Page 93 of Whiskey Proposal

“Sorry,” I whisper, and I want to hunch, make myself as small as possible so I’m not called into the office.

Clem smiles. “Laughing isn’t prohibited in this library. We’re a happy bunch.”

My relief is acute, and my appreciation for Clem grows. I shouldn’t be so insecure. The way I’ve been welcomed to town should erase what I’ve been through. But nothing can, and my outburst proves it. The past won’t leave me. At least I can stay and make sure Hillary finds her place in a town that made me feel so out of place.

My phone buzzes again.

Lane: Too far?

My lips twitch.

Me: I’m looking at turkey diapers right now. Inside pet?

Lane sends a different picture of a roasted turkey.

Lane: You should come out here.

I don’t jump at the chance to return to Denver, and I should. Wasn’t I just thinking about how I’m not a local and never will be? My apartment is in Colorado.

Me: It’s only a short nine-hour drive.

Lane: I’ll send the plane.

A sarcastic laugh leaves me, but I keep it quiet.

Hillary glances back at me. “Texting your boyfriend?”

“Husband?” Clem adds in a singsong tone.

“Lover,” Hillary whispers.

My jaw drops and Clem’s eyes go wide.

I giggle. “Hush your mouth, Bunny.” I put my back to them.

Me: A plane?

Lane: Whenever you’re ready.

Me: And stay at my place?

Lane: Or right here.

He stays at the distillery when he’s working there, and he wants me there with him.

Do I go?

My fingers hover over the phone screen. Brooks and Hillary would take care of the chickens. Cruz and Elodie would help with the cattle. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t go.

If I don’t, then what will I do? Work. Answer emails. Hang out with my chickens, the barn cats, and Lady. Eventually, I might even get one of the barn cats to come close to me.

If I don’t go, I’ll spend a lot of time missing Lane. A lot of time thinking about whether he’ll come home and decide he doesn’t like me there. I’ll sleep in his bed and cry about how the closing date of Brooks’s house and my house is bearing down on me.

Yet if I go . . . Will I tip over the edge? Will I fall so far for Lane that I won’t be able to help myself?

My pulse kicks up and I start breathing like I’m taking a brisk walk around the block. I can’t go, but I don’t want to be home alone, watching my time with Lane dwindle. I’m so tired of feeling powerless. But if I hop on a plane, if I run to Lane, I’m still on uneven ground.

What if I talk to an attorney? What if I set everything into motion? Will I feel better?