Page 68 of Whiskey Proposal

I laugh. The only pussy I’ve been obsessed with is hers. “No, Em. Growing up like I did made me averse to drama. Except the kind of drama that redoes my house with cheeky chickens.”

She giggles and lets out a sigh. “I can take them down.”

“Don’t touch my cock pictures.”

Her body shakes with quiet laughter. “No touching your cock—got it.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. My cock is all yours. That pillow stays.”

“I might tone it down a little. It’s not like it’s my style.”

“What is your style?”

She takes a while to answer. “I don’t know. I had to get my first apartment so quickly that I didn’t have money to decorate. I furnished it on a budget. I’ve been planning to move somewhere better for years, so I never put the effort in.”

“Let me tell you, you put all the effort in cock-ture.”

She barks out a loud laugh. “Touché.”

Something she said niggles at my brain. “Why did you have to get your apartment so fast?”

“Katie, Hillary’s mom, wanted a tidy little family, and I was almost done with college.”

From the way she goes still, I don’t like Hillary’s mom. “She still around?”

Emerson scoffs. “Turns out raising a baby is hard, and raising one that doesn’t stop moving, is as curious as an entire cat colony, and has frequent meltdowns wasn’t her thing.”

“She couldn’t handle being a mom?”

“Walked out and never came back, just like our mom.”

“Shit.” The only role models she’s had for mothers are the ones who’ve walked out. At least Brooks is showing her that not all parents bail—except for when he kicked her out.

“Yep.” She snuggles into me. “Tell me something sweet. I don’t want to go to sleep with those memories in my head.”

I don’t dwell on memories. I do what needs to be done. But several funny parts of my past bubble up, and sharing them with her is my first inclination. “Cruz started living with Mae first, and then I did too after it was clear life was better in their world. Mae taught me how to make cookies.”

“What kind?”

“The first batch I made alone was chocolate chip. Easy, right?”

She links her arm with mine around her waist. “Not so?”

“Oh, they were easy.” A soft chuckle leaves me, remembering the encouraging laughter from Mae after the first pan. “I melted all the butter when I mixed them, and then I overloaded the cookie sheets.”

She smiles against my arm. “They merged?”

“Giant, square cookies. Four of them to go with the four pans I used.” I grin at the memory. “The guys bought me at least eight bags of chocolate chips, joking that maybe I’ll get two dozen out of them.”

“Did you make more cookies?”

“Absolutely. I had to prove them wrong.”

She giggles. “I make cookies with Hillary. Her favorite is peanut butter.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Not peanut butter,” she says, still laughing.