Page 62 of Whiskey Proposal

“Shit. How old were you?”

She runs her lower lip between her teeth. “Seven.”

“That’d mess up a kid.”

“Yeah.” She sighs and looks around. “I hear what she said when I think of that house. And I think of how he so casually told me that he asked her to take me with her, but that she didn’t want me either.”

“Jesus.” I ditch my duties and round the bar to sit sideways on the stool next to her. I frame her legs with mine. “Em.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb and turn her face toward me.

She gives herself a little shake. “I can’t believe I went there. I don’t want to be a Saturday night downer. I try to stay away from things that are bad for me—too much drink, drugs, and men.”

“What about your husband?”

She peers at me. “I think you’re the most dangerous drug of all.” She strokes her fingers down my face. Her fingertips scrape over my stubble. “A bold, strong whiskey. Stronger than you’d expect, and it’ll burn you if you’re not ready.”

I sway closer to her. “What about if you are ready?”

“I think . . .” Her gaze roams my face, from my hairline to my chin. “I think maybe I can handle one drink.”

I tilt her face up and set my lips on hers. Cautiously, I take more, adding more pressure. She lets me, and I stroke my tongue inside. Her whimper is my undoing. I drag her closer, but it’s not enough. I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her to the top of the counter. Then I flick open the clasp of one flap of her overalls.

Her chest rises and falls, but her attention lifts to the window and she stiffens. “What if someone sees?”

“No one’s coming.”

She wets her lips, but anxiety still plays across her face. I’m not getting cockblocked by windows, after-close customers, or helpful Hennessys or Fosters who decide to check on me.

“I know a place.” I hand her the bottle of gin and say, “Hang on.”

I pull her into my arms, and she lets out a delighted cry.

“Lane! What are you doing?”

“Taking you somewhere we’ll have some privacy?”

She drapes her free arm around me. “For what?” she asks in a purr that goes straight to my dick.

I take the stairs two at a time. “We’re going to indulge tonight, Em.”

“How are you—it’s three flights,” she says when I hit the last set.

I curve into my office and set her on my desk, but I stand back and let her look around.

“This is your office?” She slides off the desk and goes to the window.

Maybe my pride should be trashed. She’s not so out of it that she can’t think of anything but getting me closer, but this place is tied to my ego. It’s thriving in part because of me.

“This view is something.” She crosses her arms over herself, but her hip isn’t kicked out and she’s not hunched in.

I stand beside her. “It is.”

A few moments go by. In the fading sunlight, the sea of trees leads to a rolling landscape with the mountains in the background. A romantic picture.

“When I fixed cars, I loved what I did. I’d go to the grocery store and see a car with a timing belt that I replaced. Or a classic with a rebuilt engine that I had a hand in. But that was that. The car worked; it was functional.”

“Or in the case of the classic, it was a work of art, but you can’t list yourself as an artist.” She turns toward me. “But here, your name is on the business.”