Page 75 of Whiskey Proposal

I’m supposed to be looking at the stars, but I’m basking in the moment for a different reason. This whole day has been . . . unexpected. I woke up in Lane’s bed. Now I’m in Bourbon Canyon, staying in the same room, the same bed, with him in his brother’s house. And I sat around a firepit for the first time in a long time. Brooks doesn’t fire his up that much anymore.

Lane has more money than me. That was clear before I met him. He has a new pickup that costs more than I made in a year at my old job. If I could only make that much on my own, I’d be doing well. I was enamored with his house the first time I saw it, and my family no longer owns the property it’s on. I barely own the house Brooks is in.

But his brothers? This whole day with them, roasting marshmallows with Lane’s niece and nephew? Amazing.

“I’m glad I came.” I hook my thumbs in his hands and soak up the warmth of his hard body.

“I am too.” His lips are on the shell of my ear. “I wanted to lick that marshmallow off you.”

“Do you think anyone else saw?”

“We’re not going to chase you away because you got food on your face.”

My throat grew thick. “I wasn’t thinking that.” Maybe a little. I wore the nice clothes I bought in Billings.

“Ranchers aren’t afraid of a little muck, and Em, you’re far from a dirt pile.” He nuzzles the nape of my neck. “First of all, most guys love piles of dirt, but you shine like a diamond no matter what.”

“Mm. I missed your coveralls when you were working with your brother.”

His chest rumbles with his laughter. “When we get back, I’ll put them on for you. As long as you promise to give me more overalls and ponytails.”

“I might have to find more. Are there thrift stores in Bourbon Canyon?”

“We’ll run to Bozeman.”

He says it with so much assuredness that I chuckle. “Okay. More overalls it is.” My smile fades. “One more pair should get me through when the house sells.”

His muscles twitch. “Right.”

I put that distance between us on purpose, but the hurt from his simple acknowledgment startles me. The corner of the bandage that got jerked up. Might as well rip it all off.

I turn in his embrace. The fading sunlight turns his eyes a midnight blue, the irises barely lighter than the pupils. “I had a nice talk with Wynter.”

“Good.” His expression remains tense, like he’s waiting for me to toss a wrench on the floor and make a clatter.

“She knows about the holiday campaign.”

He works his jaw back and forth. “I knew she’d appreciate it.”

“She was hoping I’d consider Foster House Gold.” I should come out and ask what’s on my mind, but the words are stuck in my throat. “Don’t you want me?”

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I haven’t talked to the guys yet.”

“Afraid I’ll move to town and you’ll be trapped by me?” I try to sound like I’m joking, but it comes out as the real question that it is.

His brows crash together. “No. You were stuck marrying me. I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

He said the same last night. He tried to talk my dad out of it, and when push came to shove, he was the better option over anyone else. To him, it was the right thing. It was the best for me. “You don’t have to talk to them.”

“I will, if that’s what you want. You’re clearly in tune with our message and our product. It’d help you and it’d help us.”

My heart sinks. Discussing the option with the other owners would be just another right thing to do for someone he felt responsible for. “I have enough”—barely—“to get by until I return to Denver. I followed up on one of the queries from last week, and I think a kombucha place might hire me.”

If I stayed, Lane would feel like he had to do right by me some more. Would he feel like he had to watch over me for my father? Be more than a friendly neighbor to Brooks and Hillary? Huckleberry Springs is his home. That shop of his is the only place he can be Lane Foster, a gearhead raised by an addict and abandoned by a convict.

“Em, I can talk to them.” His hands land at my waist. “Your thoughts can’t go to waste.”

He’s so damn thoughtful. I want to be bitter, but I’m just sad. Crestfallen that this can’t be real. That’s not his fault and he’s taken care of me. Who takes care of him? I cup each side of his face. “When’s the last time you did something purely because it’s what you wanted to do?”