Page 6 of Whiskey Proposal

“You’ve likely done your research on the company.” He leans forward, his powerful torso stretching his shirt tight. When I nod, he mirrors it. “So you know our mother had addiction issues.”

I swallow a stronger, but less complex whiskey. It’s still excellent. “Yes, I’ve read some articles.”

“I enjoy spirits. I respect them. But I don’t over imbibe. It’s important to me not to.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly and select the third tasting cup, grateful they aren’t full or I’d toss them back like shots. “I get that.”

I drink and he watches me. I mull over the flavors, trying to determine how to describe them instead of pretending that I know what I’m doing.

“The last one is my favorite.” He lifts his chin, silently ordering me to try it now.

I expected to vibrate out of my skin from nerves when I first arrived, but this is fun. Tipping the rest of the liquid onto my tongue, delight dances over my taste buds. The flavor of rich cinnamon fills my mouth. “Wow. That’s good.”

Pride beams in his expression. “I can’t take any credit for it, other than being thrilled my last name is on something like that.” He leans back in his chair, offering me a glimpse of how rock-hard his abs must be under the material of that shirt. His collar gapes open and the tanned column of his throat is downright lickable. “In your email, you said you’re aware that we already have a marketing team, but you just want to talk about some ideas. I’m all yours.”

His mouth crushes mine. The distant sound of traffic should pull me out of the trance he put me in, but I wrap my arms around his neck instead. Darkness is a canopy around us. The parking lot lights and security lights from the majestic distillery shine on us, but there’s no one around to see me sucking face with Lane Foster.

His tongue strokes mine and I get to enjoy the cinnamon whiskey all over again. My back is pressed against my car, and if this skirt was looser, I’d probably have my legs wrapped around him.

I moan into him, and he rips his mouth from mine to line kisses down my neck. I tip my head back and shut my eyes.

“You taste so good.” He feels even better.

“I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you since I saw you out of my office window.”

My body tightens. If there was a bed in this empty parking lot, I’d dive in and drag him down on top of me. His big hands circle my waist and slide around to cup my ass. I grind against him and his hard erection. My intrigue only grows. Is that thing real?

I open my eyes, sluggish even though I haven’t had much to drink. He gave me another tasting flight, but that was over an hour ago. Eight sips altogether, and one mighty gulp of this guy.

Best pitch ever.

Pitch. I stiffen. “Oh my god!”

He pulls away slowly, his eyes hooded. The skin on my neck has the most delicious burn wherever he’s put his mouth. What would it be like for him to put those lips down⁠—

“My job.” An icy wave saps heat from all the critical parts of my body. “I’m here to work with you, and I crawl down your throat.” Shit, shit, shit. I press my fingertips to my temples. He gives me only enough space to do so, keeping his hands at my waist.

“I won’t hold it against you.”

“It’s unprofessional.” I sidestep and his arms fall away. Hold me again. No. I’m an adult. A professional. I want a new account more than I want another letdown of a relationship.

“It is,” he agrees, surprising me. “I’m sorry. I should’ve controlled myself, but . . . you’re not what I expected.”

Any other guy, any other time, that line wouldn’t have worked. I’d have laughed and forgotten them before they could forget me—and they all would. But there’s something in his voice when he says it. His tone. He truly didn’t expect this.

Why? My lust haze clears, and questions populate my brain. Was this whole night a fake? A way to study his drunk neighbor’s daughter? “What did you think I’d be like?”

He cocks his head slightly, and his gaze strokes over my face, a soft brush of attention that the lonely little girl inside me craves. “I thought you’d be driven, and you are. But you have a heart, Em Langley. You care. You saw where our marketing is starting to veer away from our message because of that heart.”

“I know what it’s like not to be cared for.” My cheeks burn. Shit like that’s not supposed to leave my mouth, much less to a supremely successful man who might be toying with me.

The last few hours rise in my brain in an unsolicited montage. Talking about whiskey and the holidays and my ideas. Dissecting old Foster House campaigns that were off the mark. Thriving under his focus and reveling in the way he listened and engaged.

Emotion clogs the back of my throat. No. He’s not wasting my time. He wants the best for the company, and he was willing to listen to me. Will he take it to his marketing team? Bypass me entirely and steal my ideas?

It’s a risk, but I don’t think it’s something he’d do. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“For one, you expected Myles.”