Page 82 of Whiskey Proposal

He’s diverting. Do I let him? Do I keep insisting on the nondate status of tonight? Do I tell him no, I can’t work for him?

I’ve done all that. He’s not listening and the cider is good. Maybe tonight is just what I need. A date that doesn’t have to lead to anything. A date that will go nowhere, except maybe back to his bed. He did admit to still wanting to sleep with me. Still a bad idea, but I can celebrate the win.

I clink my glass against his. “Cheers.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lane

I recline in the meeting room. We’re talking about our goals for the last quarter of the year and, ironically, a marketing campaign. I have nothing to contribute. Emerson shut down on me about the whole idea. I waited too damn long.

I thought it was a good thing that Emerson came to Bourbon Canyon with me. But now, she’s closed off. There’s an invisible fortress I can’t get through. On Saturday, she didn’t come check on me to make sure I was working in the shop like she asked me to. She didn’t visit me at the tasting room, and on Sunday, she spent most of the day next door.

It’s Monday, and I’m staring down a new week of trying to get past Emerson’s defenses. Will she want to go out to eat?

“Lane?”

I could take her to Billings, but I don’t want to trick her into a date. That defeats the purpose.

“Lane?”

So how can I spend more time with her, legitimately, yet get close to her because that’s what we both want?

“Lane, fuck.” Cruz’s voice finally gets through.

I jerk my gaze off the table. The four guys are staring at me.

“What? Sorry.” How much did I miss?

Iverson puts his hands flat on the table. “I think that’s good for today.”

“No, I’m here. It’s fine.” It’s not. I can’t promise my mind will stay on work. A golden-haired goddess has tied me up in several different knots, and only she knows how to undo them.

Durban pushes back from the table. “We’ve all been there, Lane. Figure out what’s going on with your wife, and then we can talk about the holiday campaign.”

“I want to bring her in for it.” I scrub a hand down my face. “But she thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“Like he said,” Haven chimes in, “figure your shit out and then maybe you’ll get the girl and we’ll get the marketing ideas that you’ve been gushing about for weeks.”

“I haven’t.” I’ve been careful not to ask. It’s Emerson’s job, and she thinks I’ve messed with it enough.

“Trust me”—Iverson rises—“you have.” He nods at Cruz, who isn’t making a move to leave.

After the Hennessys filter out, I spin my chair toward Cruz. “Why did they flee and leave you?”

“They know you won’t really talk to them.”

“What do you mean?”

He steeples his fingers. “You don’t really talk to me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“About you.”

Frustration abrades the back of my neck. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Why do you still talk to Dad?”