Page 110 of Whiskey Proposal

Bunny: A rooster protects his flock.

Bunny: Roosters don’t have a penis.

I laugh, alone in the pickup. “Thanks, Bunny,” I murmur. I blow out a slow breath.

I pick up the white envelope with the divorce papers and the lightest of gray envelopes with the closing papers and head into the house. We’re supposed to go over them, and we’ll do that tomorrow. Then we’ll run to town and make it all official if Zack’s appointment goes long and he can’t make it to the house. Lane arranged it that way so Hillary could feel like we did the sale in her new home.

Inside, I don’t even take off my shoes. I go straight through the house and dump the envelopes by my laptop. I blow out a breath. Do I hide them?

I should go outside and set them on fire, but then I’d have to explain that. Hey, Em, why are there bits of paper smoldering in the ashes? I don’t want to rip them up and risk him seeing them.

Ugh. I’ll figure it out later. I have an invite to the bakery. A business meeting. But I don’t want those papers with me. I’m like a spy, smuggling state documents or something. I sell kombucha, for fuck’s sake. I bury the white envelope under my laptop and then leave the office. I’ll deal with them after the house is sold and I know for sure Lane won’t cut and run before the ink dries.

Guilt rears up, and I stare at them for a moment. That’s not fair to Lane. As soon as I have a moment, maybe when he works the tasting room this weekend, I’ll roast the papers and some marshmallows.

The trip back to town takes less than ten minutes. I park in front of the bakery. Elodie’s leaning against the counter, a hand in her sweats’ pocket, chatting with the girl taking orders, but it’s early afternoon and the bakery closes in an hour. Only one booth has people in it.

Elodie smiles, says one more thing to the girl, and walks toward me. “Thanks for coming. Did you recover from the dance?”

“Yes, I hadn’t been out that late in years.”

“You’re telling me.” She gestures to a booth in the corner. “I usually wake up about the time we got home.”

“It was fun. A really good time.”

She pushes her glasses up and chews on her lower lip. “So, I hope you don’t mind mixing business with pleasure. I’d like to hire you—for a consult if nothing else.”

She gave me a heads-up that she wants to pick my brains, and that she was willing to pay. This isn’t a surprise, but her nervousness is. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“Good. Because Cruz told me about your pitch with Foster House Gold, and that’s just . . . amazing insight.” She tips her head. Her gaze is shrewd behind those glasses. “I want to expand.”

Her compliment is great, and I’m thrilled for her. “That’s awesome.”

She nods, but she leans forward, all business. “I want to do it in a way that’s self-sufficient. I love Cruz, but he will sell his part of Foster House Gold in a heartbeat if I get into financial trouble.”

“Big, generous hearts seem to be a thing with the guys.”

“I love it, don’t get me wrong.” Pink dusts her cheeks. She must be thinking about him. “But I admire what the guys are doing with that distillery, and I want that for Dee’s Sweets. I want to give more back to the community. I do this cookie dough fundraiser, and we’re limited on space and bodies. I could add more goods if I had more space. I could make the fundraising a whole thing, and a lot of the money would go back to small communities, but it’d also be its own thing, which is where you come in.”

Am I getting a job? If I pick up Elodie as a client, would taking on Foster House Gold be the next step? It’d prove I can work from Huckleberry Springs. I can make a life here. “I’d love to.”

Elodie’s relieved grin spreads across her face. “Oh, good. Now I can tell Clem, and she’s going to want to meet with you too. You’re going to be so in demand.”

“All because I’m with Lane?” I’m not sure how I feel about that. If something happens, will they just . . . ditch me?

“We found you through Lane, and I don’t see him settling for someone who’s crappy at anything.” Elodie’s expression turns earnest. “When I first opened the bakery, I got quoted an obscene amount by an office out of Billings. A place in Bozeman almost laughed me out of the county. They said they don’t take on campaigns less than seven figures. I just needed some branding and a strategy.”

It’s like pulling a plug and draining my unease. I know exactly where she’s coming from. The accounts who’ve found me got chased away by other companies because they’re too small.

“And Clem complains all the time,” Elodie continues, “that she can’t get someone to personalize her marketing. It’s all cookie-cutter promo, and she says I’m the only one who should be using cookie cutters. Prescott’s helping her with her socials, but she could use you. Then there’s the distillery. I know they’re just waiting for the go-ahead from Lane.”

“For what?”

“To hire you.”

I told Lane no. “I thought it would be out of pity, so I said no.”

“Definitely not pity.” She taps her fingers. “Did you know he asked me if I’d think about carrying kombucha?”