Page 91 of Whiskey Proposal

“If that’s what you want.”

Her laughter’s soft. “You believe this could ever turn real?”

Ouch. It’s real enough to me. “Is it that hard to conceive? We’ve been doing fine.”

“We’ve each been working a lot.”

I set my drink on the table. “You might find this hard to believe, but two people in a marriage can each work.”

She tips her head and her hair drapes over her shoulder. “Aren’t I supposed to be barefoot and pregnant?”

She’s being playful, but I’m glad I’m not holding anything breakable. The image implants itself in my brain and coaxes out my inner caveman, making me clench my fists before I can yank her out of her chair and haul her into the bedroom. I’m better than that.

Unless that’s what she wants.

“I can make it happen.” Her little gasp prompts my smile. I recline back and ignore the way blood is heading right for my dick. “How many kids would you want? How close together? Would it be like one baby, and then recovery, followed right by another, or would you want a few years between them?”

A small puff of air comes from her direction.

I force myself to sit still when I want to scoot my chair closer and have this talk like it’s our future.

“You’re the one with forty on the horizon. Can you take a few years between kids?”

My grin spreads across my entire damn face. She’s going along with it. Is that a good sign? “Well, now . . .” What would I want? I’ve barely let myself think beyond keeping Emerson from following through on the divorce papers, and now it’s like hanging a crystal ball in front of me. Will the words that come out of her mouth be my future? “Two kids would be cool, but I’d be happy with one. Or none as long as I get to have you. As for the time between them, it’s your body. I’m there for the ride, and I’ll be waiting to change diapers and make sure you get some rest.”

“Jesus, Lane. You’re unreal.”

“I’m very much real. You can come over here and feel me.”

“I . . . want kids.” She shifts in her chair. “But I also don’t.” Crossing one leg over the other, she bounces her foot. If she was standing, she’d be hugging herself. “I don’t want to find out just how easy it was for Mom to leave us, and I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want to be the reason my kids get teased.”

The image of a precocious little girl with long, brassy hair and a mischievous smile flashes through my head. She’d be dressed in her own little overalls, with ponytails her mom helped put in her hair. She’d be protected by that mom too. “That won’t happen.”

“And then what if . . .” She shakes her head and downs the rest of her drink. “I should get some sleep. I have to present a campaign tomorrow and convince my client it’ll sell a shitload of kombucha.”

“What if I leave? Is that what you were going to ask?” That’s her fear. Everyone leaves her. She wants to end this marriage because, whether we divorce as soon as Brooks can buy the house or when I decide parenthood is too constricting, she assumes I’ll leave. “I’m not going anywhere, Em.”

She bends over and kisses me solidly on the mouth. I grip her biceps, not letting her go far.

“I know you want to mean it.” Her sad smile is all too clear in the moonlight. “And I want you to mean it too. But I just can’t yet. Can you just take me to that comfortable bed of yours and make me forget?”

She doesn’t need to forget. She just needs to trust me.

I do the only thing I know how to do. Show her that no one else will ever be able to please her like me, and maybe with each touch, with each climax, I’ll embed myself into her life so far that she’ll finally believe I’m not going anywhere.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Emerson

I pull up in front of a small stone building. A newer wing juts out from the side.

Hillary eyes the building dubiously. “The librarian at school didn’t like me.”

“You don’t go to that school anymore.” That’s one good thing that’s come from this whole will and trust thing. There’ve been a few good things, including waking up to Lane’s hand sliding into my pajama pants. I’m getting far too used to that, and he was almost late for his plane to Denver. “Besides, Clem likes you. You know that.”

“What if she doesn’t anymore?”

“Well, I know her and she’s not like that.” I don’t know her well and Hillary seems to sense that. Her expression stays worried. “I’ll fight her if she’s mean to you.”