Page 54 of Whiskey Proposal
The corner of his mouth curls up. “Are they layers?”
But what does he think about the house! “I hope so, once they get over the stress of moving.”
“You build all this?”
“Brooks and Hillary helped me.” I catch the if that’s okay with you on my tongue. We’re married. Half of this is mine.
What’s he thinking? That he should’ve gotten a prenup? That he should be asking me for a postnup?
“I didn’t realize you missed poultry so much,” he says.
I give him an oh, so you don’t know me that well look. It’s a tiny win. “I won’t be showing up with any turkeys, in case you’re worried.” I do have my limits, and researching and learning about all things chickens this past week has taxed them. I used to play with them, but being solely in charge is different than being a kid doing what her dad tells her.
He gently puts the hen down and she darts away, clucking to another hen as she does. He straightens and dusts his hands off. “If you wanted to get turkeys, that’d be fine.”
I can’t tell if that’s a challenge or not. Does any of this bother him? What about the damn house! “Chickens are fun. Turkeys are just more.”
Maybe I should get some turkeys. But there’s no relief in his eyes. The jackass would probably welcome them himself.
Fine. I won’t get turkeys.
“Let me get the pickup pulled out for you.”
He walks away. If the chickens laid an egg, I’d lob it at him. What the hell? Nothing?
I don’t regret getting the chickens or recruiting my brother to help set up everything. I’ve had more fun with those damn birds than I’ve had in years.
Lane’s in the shop for twenty minutes before the big door opens and he maneuvers the pickup out.
Memories bubble to the surface, only it’s at odds with the surroundings. When I was growing up, this was nothing but pastures with one dirt trail through them. We’d bump along and check cattle in this or an old four-wheeler that Brooks dragged out the other day.
The purr of the engine is the same as before too. How did Lane get this thing working so well? It had to have been sitting there for years. Unless . . .
When Lane gets out, I cross my arms. “Did you keep this going for Dad?”
He pushes a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing. If he had his cowboy hat, I’d probably be a puddle right now, nothing but lust and wet panties. “You know those new ones don’t last as long, and the electronics can be a bitch to repair. This was easier.”
“It gets what, five miles a gallon?”
His smile is real and the way my body lights up is a betrayal. “Wanna go for a spin?”
Hell yes, but it’s a bad idea. I’m already having a hard time not gawking or calculating when I can get him between my legs again. I shouldn’t mix that with the nostalgia this ride will cause. But . . . I used to dream of when it’d be my turn to handle the damn thing. “I’m driving.”
His grin spreads wide. He glances inside, then back at me like he’s going to say something, thinks better of it, and trots around the bed to the passenger side.
What’s that about?
My strides eat up the distance, and then I’m at the opening of the driver’s door. Lane’s on the other side, his arms braced on the frame, peering in. What’s his hesitation?
My gaze lands on the gearshift. A manual. He doesn’t think I can drive it, but he’s too afraid to say something. Or he thinks he knows whether I can or can’t. What did Hutch tell him? That I was on his lap, shifting gears before my feet could touch the floorboard? Or that I drove long before I could get my permit?
I slide behind the wheel, and Lane adopts that sexy smirk I’m starting to crave and crawls in with me. Being enclosed in a cab together puts all my senses on high alert, but I have to concentrate. All those memories pestering me. The ones for driving a manual vehicle need to be at the forefront.
I rely on muscle memory and wiggle the gearshift. “Buckle up, buttercup.”
His deep laughter fills the truck, and I put the truck in first gear. I almost kill the engine, but we lurch forward.
“It’s been a while,” I say as I push the shifter into second gear. Another small lurch and my confidence returns.
