Page 73 of Whiskey Proposal

She gives me a look like she knows what I’m doing. “I help the Foster House Gold guys streamline their ideas, but for the most part, they let the quality of the spirits they make do the talking.”

“That and the reputation of Foster House whiskey.”

She chuckles. “One hundred percent. You have a bunch of guys who want to make quality spirits. Social media and marketing and distribution? Not as fun.”

“Good thing for people like us.” My laugh comes out stilted. Awkward. I repress my wince.

After a few seconds of silence, she tips her head and her pale hair hangs over a shoulder. “I think Lane’s concerned that you’ll resent him.”

It’s getting harder to. “I think he’s going to resent the cock sayings all over his house,” I joke.

Humor dances in her eyes. “I saw pictures. That house needed something. But with the marriage and how you felt tricked, he’s treading carefully.”

“He takes care of everyone,” I murmur.

“He does.” She drains the last sip of the strong bourbon. “I was there when the guys first met. Sort of.”

“Lane and Myles?”

She nods. “Cruz had this devil-may-care attitude, but Lane was speculative. He watched and waited. He was the one who started arranging their mom’s cremation and inurnment. They didn’t have a dime to rub together between them until Myles showed up. But he was doing it.”

The respect in her tone loosens a knot inside me. Someone else sees what that guy puts into his life, and how much he cares for the people he loves. Someone else knows that Lane is driven by responsibility and not selfishness. He won’t take something that’s not his. Someone else sees that this marriage is just an obligation and not a real relationship.

Lane

The view of the valley Myles and Wynter’s house sits over is stunning in the daylight, but in the darkness, there’s a peace I can’t replicate at my house. But here, with Myles and Wynter on one seat, her on his lap, and Cruz with his arm around Elodie across from them, and my niece and nephew both roasting several marshmallows over the firepit, this is it. It’s what my place is missing, but not the only thing.

The last part of the puzzle is next to me, one long leg crossed over the other, and her elbow on her knee, chin in hand. Emerson. My night would be better if I had my arm around her like Cruz is doing with Elodie, or if she was on my lap like Wynter is on Myles. But Emerson is convinced we’re still not real.

“Here ya go, Emerson.” Elsa turns with a browned marshmallow, her dark ponytail slipping over her shoulder.

Emerson sticks her plate out, and between the two of them, they slide the marshmallow off.

“Thank you,” Emerson says almost shyly when Elsa begins offloading another brownish-white puff onto my waiting graham cracker.

“Does Hillary like s’mores?” I ask to draw my wife into the conversation.

Emerson quirks her lips a moment before answering. “She used to, but she can’t eat the graham crackers anymore.”

“Gluten?” Elsa snaps her fingers. “What’s that thing called?”

Devon pauses eating his third marshmallow off the stick. His mop of dark hair falls over his forehead. “Celiac.”

“Yes,” Elodie says softly. “I have a couple of customers with celiac who special order gluten-free cookies from me. I make them before I do anything else that day to keep any cross-contamination down.”

Cruz beams like he’s the one who does all the work, but he’s just a sappy asshole for his woman.

I rub a hollow spot in the middle of my chest.

“It’s something else. She can eat a lot of gluten-free stuff. It’s the enriched food she shouldn’t have.” Emerson taps her temple. “It affects her moods and behavior, so she takes specific vitamins and sticks to unenriched foods. But those graham crackers just don’t taste the same.”

Wynter reclines in Myles’s arms. “I’ve heard of that. People call it the motherfucker gene.”

“Mom!” Devon’s scandalized, but he snickers because he’s barely out of middle school.

“Hear it, don’t repeat it,” Myles tells him.

“Yes, that’s it.” Emerson nods. “I don’t have the variation, but Hillary does. It made her a little . . . volatile . . . when she was younger.”