Page 80 of Whiskey Proposal

“They closed five minutes ago.” Lane puts a hand on the small of my back. “Bootleg is harmless.”

“It looks like I need an updated tetanus shot.”

He grins. “That’s part of its charm. Prescott’s done a lot of work on the inside.”

Shock widens my eyes. “Prescott? Like from the distillery?”

“Haven’s fiancée, yeah. Silas is her dad. She’s been working for him since she moved to town, and she’s cleaned up the inside. Literally.”

Silas has a kid? I barely recall when he moved back to town, but I never got the impression he’s a family man. Prescott’s gotta be my age. “That makes me feel better.”

“It can get rowdy, but not usually, and a lot less than it used to.” He gives me an encouraging smile and leads me in.

I slowly relax as we enter. Pool tables line one side with low-hanging lights centered over them. Neon signs hang on the wall. We weave through crowded tables dotted with familiar faces from around town. The cashier where I buy the chicken feed waves at me. Some seasonal workers that I saw before at the Foster House Gold tasting room are in the corner. Prescott grins at us and heads for the table Lane stops by.

He was right about the interior. It’s nicer than the exterior, and there’s a pleasant pine smell underlying the yeasty beer and pungent liquor scents.

“Welcome to Bootleg,” she says warmly. “We only have beer on tap, the big names in spirits, and the most basic of mixed drinks.”

Lane smirks at me. “Silas isn’t one for blueberry lemonade bourbon.”

Prescott nods. “If you’re feeling like wine, you’re out of luck, but I talked Papa into stocking hard ciders.”

“No shit?” Lane’s expression is full of disbelief.

My giggle slips out. “I’ll order a cider if that helps your case.”

“A girl’s girl. I like it.” She sets down two napkins. “Apple or pear?”

Easy decision. “Pear.”

“I’ll have the same,” Lane says.

“I appreciate it, unless you’re ordering it to coordinate drinks for your date. Then I approve.” She disappears.

Date? This isn’t . . . Awareness dawns in my head, shining bright. Lane asked me if I was busy Friday. I wasn’t, of course. So he asked if I wanted to eat out and get a drink. “Oh my god. You asked me on a date.”

Lane takes his seat. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

He does not. “You feel responsible for me.”

“I like you, Em. A lot, and I like spending time with you. A date seems normal.”

“I’m already sleeping with you,” I whisper.

“I like that too.” His gaze intensifies until flames lick over my skin. “A lot.”

I’m in his bed. I’m driving the pickup he repaired for me. I’m married to him. “A date.” Why does that seem so . . . significant?

“It doesn’t have to be anything more than dinner and a drink,” he says quietly.

“Lane.”

“I wanted to take you out. Is that so bad?”