Chapter 9 #2
I glance over my shoulder, but return my focus right back to the water.
Knowing a hot guy like Lane was looking at my inane love-yourself images?
I could vomit. I was trying to cheer myself up after another bad date, while Lane was probably making a million dollars during the span of my failed relationship.
“My favorite is the navy bikini.”
I sputter and bury my face in my hands. A giggle escapes, and well, I’ll take the compliment. “It was a revenge picture after getting dumped.”
I was twenty-eight at the time. When I look back, it’s absurd how much mental energy I wasted, but I have a pattern of doing that.
“Hillary wanted me to go into the house today, and I couldn’t. How ridiculous is that?”
He approaches, his boots rustling the grass. “I’ve learned a lot about you, and you’re definitely not ridiculous.”
I twist toward him. I should’ve kept my attention on the water. The cowboy hat makes the strong cut of his jaw more defined, and the awareness inside me starts to heat. “You’re obnoxious and I’m ridiculous.”
Instead of smiling, emotions I can’t identify play across his handsome features. “You’re determined. Driven. Ambitious.” He brushes a tendril of hair away from my cheek. “Scrappy.”
My eyelids flutter at the almost touch. Then he runs the rough pad of his thumb over my lower lip, tracing it from one side to the other. My heart beats faster.
“I want to get to know you better,” he murmurs.
“No, you don’t.” As muddled as this whole mess is, I’m clear on that. No one who really knows me has ever wanted to be around me.
He drops his hand. “Don’t be so sure.”
The breeze carries away my dry chuckle. He’s got everything, and he could have anyone. “You’ll get there. I’m sure of that.”
Lane
I walk back with Emerson to my house. We cross through Cruz’s property by going over the fence. I hold the barbed wire lines apart so she can wiggle between them. Her lithe body climbs through like she’s done it most of her life, and she probably has for about half of it.
“I was afraid this was the bull pasture or something,” she says when she straightens. She does the same with the fence for me, and I’m through in seconds.
“Nah, this is where we winter the cows. Cruz and I own the fields, pastures, and outbuildings together. Our houses are each ours, and my shop is mine.”
She nods. “Do the mamas walk themselves into the calving barn before they give birth?” At my puzzled look, she laughs. “It’s nice. Our calving barn did little more than keep the big predators from getting an easy snack. Yours probably has a spa and a massage table.”
“It has a tilt table for branding.”
“You don’t go full cowboy for branding? Dad used to live for that. Brooks too. Roping and branding.”
I chuckle. “That’s fun, don’t get me wrong, but the tables seem to stress the calves less, give us a better brand, and I’m not as stiff the next day. We run them through the chute, table them, vaccinate and brand them, and they’re on their way, only slightly confused about the metal hug.”
“You really care about them.”
“Yes, but not like Hutch.” Did I touch on a sensitive topic?
She surprises me by laughing. “You mean you don’t hang on to an open cow who’s past her reproducing years, name her Daisy, and keep her in the yard as a natural lawn mower?”
“He told me about that. And the chickens.”
“Oh, he hated butchering.” She falls quiet for a moment. “Mom liked money, and she’d get so pissed when he wouldn’t make money off each and every animal.”
“Did he give them a reprieve that often?”
“Yes and no, but when the year was tight, the price per head was low, then yeah. She was extra irate when he kept Daisy. She always did love things more than people.”
“You know it’s an issue with her and not you?”
“I’m not a kid anymore.” She looks at me with a sad smile. Deep in her eyes, no, she doesn’t know. Not really.
“We might not be kids anymore, but those feelings never leave us. Not really.”
The green and brown in her eyes get brighter, more distinct. “You’re not what I expected, Mr. Foster.”
“Likewise, Scrappy. I’ve got one more thing you won’t expect.”
Her gaze drops down my body before she replies. “Oh?”
“Mae always said hot summer days call for cold ice cream. I happen to like mine with a little Butter Barrel.”
“Ice cream and alcohol? Ever heard of root beer?”
“I don’t brew root beer, Em. And you haven’t tasted Butter Barrel.”
I get to the garage door of my house first and open it for her. When she walks by, I inhale her lily-and-vanilla scent mixed with the outdoor smell that’s become my home.
“What kind of ice cream do you have?”
“Vanilla goes best with Butter Barrel.”
“This Butter Barrel? It’s intriguing.”
“It tastes like its name. We get the base from the main distillery. It’s one of the first whiskeys we aged, but we can’t sell it in the tasting room since we don’t make every part of it there.” I smirk. “But the owners can take what they want.”
“Nice perk.”
In the kitchen, I wash my hands and take out two rocks glasses. I dig out my premium French vanilla ice cream and add a scoop to each glass. Then I select the Butter Barrel.
Emerson crosses her arms and watches me, hip kicked out. “It shouldn’t surprise me that your dessert of choice includes whiskey.”
“It’s in my blood and on my taste buds.”
“You and your brothers are apparently united by more than a last name.”
“Our first names too.” I pour a shot of whiskey over each scoop of ice cream and get a spoon for each of us.
“First names— Oh! Myles, Lane, Cruz. Is that why you’re a mechanic?”
I pause, opening the door of the fridge to get some cherries. “Never thought of it like that. Maybe?”
“Or do you just like to fix what’s broken?” She peers at the jar of cherries in my hand before snatching it from me. “Bourbon cherries?”
“One of the perks of being associated with Copper Summit Distillery.” I slide a glass of ice cream and whiskey toward her. “The Baileys make them for their tasting room at Copper Summit, and Mae brings me a jar when she thinks I’m running low.”
“Do you tell her if you’re not?” She opens the cherries and digs out three for her glass, and then one for mine.
I lift a brow, and she smirks, dropping in two more. I like this playful side to her. “I don’t have to. She just knows.”
Setting the jar down, she lifts her glass. “Do I have to do the swirl and sniff too?”
“Just eat and enjoy.”
She does it anyway. I watch every single movement she makes, from the way a smile curves her lips when she rotates the glass enough to mix the contents to when she delicately inhales, her lips parted.
Fuck me. I want to claim those as mine.
With her spoon, she digs out a portion that includes a cherry. I’m riveted as the spoon slides between her lips. She works her jaw as she rolls the flavors over her tongue.
“What do you think?” I take a step closer.
A little moan leaves her. “That’s actually really good. That whiskey really does have a buttery taste.”
How much closer can I get before driving her off?
My blood hums with need, a demand to take that glass out of her hand and lift her to the counter.
I’ve had one taste of her, and it’s ignited a craving that’s getting hard to ignore when she’s in my house and sleeping on the other side of my wall. When she’s my wife.
Before I can jump her, I pick up my glass, lean against the counter, and eat my dessert with her. The clinking of our silverware against the glass fills the room.
“What else do you do with your spirits?” she asks and licks her spoon.
I suppress the groan before it slips out. Her red tongue and those pink lips are going to tease me when I close my eyes tonight. “Just cocktails. Elodie does a lot more than we’ll ever do. Have you been to Dee’s Sweets yet?”
“Nope.”
“Have you been anywhere in town?”
She smacks her lips and sets her empty glass down. “Nope.”
“Was it that bad?”
She takes a moment to think. “If it wasn’t, it felt like it was.”
That makes sense. It doesn’t take many formative experiences to stick with a person forever, and I know what it’s like to stick out. “You walk around thinking everyone knows your business.”
“I’m not throwing this in your face, but Bozeman is a lot bigger than Huckleberry Springs. Everyone here did know my business. A lot of kids were not kind, and adults preferred to ignore me. Much like my dad did.”
“This conversation is heavy. It needs more sugar.” I grab a clean spoon and open the jar of cherries. I spoon one out.
I hold my offering up, and she opens her mouth. The sight of her tongue goes straight to my dick. I can’t take my gaze off her mouth as she chews.
She swallows, her delicate throat working up and down. “You’re right. That does help.”
“You should listen to me more.” Have I gotten closer to her? “I’m not going to ignore you. And if you go to the bakery with me, I’ll leave as soon as you say the word. I’ll come up with any excuse to get out of there. All you need to do is tell me.”
Her gaze searches mine, her eyes dancing back and forth. Her persistent vulnerability is there, and it’s the kind I want to soothe with sweet words, with my hands, with my mouth.
“Lane,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?” I say gruffly.
“I really want to see what the bakery’s all about.”
My lust isn’t helping the situation. She just opened up to me, and I’m not going to incinerate that trust. I slide along the counter until there are a few more inches between us. “Then I’ll take you in the morning. I work in the afternoon, but Elodie has an amazing selection on Saturdays.”