Page 26 of Whiskey Proposal

“Depends. I’ll turn the TV on when I’m working in the shop to have some background noise.” I slide the bacon out of the pan and start on the eggs. The hiss of them hitting the pan fills the air. “That’s where I’ll be today.”

“Do you have a third job in the shop?”

I let out a small laugh. “No. That’s for fun.”

Pushing the eggs around, I don’t elaborate. I’m not ready to talk about what’s in the shop yet. I’m not as open as Myles, but I’m not secretive. Still, there’s something in there I’m working on that might make her swoon—or piss her off.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Emerson

Lane’s been in that shop all day. Is he avoiding me?

He made eggs and bacon this morning. I only ate because those were my dad’s eggs he cooked with. That’s a good enough excuse. It had nothing to do with how nice it was to chat with him, how much I was learning about him, and how little the toast was tiding me over.

What was a young Lane Foster like? What about him made Mae Bailey think he needed to be taken under her wing? More questions download into my brain, and I push back from the dining room table. My ass hurts and my back is sore. The chair is fine, but it’s not an office chair meant to be sat in for hours. It’s not my couch either, and that’s where I’ve been working in my apartment.

I get up and stretch. It’s about time for dinner. When does Lane eat? He worked late last night, and he’s been in the shop since after breakfast.

My phone buzzes.

Brooks: Still going okay?

He checked in with me last night before I went to bed, and again this morning.

Me: Yes. How’s Hillary?

Brooks: Loving it more every day.

I smile, and a not-so-small crack inside me repairs itself. My niece is finding peace she’s never known among Dad’s barn cats, horses, and chickens. She’s probably naming the cattle too, and Brooks will be screwed when it comes time to sort and sell some.

Me: You?

Brooks: Job hunting.

Me: Are there options?

Brooks: Not much in the area.

He’s selling his house to buy my dad’s. I don’t need the money, which is good, because it won’t be much. He’s not far into a thirty-year mortgage. I can work whatever deal probate allows and then give the rest back to him. He’ll need it for that house and the property. I owe him for supporting me for so long.

Brooks gave up a lot to take care of me. He had to limit his work options because he had a teenage sister at home. He sacrificed his personal life and his professional one. I married Lane to get him the house, but it’s not exactly a hardship.

My gaze scans Lane’s house and its functional luxury. The guest bathroom has three goddamn showerheads and a soaking tub. In the living room, the TV can rival any movie screen, but he had it built into rock accents so it looks like nature has flat screens. And his kitchen. I’m too intimidated to cook more than toast.

My dad’s place has no water pressure and old wiring.

Me: I’ll keep my eyes open.

Brooks: Appreciate it.

The exchange over, I look around. I should be glad Lane’s been absent since he fed me and walked out of the house to that sprawling shop he hasn’t left. Instead, I’m a little salty that he hasn’t checked on me. Is he giving me the space he thinks I want? That I do want.

I do.

I take my phone with me when I grab my new cowboy boots from the bedroom and carry them to the mudroom door. Walking around will give me time to break them in. Tomorrow, I can help Brooks with chores. It’s been a couple of days and the draw of the place I grew up in is getting irresistible.

Same with Lane’s home. Just like I am with him, I want to learn more. How far does it go? Where does his property line bisect Cruz’s land? How do they share ranch duties, and is there still a trail to the small creek that feeds into the Stillwater River?