Page 60 of Whiskey Proposal

The nerves that just calmed down fire up again. “You’re with the whole crew?”

“We like to meet here sometimes for a quick chat. That way, the guys who aren’t planning a full day of work don’t get wrapped up in it.”

“Uncle Lane?” Hillary asks. “Do you like the eggs?”

She winks at me. The girl loves being in on the marriage secret, but the endearment sticks in my ears, and I’d like to hear it again. Lane’s smiling. It doesn’t bother him at all that there’s another kid calling him Uncle Lane. This trip is already an emotional roller coaster.

The box of red velvet muffins sits in front of the empty spot in the booth. All the men have something in front of them to go, except Cruz. He’s grinning the widest, his elbow propped on the back of the booth as he’s half turned in his seat.

They all toss me a small wave. I give them an awkward one in return.

Lane smiles at Hillary, and it’s so open and kind, my heart stutters. “I love the eggs. How are Ethel’s?”

“Daddy makes the best egg bakes.”

“Can you steal his recipe for me, or is it too soon for me to ask you to break the law?”

She giggles. “I can ask him.”

“I suppose you can do that too.”

“Is there anything I can eat?” she whispers.

“I’ll ask about their gluten-free options.” Those choices are often unenriched and unfortified.

We order, and I don’t get more red velvet muffins. I should get my own, but it seems like a waste. He’s going out of town tomorrow. And he got them for me.

His manners don’t stop at picking up my new favorite breakfast. He carries the muffins and juice we ordered to a booth that’s right by the guys. And the welcome doesn’t stop with him. Each Hennessy brother and Cruz stop by to chat with me and Cruz until they’re all gone and Lane’s sliding in next to me with that damn box of muffins I keep eyeing.

“Did we interrupt your meeting?” I ask.

“We’ve been here for an hour. After a while, it’s just an excuse for Cruz to stare at his wife.”

Envy should be a second skin by now. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s sweeter when your own wife walks in.” His smile is lopsided and just so damn happy, I don’t know how to react.

Hillary grins, her gaze dancing between us.

I want to tell him to knock it off, but there’s a gravity in his tone that sticks with me. Besides, if I get all serious, it’ll take the fun out of it for my niece. But something about this feels so achingly real. Breakfast together. The muffins. He called me his wife in public.

Maybe that’s not what’s bothering me. Maybe it’s that I’m wishing it was more real than it is.

Lane

Every table in the tasting room has someone around it. The crowd is chatty, and sporadic laughter punctuates the noise. A normal summer day.

My mind is on this morning and the shy way my country girl, who’s returning to her dusty roots, entered the bakery. Did buying feed go okay? Jerome didn’t give her a hard time, did he? He likes to jack up the prices for people he thinks are from out of town. He’ll recognize her name. Right?

Should I call Emerson? No. I’m taking it slow so we don’t do a two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance. But this morning was nice. Can there be a future where I look out the window and see my wife? Have a quick snack with her? Invite her to the tasting room when I’m working?

I should’ve done that when I saw her, when it was more organic.

Iverson enters from the distillery and heads straight for me. “Nice crowd.”

“Been like this since we opened.”

“Good.” He puts his back to the customers and leans against the counter. “Everything’s ready for you and Cruz to be out of town.”