Page 7 of Whiskey Proposal

I smile. It’s so easy between us. A real siren’s call. “I definitely thought you looked good for your age.”

He barks out a laugh. “Myles is eighteen years older than me.” His smile fades, and he takes the end of my hair, running it through his fingers. “I want to see you again.”

With any other guy, I wouldn’t buy it. Any other guy would want sex, to use me until he’s done, and then be on his way. When they get sick of the light and fluffy, I’m only an obligation and unwanted responsibility. Yet there’s something about Lane, and it ignites a need deep inside me. A craving that isn’t sexual.

“I guess that means I didn’t get the job.” The level of my disappointment takes me off guard. I need the work, but Foster House seems like a company that doesn’t just abandon its people. Having been tossed aside for the shinier, more chipper version of me, I respect that.

Lane frowns. “I can be professional about that, Em. You didn’t lose your chance when you stopped kissing me. I’ll talk to the guys.” My hair slips over the skin of his hand. “Likewise, I’m not hiring you just because I want to taste my company’s whiskey on your lips one more time. I . . . like you.”

“I like you too,” I say, barely above a whisper. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? This isn’t real. Men like him wield their charisma to make money and seduce women.

Yet the slow smile spreading across his face makes me regret breaking the kiss. A lot. “When can I see you again?” He swears softly under his breath. “I won’t be in town again for a couple of weeks. I’ve got family stuff in Bourbon Canyon. I hate to wait that long.”

“Well, I might be married off by then, but I’ll see if I’m free when you’re next in Denver.” Did that come off flirty? Or like I’m going to be waiting by the merch stand for the second he walks in?

He leans closer. “Meet me here, end of day Friday, exactly two weeks from now.”

Reluctantly, I step out of the circle of his body. If I don’t, I’ll put my mouth on him again. I need to have some of the power in this dynamic.

What I really need is to say no. I’ve already ruined my pitch, and I’m not using a date to try to get hired. But tonight was so . . . nice. Relaxed and fun. The best date I’ve had, and it wasn’t even a date. I don’t want to spoil it. Not yet. “I’ll see you then, Mr. Foster.”

CHAPTER THREE

Lane

Present day . . .

No one’s seated. Not me, not Zack, not Brooks, and not the woman who stood me up two weeks ago. As my oldest niece would say, Emerson Langley left me on read. Our date didn’t happen; neither did a reply to my text. I don’t know why she changed her mind, but I read her unspoken message loud and clear.

I fucked that situation up, and it’s only going to make this harder. Only Zack and I know what’s coming, and it’s going to land like a shit bomb between these two. Acid swishes in my stomach. I should’ve eaten something, had more than a quick coffee from town. I’m paying for it now, but I’m going to pay for a lot of secrets I’ve kept.

I lean against the porch railing. The oldest Langley is pacing the space, Brooks’s heavy work boots thumping on the ground. His daughter, Hillary, runs after the chickens. They’re used to people, but not a delighted middle schooler who wants to love and cuddle them.

As for Emerson, she’s radiant. Anger suits her, but not nearly as much as when her eyes are hazy and her lips are puffy from a kiss. That’s when the green in her hazel irises sparkles. Emerson Langley wears a lot of emotion on her face, and she’d probably be furious to hear that.

“Okay.” Zack crouches on the end of a rickety rocking chair. He’s primed and ready to bolt at one creak of the wood. “I’ll get on with the basics. First, your dad’s cremains are in an urn in the house. He had that all arranged as well, and I can oversee the inurnment, but Lane asked me to wait. His cremains are ready to pick up. I left that information for the funeral home in the house.”

Brooks and Emerson both nod, neither hiding their grimace.

“As for the trust he had drawn up for the house and property, there are some, uh, stipulations that may cause some upset.”

Emerson snorts and looks away. Her gaze lands on Hillary stalking Ethel, a Rhode Island Red. Fondness fills Emerson’s expression. She loves her brother and niece. From the research I’ve done, there are not many more people in her life. Knowing how she was raised, that makes sense.

Hillary wraps her arms around the chicken, and a flutter of worried clucks comes from the others. A ghost of a smile plays over Emerson’s lips.

“Auntie Em! I caught her.”

“Ethel only plays hard to get.” I should keep my mouth shut, but the distrust in Emerson’s gaze when it’s on me isn’t sitting right. “She’ll be content to be lugged around like a purse now that you’ve caught her.”

Both Langley siblings have me pinned under their stares. Brooks is as tall as me, but he’s bigger. My hobby is rebuilding old pickups and muscle cars; his must be just muscle.

His hair is a darker brown than Emerson’s, but they have the same eyes, nose, and mouth. She’s willowy and withdraws when she’s upset. He flares out more, like a cobra on steroids. Hillary shares the same facial features, but her hair’s darker than both of theirs.

“Ethel?” Hillary giggles. “What are the other chickens’ names?”

Brooks clears his throat. “We’ll get all that info soon, Hill. We’ve gotta let Mr. Beckford talk.”

Zack’s features pinch like he’d rather discuss the chickens’ names, and he probably would. “Yes. Right.” He sucks in a breath. “As it stands, all but five acres of the land and house will pass to Brooks, to include the ranching operation.”