Whiskey Flirt (Foster House #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Cruz

The early morning Montana sky spans above me like a dark blanket, and the highway into Huckleberry Springs from my house disappears beyond my headlights.

I yawn, letting out a whoop to wake myself up more.

Back in the day, I used to be up until the ripe hour of four in the morning, doing nothing productive and everything destructive.

Nowadays, I’m snuggled in bed with a kitten or two by ten p.m. Who in their right mind would start work at this hour?

Elodie Palmer.

The pretty little baker who hides behind her glasses is already at the bakery. Word around town is that she gets up at three in the morning.

The pretty little baker also turns into the quietest woman in town when I’m around, no matter how hard I try.

The pretty little baker has burned my pride enough, so I’ve got to behave around her. I’m done making an ass out of myself.

Today, I’ll be nothing but professional. I’ll drop off the stash of spirits Lane gave me for the bakery to use in a collaboration with the distillery we’re part owners in and continue on with my day.

I reach the buildings on the edge of town and roll through until I approach a brick building with timber accents and a white sign reading Dee’s Sweets hanging above the door.

She told Lane to enter through the back, so I drive around to the alley.

I’m supposed to be the contact for this collaboration between her bakery and our distillery for some local craft fairs, but she still goes through Lane.

I’d be jealous, but she doesn’t look at Lane any differently than anyone else.

Elodie Palmer is a reserved person with everyone, and as much as I want to be, I’m not an exception.

I park to the side of the door in case she’s got more deliveries coming. The clock blinks four o’clock. I’m a half hour early. I was too afraid to be late, so I got up before I needed to.

Getting out, I straighten my shirt and jeans. A piece of lint glows under the streetlamp on my shoulder and I flick it off. There. Professional.

No hitting on my little baker. Not anymore.

I lift the box that has a bottle of each type of spirit we make and a bonus bottle that I couldn’t resist including.

As soon as I open the pickup door, a thumping beat vibrates through my body.

From what I’ve figured out, Elodie lives on the second level, which can’t be that big with its peaked roof and the bakery below it.

On the main level, the front with the counter and seating area is roughly half of the floor plan.

The buildings next to her are closed and their second levels have businesses, not residential tenants.

Is Elodie playing music that loud?

Light floods onto the sidewalk from the open back door of the bakery. I ease through the screen door and step inside. I’m enveloped in a sweet, yeasty cloud. Trays line a long stainless-steel table pushed against an island. Heavy bass music fills the air.

I should announce myself, but I haven’t seen the elusive woman yet, and I’m drawn inside like a moth to a vanilla-scented flame. When I round the corner, I stop short and barely keep from dropping the box.

Elodie’s back is to me. She’s by a wall of cabinets, dressed in her normal baggy pants and oversized shirt. She’s also dancing. Gyrating, hip-thrusting movements that are raw and raunchy. A full-bodied expression of the real person inside the quiet baker.

Fuck me. I’m frozen. I knew she had curves that would make me salivate, but her punctuated movements pull her loose clothing tight. She’s a moving, pumping tease.

A tease who thinks she’s alone. I should turn around.

My feet don’t move. It’s like my boots are pasted to the floor.

“Ugh, yeah.” She pumps a hand in the air and grinds low to the floor, holding her apron out of the way. “Make me wanna come with you, grind with you, sixty-nine with you.”

My throat grows thick and swallowing is difficult. Hearing her say “sixty-nine” when she’s not counting out my change has upended my world. I grip the box of spirits with both hands.

Turn around. Me or her, it doesn’t matter. One of us has to put an end to this scintillating purgatory.

“Put it right here, baby, down there, baby.” She winds her way back up and drops low again, shocking me with the speed. The dark hair wrapped into a floppy bun on top of her head bounces as much as her ass cheeks.

The beat of music winds its way low in my body. Goddamn it, turn around.

The brain-body connection comes online. My boots finally move. I put my back to her.

“Elodie?” My voice is rough, thick.

The music drowns out my voice.

“I’ll make it good.” The sound of her shoes scraping on the floor. “Put it right here, baby, down there—”

“Elodie!”

“Aaack!”

I spin around just as a container of sea salt flies from her hands and hits the floor. I take a step to get it for her, but my hands are full and her eyes fly wide behind her thick-framed glasses.

Her expression grows more horrified. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry! I’m sorry.”

My heart is racing, both from her dancing and the shouting, but I got a glimpse of an Elodie I sure as hell would’ve never seen otherwise. Does anyone witness this side of her?

“I knocked,” I explain lamely. How do I fix this? Be professional. Do your job. I force a smile past the swirling emotions of the last few minutes. “I have a special delivery.”

She blinks and steps back like she’s going to close herself into the pantry. “Lane was supposed to be coming.”

“He got called to the main distillery in Denver. You got me instead.” I smile to defuse the situation.

“You’re early,” she says with a panicked whisper, her hazel eyes owlish behind her frames. She’s closing down on me, and I can’t let that happen.

“Good thing I was, or I would’ve missed your deepest secret.”

She gives an astounded shake of her head.

“That you can dance.” I say it lightly, but my heart is pounding. I’ve mucked all this up. Can I save the morning? I balance my load on one arm, stoop to pick up the salt, and hand it back to her. I flash her my winningest grin. As seedy as it sounds, it usually works with women.

She doesn’t accept it right away. The grin or the salt. A deeper flush creeps up her neck. “That was private.”

My stomach sinks all the way to the ground. My chest does one twist and holds, thinking of a question that’s none of my business, but I need the answer more than I need to be professional. “Was it for Lane?”

“No,” she says, scandalized, and snatches the salt. “It wasn’t for anybody, but why isn’t Lane doing the drop-off?”

I’ve never seen her this riled up, but then I barely see her, period. Something I’m trying to remedy, but not today. “He asked if I could make the drop, and I didn’t think it’d be an issue.”

Her stern stare makes me want to squirm like I’m back in elementary school. My instinct is to claim I didn’t do it, whatever it is. Do I look like hell? My clothes are clean and I brushed my hair, but I discreetly glance down to check myself regardless.

She drops her gaze from my face down to my boots. I gave them a quick polish before I left. They’re work boots, but clean. When she wrinkles her nose, I want to sniff an armpit. I showered last night, but something about me is not up to her standards. My stomach sinks further.

She squares her shoulders and marches to the island. “You can set the bottles here.”

I follow her and set the box down. I can’t leave like this. She’s upset with me, and possibly with Lane. I’ve gotta save this. Not just for the distillery. For me.

It’s been years of trying to get to know the elusive baker better, but unless I eat cupcakes, muffins, and cannoli three meals a day, I don’t usually see her around. The one time I finally get a glimpse of the real her, and I’ve scared her?

The back of my throat burns. That won’t do. “I really am sorry that I scared you.”

She lifts her chin. “You startled me. Next time, I need to be notified of any delivery changes.”

There’s still something in her tone. Something that feels personal, but not in the way I’ve wanted from her. Has it all been for nothing, trying to get to know the only woman who’s caught my attention in years? “Do I bother you?”

She draws back at the abruptness of my question. “Your flirting does.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide my interest.” I’ve been called shameless before, but I don’t go where I’m not wanted. I had enough of that growing up.

“Oh.” If possible, her face turns redder, and she blinks several times. “But you aren’t, you see.”

“I’m not what?”

Her eyes narrow. “Interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shouldn’t do this here, but she’s actually talking to me. Confusing me, but I appreciate the dialogue nonetheless.

She huffs out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know what you want, Cruz. I’m not the type of girl you date.”

The pleasure that ripples over me when she says my name is dulled by her disbelief.

The first time I stepped into Dee’s Sweets, I got caught in an aloof, hazel tractor beam.

I was brushed off by the woman with a mop of mahogany hair that’s as haphazard as the clothes she wears.

I developed a sweet tooth that only craves shy bakers.

I need to drop this whole entire topic, yet I can’t quit. Her attention is on me, but again, not in the way I’ve wanted. “And just what type do I date?”

I don’t date much. I’ve done my share of fucking around, but since moving to Huckleberry Springs, I’ve kept my personal life tame.

Vulnerability flickers in her eyes before she shakes her head, ignoring the question, and pulls the box toward her.

Quiet and stubborn. That’s apparently my type.

I plant my hands on the counter and lean forward. Is she . . . jealous? Is she really interested? Should I have taken my chance and asked her out? Should I do it now?

I left playing games in my childhood. I open my mouth to shoot my shot.

“Have you washed your hands?” Her gaze drops to where I’m touching the countertop.

Here’s a bar of soap, Cruz. Use it.