Page 88 of Whiskey Proposal

Cruz turns his back to the grill, rapping the handle of his spatula on his hand. “I asked Haven to stop by the distillery.”

Lane puts his feet flat on the ground. “I was going to do that when I left.”

“A little out of your way,” Cruz says wryly.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he’d have to check on the distillery, but I hold it in. If I hadn’t verbally attacked him first, I’d have asked how his day was. Even sooner, I’d have noticed that his shoulders were hanging a little more and he was sporting a tiny perma-frown like there’s a lot on his mind.

“Haven doesn’t need to disrupt his night,” Lane argues.

“He doesn’t mind.” Cruz shoots him a shameless grin that says he knows Lane delves too far into his work. Then he turns and rescues the burgers.

Brooks calls for Hillary to wash her hands, and within minutes, we’re loading our plates to sit and eat.

Lane scoots his chair closer to me so there’s more room for Brooks and Hillary.

“I, uh, hope this isn’t some round-robin thing,” Brooks says lightly, but with a serious note to his tone. “I’m gonna need some time before the house is ready for a group of people.”

Cruz grips his burger. “I have you down for the end of August.” He chuckles at Brooks’s alarm. “Nah, I’m kidding.”

“We’ll make a thing—when you’re ready,” Lane says.

Anxiety flexes inside me. Will Brooks be ready when I’m gone? I’ll be in my barren apartment, and they’ll all be here, on a beautiful summer evening, having good food with great company.

Will Lane have a different woman?

The burger turns to ash in my mouth. I cough around the food and take a big pull of my lemonade. Lane pivots toward me, ready to do the Heimlich or hand-feed me or something.

“Sorry,” I croak.

“First time chewing?” Hillary chirps.

Brooks snorts and clears his throat. “Sorry. I say that to her when she doesn’t slow down eating.”

“Our dad used to say that.” Cruz flashes Lane an amused look. “Most of the time it was to our mom and it was—” His eyes flare wide and his gaze lands on a very interested Hillary. “Uh, inappropriate.”

“Now I have to know.” I put my hands around Hillary’s ears, and she rolls her eyes.

“When Mom would cough,” Lane says for Cruz, “he’d say, ‘I know it ain’t your first time swallowing.’” He mimics the gruffness his dad must have.

Snickers fill the air, and I pull my hands away, grinning.

My niece scowls at me. “I always miss the good stuff.”

“Just dads being dads.” Cruz pops a grape into his mouth. “Except your dad is cooler than ours was.”

“What was yours like?” she asks.

I instinctively lean closer to Lane.

He rests an elbow on the armrest of his chair closest to me. “He wasn’t a nice man, but he could be funny at times. Once in a while, he’d be decent, but most of the time, he was just selfish and it landed him in prison.”

“What’d he do?” she asks, and damn. I haven’t dug this much into Lane. I’ve wanted to know everything about him, but have I really taken an interest? Not like this.

“Stole things,” Cruz answers. Elodie rests her hand on his thigh under the table. Has Lane had any of that support? “Caused a really bad accident that hurt a lot of people.”

“My dad’s never been to prison,” Hillary says.

Brooks makes a noncommittal sound. “I might become the hay-bale bandit if any more belts on the baler snap.”