Page 90 of Whiskey Proposal

“I’ll help you.” I keep hold of her hand as we walk toward the coop.

“This thing really is battered.” She peeks inside, counts the birds, and then shuts the door. With the sun sinking, they’ve already gone in to roost.

“It’s perfect.”

“It’s a blemish.” She takes my hand again. “Your perfect property is now a little duller.”

“Nah, there’s nothing perfect about my property. The coop makes it look a little more lived in, and the chicken crap adds a nice ambiance to this stretch of lawn.” I give her a smile so she knows I don’t mind. The joy those chickens bring her is worth a dodgy coop.

We go into the house, and I dig a half pint of our huckleberry vodka out. “Want to sit on the porch and have a drink?”

Neither of us turned on the lights when we entered, and her eyes are luminous in the shadows.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” She waits at the end of the counter while I dig out sparkling water and a lime. “What are you making me?”

“A huckleberry soda lime.”

“Sounds good.”

“It is.” I mix the cocktail in two highball glasses with ice and push one over.

She frowns. “No umbrella?”

“The lime wedge is the flourish. We have candied ones in the tasting room.”

“Whose idea?”

“Something we got from Copper Summit.” I lead her out the door to the porch. “Don’t sit yet.”

I set my drink down, retrieve some paper towels from the kitchen, and dampen one. Outside, I clean off the chairs and wipe down the wooden table.

“Now it’s safe.” I toss the towels in the garbage and join her.

We sip our drinks and gaze into the trees behind my house. The place she grew up in is on the other side of the tall trees, with the roof barely visible.

“You don’t relax out here a lot, do you?” she finally asks.

I roll a shoulder, but she probably can’t see it. The sky is a midnight blue, darkening to black overhead. “I’m on plenty of people’s decks.” I sense her arched brow. “Not like that, Scrappy.”

She chuckles. “I’m not getting territorial. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be out here. I’d be too eaten up with jealousy thinking about all the other women you’ve wooed here.”

“There have been no other women in this house.” I hold up a finger. “Unless they’re a sister-in-law or they’re married to someone who’s like family.”

She goes quiet, and I strain to see the details of her expression. Is she impressed? Does she think it’s pathetic? Is she convincing herself that it’s proof I can’t commit?

“This house is special to you, but you’re not here to enjoy it much. You love to fix cars, but you rarely work in the shop. What else are you withholding from yourself?”

Her. “How do you mean?”

She holds her arms out to encompass the edges of my property. “If this was mine, I’d be out here all the time. That firepit would be burning every night. I’d make it my company background.”

I chuckle, but there’s a point I need to make. The invisible clock is loud in my head. “This is yours.”

“Not for much longer. Then potential clients would really think I was selling firepits.” She tips her glass and swallows. “No. Did you talk to a lawyer?”

I feel slightly better she had to take a big swig to ask that. “Not yet.”

She runs her finger around the top of her glass. “Are you going to?”