I just knew I had to rescue that truck. I knew it had to be a good memory for you.”

Emotion crawls up into my throat. He didn’t answer my question, but he’s only been living next to where I grew up for six years. “Why?”

He clenches his jaw and drops his gaze, but he doesn’t back away. “They were such happy memories. I didn’t get that when I was a kid, and I worried you’d lost them as an adult.”

“Oh, Lane.” I cup his face, and he lifts his gaze to mine.

“There’s a lot you don’t want to remember, but those stories? They struck me and stuck. Maybe there’s something good there that you look back on. Out of all that hurt? One old truck might be the thing that makes you smile.”

I never would’ve thought something could rip my attention off the pecs and abs in front of me. But this sweet man is so much more than his looks. “So you tattooed it on yourself?”

He nods and traces the line of my jaw. “He was getting unpredictable and short on cash. I thought maybe he’d sell it, and it’d be gone forever.”

I slip under his arm to stand behind him. I place a kiss on the little truck, warm from his furnace of a body, then rest my cheek on it and hook my arms around his waist. He clamps his hands over mine, and we breathe together.

“No one’s ever been so thoughtful,” I say softly.

“Get used to it, Em.”