Page 55 of Whiskey Proposal

He rolls the window down, and I giggle at the old hand-crank window. I do the same thing and the wind whips around us. I’m glad I put my hair in ponytails. I hit the highway to see how well Lane has the engine running.

It drives like a dream. The man is too good with his hands. “How’s the radio?”

“Full of static.” He turns it on and white noise is all that comes from it, with a random voice that he can never really home in on. “My priority was the engine and the brakes.”

I take the back roads to get around town. Some are rougher than others, but Lane doesn’t comment. He props his arm in the window opening with his fingers dancing along the top. His long legs are stretched out, and a pleased expression is on his face. How often does he get to just enjoy his work?

I drape my hand over the wheel and let the wind and engine lull me. How often does he sit and have a drink, or is his brain always working on what to do next? His meals are functional. Doesn’t he go out and have a good burger? At that street fair he mentioned, does he wander and try some free samples from other booths? He made me come, and then went right back to work.

The reminder darkens my mood. We’re on the outskirts of the Hawthorne Ranch.

“As nice as ever,” I mutter.

“What were they like?” He taps his fingers. “The Hennessys all used to all work for the ranch, but they talk like they didn’t know each other. I assume it’s because the guys lived with their mom for a while after their dad died, and then came back years later.”

Look at all of us returning home. Not me. My stay is temporary. A little bit of yearning opens in my belly, and I ignore it. “Can’t believe the Hawthornes’ dad let them date the cowboys.”

“He didn’t. Iverson and Jamison put an end to that rule. The distillery was going before Durban and Campbell finally got together.”

“Finally?”

“They were with other people and annoyed each other.”

“Oh, that kind of chemistry. Sounds sort of romantic. Do you find your dates at work?”

“I technically married a girl from work.”

“Dating someone you work with isn’t usually recommended.” The thought of him and other women fills me with a sweltering rage I don’t like. I’m not the jealous type. I’ve never had a reason to be, unless it’s couples with healthy relationships, and I haven’t been surrounded by a lot of those.

“I work too much to meet anyone else, and it’s not something I felt like should be forced.”

“Not like a trust or anything telling you what to do?”

He stretches an arm across the front seat. His fingers are probably in my ponytail and . . . that’s okay with me. “I don’t know. Seems to be going okay so far.”

I roll my eyes to play it off, but the truth is, it’s more than okay. It’s also sad. Because our forced marriage has been the best relationship I’ve ever had.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lane

The last few days have shown me different sides to Emerson, ones she thinks I won’t like, but that are actually the real her.

I stir my coffee with the metal spoon that’s topped with a chicken head cutout and set it by the sink. I take out the eggs. The hens have started laying, and there are four brown eggs and one light blue waiting for breakfast. I crack those and scramble them up in the new red bowl that’s lined with chickens.

She hasn’t mentioned what she did to the house, and the Give Your Cock A Rest pillow is quite comfortable.

Her bedroom door opens, then the bathroom. I continue cooking, my gaze on the A Good Cock Is Loud in the Morning sign above my stove. Have I gotten a picture of that one? I dig my phone out. I’m getting a nice landscape when Emerson emerges. A divot forms between her brows.

Her hair is a sleep-rumpled swirl around her head. She’s no longer getting ready before I see her, nor is she avoiding me in the mornings. She’s getting up to do her own chores—in overalls or the plaid chicken pajama set she has on now—and then she scarfs down breakfast, hunched over her plate.

She folds her arms and leans against the table. “What are you doing?”

“I know someone who’ll like this, and I don’t think I remembered to send her this one yet.” I take the pan off the burner. “She loves the pillow.”

Emerson’s features pinch. “She loves seeing cock signs all over your house?”

“Scarlett’s getting a hell of a kick out of it.” I wait for a moment, enjoying the growing dark cloud around her. Or is it tinged with green? I don’t make her suffer long. I just needed a quick confirmation that this thing between us goes both ways. “Tate Bailey’s wife is known for her cheeky needlepoint.”