Page 20 of Whiskey Proposal

I should’ve done more research on Foster House Gold.

I’m doing that now. I turn into the parking lot of the remodeled gold, platinum, and palladium mine.

“Damn.” I lean closer to see out the windshield, my jaw dropping.

I saw a picture of it once. Read a quick update. Mostly, I skimmed, in no place to be transported to my hometown to see how everything was thriving while I wasn’t there.

With three stories, there are enough windows to reflect the trees and foothills it’s nestled in. The backdrop of the mountains frames it perfectly, like it’s been here since the beginning of time, carved from glaciers and the elements.

Lane’s pickup is on the far side of the lot by a long building that’s not quite as ornate. Must be the rickhouse. Three other cars are lined up closer to the entry of what must be the tasting room. I park by them.

My stomach pitches and rolls. I press a hand to my gut. He’s in there. Has he seen me?

I’m not afraid of him.

No. I am. There are a lot of burgeoning feelings when it comes to Lane, and fear is definitely one. Which is why I need to learn more about him.

Maybe he’s a horrible bartender. Maybe he spills drinks and drives off paying customers. He can negotiate national deals with giant distributors, but maybe he tells lame dad jokes. Something. There’s gotta be something wrong with the man.

I get out. The car I just washed in Billings is once again covered with a fine layer of dust, and there are more bugs on the windshield.

Kind of like me.

I’m in athletic shoes because I wasn’t walking through stores all over Billings just to make my calves sore again. I paired them with jeans and a plain pink top. Decent enough, but nothing like what I wore the last time I went to a distillery.

I enter the tasting room, and disappointment sinks my gut like a stone. Where is he?

A couple in the corner smiles at me. I tense, but out of habit, I smile back. I don’t recognize them. There’s a woman at the bar. She’s older, with thick framed black-and-white sunglasses shoved into her hair. The stool is tall and she’s kicking her feet.

Lane emerges from a back room, looking down at a bottle of clear liquor in his hands. He’s dressed the same, but his hair’s combed back, unlike this morning when it fell over his forehead. “I think I found the one you’re talking about, Edna.”

He glances up and surprise filters across his face. “Emerson.”

The woman on the stool turns so fast she almost falls off. She catches herself on the counter and gingerly steps down. “The Emerson? Oh my gosh, look at you.”

“Edna?” The formal greeting I usually reach for vanishes. There’s something familiar about her. Twenty years younger, same grin, and same spontaneous energy. “From school?”

Her grin is wide, like she’s thrilled I remember her. “Oh, honey. You are a welcome sight. When I lay eyes on that brother of yours, I’ll know all is right with the world.”

I give my head a shake. She’s happy to see me?

She stands back to scan me up and down. “Look at you. Almost as tall as your daddy.”

The reminder is as much of a cold splash in the face as it is heartwarming. No one’s compared me to my dad in a good way. “Brooks is taller.”

“You don’t say.” She beams. “I heard you’re some big marketing exec in the city.” She waggles a finger between me and Lane. “This is a real Hallmark movie.”

Did Lane talk about me today? Wait— “Hallmark movie?” Aren’t those romances?

“The big city girl returns to her hometown and falls in love with the Christmas tree farmer.”

“Oh. I see.” Love would be an unwelcome complication to all this.

She yanks me into an unexpected hug filled with strong vanilla perfume. “Sorry about Hutch. I know the situation is complicated and your feelings must be a mess. But I bet you’re still a strong girl.”

An unwanted memory surfaces. Me, crying in the bathroom after I snooped on my estranged mom and found her living an openly happy life, pregnant again. Edna had crouched down with me and told me she needed help hanging flyers for the school carnival, and she’d give me a juice pouch for helping. “Strong. Sure.”

Lane’s quietly watching us from the other side of the bar. I cast him a look, pleading for something to get me out of this tangle bringing up memories best left buried.