Page 81 of Whiskey Proposal
Yes. It’s been hell living with him and going to sleep in the guest room when I know what it’s like to wake up to his strong arms around me. To have him bury his face in my hair. To open my eyes and have someone there.
We slipped back into our routine when we returned home. He gets up, does chores, and then makes breakfast. I set the table, eat with him, feed my girls and Phillip, then retreat to the office. He’s worked late. I’ve gone to bed early.
We haven’t had sex since we returned. Is he waiting for me to make the first move? It’d be smarter not to.
“It’s not right.” It can’t be. I’ve slept with him. I’ve eaten with him. I’m married to him. We can’t date. That’ll blur the lines. “It’ll be easier if we don’t.”
“If we’re divorcing anyway, what’s the harm?”
The d word is a quick poke to my eardrums. “The harm is it’ll be a breakup if we’re dating.”
“Or it’ll be confirmation that we’re not right together.”
Prescott stops by with our ciders. She chats for a while with Lane about haying and how Haven’s teaching her how to run the tractors and balers. Then she turns to me. “I suppose you’re an old hand at it, Emerson.”
“I just drove. Brooks dealt with the broken belts.” And we’d sell eggs to buy new belts until cattle sale time, when Hutch could make some money.
“I just had one of those. Haven offered to show me how to fix it, but I just took pictures of him doing it.” Prescott smiles and steps away. “I’ll be back to check on you two.”
When she leaves, I turn my attention to Lane. I’ve held out this long. I have to stay strong. “This isn’t a date.”
“All right.” He takes a drink of his cider and holds it up when he swallows. “This is good.”
I shouldn’t drink. I should leave and walk home. But if this isn’t a date, then it’s just a drink. I try mine and end up guzzling more than a mouthful. Sweet and tart pear flows over my tongue. “That is good. Does it tempt you to make cider instead?”
“No, but pear whiskey might be a thing.” He tips the glass and savors it on his tongue. “We make apple whiskey. What can we do with pear? Vodka infusion?”
“Am I watching Foster House Gold history in the making?”
“It’s how we work. Inspiration from all around us.”
I tap a finger against my glass. “I like that. You should tell your marketing team that line.”
“What if you were on the marketing team?”
I brush off his offer. “I told you that you don’t need to do that. I got the kombucha account.”
“Congrats. But I’m serious, Em.”
“So am I.” I down half my cider. Wow, that really is good. I’ll have to get another. And another. Then maybe Lane will regret thinking we should date. The middle of my chest aches, and I drink again to fill the hole.
“We want to hire the best.”
“Yeah? What do the others want to do?”
“I don’t want to get them on board only to have you say no. We might go around town and talk about the hot new marketer we hired. Meanwhile, you’re like, ‘Foster House who?’ ”
Laughing, I shake my head. “Hot new marketer? You think Haven would go around and say that? Have you seen Prescott?” The curvy redhead makes me look like a two-by-four.
“Haven and the others would say you’re savvy and sharp about our products and the image we want to create. I would say that too. But I’d also mean hot as in smokin’. As in legs so long all I can think about is having them wrapped around me. A mouth that makes me think of blow jobs, and tits that make my mouth water.”
The coldness in my chest vanishes, replaced by a fiery burn that rages through my blood. I picture everything he says. The way my legs pinned him the night we were looking out over the dark-blanketed valley. When I went down on him in his office. And that first time. In his shop. “Lane.”
“Just think about it. I’m not hiring you because I want to fuck you. I’ve already done that. I want to hire you for a holiday campaign because it’s what’s best for the company. And I still want to fuck you.”
I laugh, but I’m so goddamn relieved that warning bells should be blaring. “I have to sell kombucha.”
He lifts his glass in a salute. “Way to go, Scrappy. Let’s celebrate.”
