Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lane
I wash up in the shop. Emerson and I have to leave for Huckleberry Springs soon. I work in the morning, and as she mentioned earlier, she has a company she’s trying to build. Bitterness spreads along my tongue. I toss the rag over the side of the sink.
Cruz and Elodie took off to tackle some things at the bakery before business as usual tomorrow. The kids have already ditched us. We got the tires changed out and the engine running. There’s a skip, but Myles is going to work on that next weekend when Elsa gets off her lifeguard shift.
He stands by the sink, arms crossed like he’s commanding a boardroom. “Something’s eating at you.”
Fuck, yes, it is. “Got some things on my mind.”
Emerson’s hanging out with Wynter, Mae, and Elodie—until she left. What does Mae think of my wife? Of course Mae loves her. Am I more worried about what Emerson thinks of Mae?
He leans against the new tire of the tractor. “Is one of those things on your mind named Emerson?”
It’s not her. It’s what she asked me. I rub the back of my neck. “Know a good divorce lawyer?”
“That bad?”
“Just being practical,” I echo her words. Fucking guest room.
He scrutinizes me like he knows it’s not my idea. “Because the marriage is for the trust only.”
“Yep. She asked about it this morning.”
He scratches at his jaw and the scrape of his whiskers fills the air. “Are you two having sex?”
Will we still be having sex when she’s in the guest room? “Can’t see how that matters.”
The naturally arrogant tilt of his lips deepens. “It matters.” He pushes off the tractor and wanders to the door of the shop like he’s checking that we’re alone. “When I first saw Wynter, I couldn’t forget her.”
“You kicked her out of your office.”
“Then I reeled her right back in.” He stands in the opening of the big shop door, his attention on the house with the wife he’s happily married to and the family he never thought he’d have. “It’s obvious how you feel about Emerson. Have you told her?”
“I just got her to open up to me.”
“So you haven’t told her?”
“Not blatantly, but the ‘fucking’ part says that loud enough.”
He drops his head back and laughs. “It says nothing about feelings or commitment. Wynter left my ass when she thought I’d never commit. She was the only one for me, and she still thought I was going to get up and go when times got tough, and I probably would’ve if she hadn’t slapped me awake.”
“I know what you’re saying, but it’s too soon.
” If I told Emerson what I really thought, she wouldn’t believe me.
She might even get scared. I’m a lot like Myles; I try to emulate him, but I divert here.
He was scared of how he felt about Wynter.
I’m clear as a bell about Emerson. She’s not clear about me.
“She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t have much time. ”
“This isn’t something you rush.”
“Brooks’s house sale closes soon, and selling hers will happen in a blink. Emerson’s going to do everything but give it to him. Then she’ll return to Denver.”
“How convenient that Foster House is in Denver.”
“Yeah. It is.” That wouldn’t be enough for her. She’d see herself as unimportant. Yet if I tell her how I really feel, she’ll run. Too many people have dropped the ball when it comes to her, and I don’t plan to let that damn ball get one bounce in.
Myles glances outside the shop again and grins. “Hey, Mae. Come to look at the tractor?”
“Most definitely.” She comes into view, wearing a simple pair of jeans and a rust-colored Copper Summit shirt. Her gray-lined dark hair is pulled back into a bun, and the corners of her eyes crinkle when she sees the tractor. “Look at that. Heard you got it running.”
“Lane claims it’s a straightforward engine, but we still needed him to tell us what to do.”
She beams at me, and I get that hit in the center of my chest that I never got with my parents. She’s proud of me. I’m tempted to stick the toe of my boot in the ground and go, “Aw, shucks.”
Myles gives her a one-armed hug. “I’ll go see if Wynter needs help with anything.”
He’s giving me time alone with Mae. I stay where I am, and she wanders farther in after Myles leaves.
“I’m glad you could make it out.” She runs a hand over the frame of the tractor. “Those kids brag about what they can repair, you know.”
“I haven’t taught them that much.”
She shoots me a you and I know better look. “Emerson’s a nice girl.”
“She is.”
“Guarded.”
Leave it to Mae to nail Emerson with one word. “Yes.”
“You like her a lot.”
“She’s my wife.”
Mae smiles, but there’s concern simmering in the depths. “You want it to stay that way.”
How does she know to pick up the conversation where Myles was willing to leave it? “Feels like divorcing would set us back.”
She clasps her hands in front of her and wanders through the shop. “She’s told me about the chickens. About the pickup.” She smiles at me. “That was very sweet.” More roaming. “She adored the kids and had fun with the firepit last night.”
My chest warms, crowded with more affection than I’ve ever felt. Emerson enjoyed being with my family.
“You’re married and doing very married things.”
Forty isn’t that far away, but my cheeks warm like I was busted kissing Emerson in the pantry. “Yeah. That’s where we’re at.”
“Have you dated her?” When I lift a brow, she smirks in a very Mae-like way. She has more insight into people than anyone I’ve ever known.
“I mean we . . .” I took her to the picnic table. She’s come to the tasting room a couple of times. I haven’t even given her a tour. “No.”
Mae nods. “It’s a lot for her.” She gives me another knowing look. “And for you.”
My ribs constrict. I haven’t thought about that. “She wants me to work in the shop all day Saturday until my tasting room shift.”
“Smart girl.” She does a full lap around the tractor, clucking approvingly. “What kind of places in Huckleberry Springs would be a good spot for a date?”
Emerson
I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the dive in front of me.
It’s a sizable building, all wood, but not in a stylish or log cabin way like Lane’s house.
The old sign reads Bootleg Tavern, and I haven’t decided if the rustic and worn look is intentional or not.
It’s looked the same for as long as I can remember.
If I was in Denver, I would drive in the other direction. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Wok and Rolls?”
“They closed five minutes ago.” Lane puts a hand on the small of my back. “Bootleg is harmless.”
“It looks like I need an updated tetanus shot.”
He grins. “That’s part of its charm. Prescott’s done a lot of work on the inside.”
Shock widens my eyes. “Prescott? Like from the distillery?”
“Haven’s fiancée, yeah. Silas is her dad. She’s been working for him since she moved to town, and she’s cleaned up the inside. Literally.”
Silas has a kid? I barely recall when he moved back to town, but I never got the impression he’s a family man. Prescott’s gotta be my age. “That makes me feel better.”
“It can get rowdy, but not usually, and a lot less than it used to.” He gives me an encouraging smile and leads me in.
I slowly relax as we enter. Pool tables line one side with low-hanging lights centered over them.
Neon signs hang on the wall. We weave through crowded tables dotted with familiar faces from around town.
The cashier where I buy the chicken feed waves at me.
Some seasonal workers that I saw before at the Foster House Gold tasting room are in the corner.
Prescott grins at us and heads for the table Lane stops by.
He was right about the interior. It’s nicer than the exterior, and there’s a pleasant pine smell underlying the yeasty beer and pungent liquor scents.
“Welcome to Bootleg,” she says warmly. “We only have beer on tap, the big names in spirits, and the most basic of mixed drinks.”
Lane smirks at me. “Silas isn’t one for blueberry lemonade bourbon.”
Prescott nods. “If you’re feeling like wine, you’re out of luck, but I talked Papa into stocking hard ciders.”
“No shit?” Lane’s expression is full of disbelief.
My giggle slips out. “I’ll order a cider if that helps your case.”
“A girl’s girl. I like it.” She sets down two napkins. “Apple or pear?”
Easy decision. “Pear.”
“I’ll have the same,” Lane says.
“I appreciate it, unless you’re ordering it to coordinate drinks for your date. Then I approve.” She disappears.
Date? This isn’t . . . Awareness dawns in my head, shining bright. Lane asked me if I was busy Friday. I wasn’t, of course. So he asked if I wanted to eat out and get a drink. “Oh my god. You asked me on a date.”
Lane takes his seat. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
He does not. “You feel responsible for me.”
“I like you, Em. A lot, and I like spending time with you. A date seems normal.”
“I’m already sleeping with you,” I whisper.
“I like that too.” His gaze intensifies until flames lick over my skin. “A lot.”
I’m in his bed. I’m driving the pickup he repaired for me. I’m married to him. “A date.” Why does that seem so . . . significant?
“It doesn’t have to be anything more than dinner and a drink,” he says quietly.
“Lane.”
“I wanted to take you out. Is that so bad?”
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.”
He’s diverting. Do I let him? Do I keep insisting on the nondate status of tonight? Do I tell him no, I can’t work for him?
I’ve done all that. He’s not listening and the cider is good. Maybe tonight is just what I need. A date that doesn’t have to lead to anything. A date that will go nowhere, except maybe back to his bed. He did admit to still wanting to sleep with me. Still a bad idea, but I can celebrate the win.
I clink my glass against his. “Cheers.”