Page 69 of Whiskey Proposal

“Let me guess . . . you like frosted sugar cookies. Christmas is your favorite holiday, but you’ll make them in the middle of July.”

She tenses, and I can picture the frown I can’t see. “How’d you know?”

“You like red velvet muffins, and you didn’t complain once that Elodie made red velvet anything outside of February.”

“People complained?”

“Some women were in town for a wedding and were scandalized. So Elodie’s made them every week since.”

Her exhale’s soft and sleepy. “Passive-aggressive. A woman after my own heart.”

Kind of like chicken-geddon. I press a kiss against her hair. “Good night, Scrappy.”

“Good night, Mr. Foster.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Emerson

I wake up and the bed’s empty. Frowning, I roll over. Is he gone already? Doing chores or out of town? He was going to clean up after chores and leave. We had a late night at the distillery. Maybe he’s still around.

What if he’s not?

My stomach knots, and the satisfied stiffness in my muscles turns into tension.

What did I expect?

More. From Lane, I expected more than to chicken out—like I did when I stood him up.

I pull up my phone and scroll through the sales site where I found the chickens and the coop. A pan clinks in the kitchen. I sit up, clicking my phone off. Who’s here? It has to be Lane.

Hope curling in my belly, I get out of his bed. I shouldn’t fault him for letting me sleep in. The animals need to be fed, and my chickens are probably waiting on me. Lane has to get on the road. Bourbon Canyon’s only a couple of hours away, but he has plans with Myles and the kids.

I grab a T-shirt neatly folded on his dresser. His bedroom is cozy, but other than the chicken decor, it’s as plain as the rest of the house. We’re alike in that way. My apartment is bland, but I have a reason. I’m going to move into something nicer if my income ever outcompetes the cost of living in the city.

Lane built this house. It’s a forever home. Yet he lives in it like a guest.

Before I reach the kitchen, I duck into my bathroom and brush my teeth. I wince at my hair and finger-comb as much as I can without making it too frizzy. Good enough. He’s leaving anyway.

I tug down the hem of the shirt. With my height, it falls below my ass and not much farther. I find him at the stove, where he often is, ever dutifully preparing breakfast. “Hey.”

“Morning.” He grins at me, and his gaze heats as he takes in my bare legs.

He’s still in his dusty clothes from being outside. Shouldn’t he put on cleaner jeans and a freshly laundered shirt? “You should be on the road. You said you were meeting Myles before lunch.”

“I canceled.”

“What?” I can’t have heard him right.

“I let them know that I can’t make it this weekend.”

My gut aches. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“They’re fine.” He sets the pan on the table and flips what’s inside onto a plate. Pancakes today. My hunger wakes up.

I don’t make a move to set the table. “Then why not go?”

He faces me, and I steel myself for whatever he’s going to say. He’s got to go to Denver again. He wants me out. He knows after last night that he’s for sure not interested, and he has a laser removal appointment for that tattoo.