Page 112 of Whiskey Proposal

“And you think she’ll say yes?”

“Yes,” I say honestly. “I really do.”

“Nice.” He pulls me into a quick hug and slaps my back. “I’m happy for you.”

I am too, but Emerson was pensive last night. She hid it well, but I could tell. I don’t have all of her yet, but I will.

We chat about work for a few minutes, then I leave him and head home. A few minutes later, I’m walking through the house to the office. When I enter, I scan the desk. Her laptop is on the edge, and there are two envelopes.

I grab the one on top and flip it over. It has Zack’s info on it. That must be it. But what’s the other one?

I slide it out and flip it over. Another attorney’s office.

A pit forms in my stomach, opening wider the longer I look at it. I should leave it alone. It’s in my office, but it isn’t some piece of mail I forgot. There’s no postage. This is something Emerson had to pick up. What could be that important? Driven by the dread in my gut, I undo the metal closure and flip the top.

I shouldn’t do this. It’s not my business.

But I finish digging the documents out. One word catches my eye.

Divorce.

A frigid, icy cold washes through my veins, forming sharp icicles in my chest. The forms slip from my fingers and scatter on the desk.

Fuck. She had divorce papers drawn up?

But I thought . . .

Fuck.

Divorce, divorce, divorce echoes through my head.

Why did she . . . Doesn’t she . . . I thought she loved me. So what the hell is this?

I toss the papers on the desk and stare at the office. It’s chicken decor–free. Why haven’t I noticed that? She spent the most time here, followed by being in my bed with me. I clutch the envelope we need for the house transfer and stare at the messy divorce documents. How long has she had those? How long has she planned on leaving me?

Since the beginning. I’ve been a fucking idiot.

First, I need to get this house deal done. Then . . . I’ll ask her about these, and I’ll tell her what she needs to do with them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Emerson

I’ll grab the documents to save time.

Panic fills me as I race home.

No, no, no.

Once I’m out of city limits, I push the speed. The pickup roars, and God, if I wreck this on top of filing for divorce, then I don’t deserve Lane.

I don’t deserve him anyway. Hasn’t that been the issue all along? That eventually he’ll figure out how much better he can do and not want me? Why didn’t I call the lawyer and tell him, You know what? I don’t need these. I hope I never need these. I hope to never utter the d-word again.

Did Lane see them?

He’s not a snoop.

I fly into the yard and park at the edge of the lawn, the tires kicking up gravel. I throw the pickup into park and sprint to the house. The chickens by the grungy coop scatter, hiding against walls or diving inside. The two turkeys I got last week, Bonnie and Clyde, watch me from their enclosure. They’re still getting used to Lady, the cats, and the chickens, and now, because I was too much of a coward, they may have to get used to my brother’s place.