Page 52 of Whiskey Proposal

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lane

I get into my pickup at the airport. In twenty minutes, I’ll be at the house. I like traveling, and I enjoy going to the Denver site. Each time I marvel over the turns my life has taken, but there’s a draw to being home that I can’t deny.

My phone pings. I start the engine and crack a window to let the stifling heat disperse. Then I look at the message.

Cruz: That’s some shed you moved in. Didn’t tell me you were getting chickens.

I have chickens?

Did Emerson get chickens?

My hopes dust themselves off. She wouldn’t do that if she wasn’t planning to stay for a while. The girl I heard about, who grew up loving animals, wouldn’t just ditch them when her brother got full possession of the house.

Or she could give them to her brother and niece when she leaves. She could abandon them with me knowing damn well the chickens would get the care they needed, especially if they gave me eggs in return.

I don’t answer Cruz. He’ll see through a fake acknowledgment and know I don’t know what’s going on at my place. Then he’ll want a front-row seat to whatever Emerson has planned.

The closer I get to home, the more anticipation coils inside me. What has that woman got in store? What’s she up to?

More importantly, I have a question for her, and I’m not sure how it’ll land. It’s weighed on me all week, but it didn’t feel right talking to her before I left. Something about that morning was off.

Finally, I’m turning into my driveway. There’s a beat-up shed planted next to the shop that wasn’t there before. It has some areas of badly peeling paint, and there’s a shutter missing around one of the small windows, like it’s been there decades longer than the newer buildings around it. Fluffy white chickens dart around the grass in front of it.

A laugh waits in my chest, but I have to find out just what Emerson is up to. She’s not the type to just roll over and announce married life is where it’s at, so let’s have sex and build a life together.

I park outside the garage and get out. Instead of going into the house, I take a look at my new acquisitions. The hose from the shop is stretched out and drips on the drive. There are waterers and feed stations where the chickens roam.

When I approach, Emerson steps out of the shed and I stop breathing. She’s in denim overalls, a tight little shirt that shows off her tanned arms and the muscle in them. The most startling thing is the double ponytails hanging over her shoulder.

She’s like a Farmer Barbie wet dream.

“Damn.” How can overalls show off so much and nothing at the same time?

Her smile is brighter than the sun above our heads. “Howdy!”

What the hell? What point is she trying to make? “What’s going on, Em?”

“I got chickens. You know how I love them.”

There it is. “Is this about what happened in the shop?”

“What happened in the shop?” she asks with false innocence. There’s a smudge of dirt on her chin.

“Want to go reenact it?”

A flush highlights her cheeks. “Have you been in the house yet?”

“No.”

A devious smile plays over her lips, but I’m biting back mine. Does she know what she said? The house. She didn’t refer to it as just mine.

I choose my wording on purpose. “Care to show me our chickens?”

“Sure you don’t want to change first? You’ll get dirty.”

I’m still in slacks and a dress shirt, and I don’t care if I get manure on them. But she seems to want me to see the house. Still, I linger, enjoying the view too damn much. “Where’d you get the shed? It’s a little dingy.”