Page 97 of Whiskey Proposal

My dick slips out as I walk, but I stop at the desk. I put her feet down and hand her the overalls. “Just those.”

“I’m going to start thinking you have an obsession.”

“I do. Have you bought more?”

She doesn’t answer, and her smile fades a little.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I step into my underwear. I’ll give her my entire fortune for a clear view into her brain. She shut down like this on the plane. My brain wasn’t getting the blood supply it needed, yet I still noticed.

She let me take her, but she’s not all mine.

“I’m thinking you scrambled my brains.” She gives me a kiss and finishes buckling her shoulder flaps. They barely cover her tits. She catches me looking and smirks.

“I’ll get a drink. Have a seat.” Will she talk to me when she’s ready? I gesture to the couch and cross to the wet bar stocked with various brands of whiskey.

“Why isn’t there only Foster House?”

“Gotta do my research.”

“Sneaky.” She drops into the corner of the couch and kicks her legs up.

“Dedicated.” Will she read more into that? Should I tack on that I’m loyal and committed? Or is that too blatant?

“What can you tell me?” She wiggles a finger in the direction of the whiskey lineup.

“Ask, and you shall get an information dump.”

“Nerd out on me, Mr. Foster.”

I line up several tasting glasses of popular brands and Foster House. When I set them on the coffee table, she drops her legs. I sit next to her and lift her legs back onto my lap. I reach over her shins and pick up two glasses.

I hand her one. “Try this first. It’s a popular cinnamon whiskey.”

“I hear that disdain.” She takes a sip and rolls it around on her tongue. “It’s cinnamon.”

“It’s cinnamon flavoring. Now try this. We use real Ceylon cinnamon.”

Interest lights her eyes and she tries it. Her eyes flare as she savors it.

Smug pride fills me. I’m not responsible for the formulation, but I’ve helped Myles raise the quality. “Good, right?”

“It’s like Christmas dancing in my mouth. That’s like a cocktail right there. The flavor is unreal.”

“Yep.” I take a drink of my own and walk her through a few more tastings, but don’t tell her which is which. She guesses correctly most of the time.

“I like this one better,” she says of the last one.

“That . . . is not one of ours.”

She gasps and holds the cup out like it might burn her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say, laughing. “I can admit that there are better products out there, and everyone has their preference.”

Her phone buzzes, and she checks it. She stares at it for a while. Right when I’m about to ask her what’s wrong, she downs the rest of the whiskey in her cup. She flashes me the screen.

Prescott: I’m having a bachelorette something next weekend. Can you make it? It’ll be at Bootleg, during the day, done by the time the bar opens, and won’t include strippers.

I make a regretful noise. “Without the strippers, I just don’t see the point.”