Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Myles
I never thought I’d be sitting in Copper Summit again. Or that the Bailey brothers wouldn’t be trying to kick me out. I wish I could enjoy the experience.
The bouts of sadness that had struck Wynn through our time together the last two days bothered me.
She had a valid reason for her feelings, and I was grateful she had all the support too many others didn’t.
But seeing her mourn brought back memories I’d locked even deeper than my foster years.
I had no wish to revisit that part of my life, and I wanted to cheer Wynn up.
I found myself rooting through my brain, looking for a joke that clung to some unused neuron. Nothing. Mixing drinks made her happy, and I let her. I’d drink fucking pond water if coming up with her concoction smoothed the crease between her delicate brows.
“Okay. Try this.” She slid a glass in front of me. She’d used crushed ice in a squat old-fashioned glass.
I gave her a dubious look. “Am I mistaken, or did I see you add bitters? And lemon juice?”
“I countered with a really sweet orange juice one of Mama’s friends makes from her trees in Arizona.” She tapped the bar top. “You can only get this cocktail here because the products are limited.”
I would down the entire glass, but I liked the way she lit up when she talked about her creation. “I thought Darin was big on locally sourced. What’s your motto?”
“Montana made. Montana proud. But!” She grinned, and her brown eyes danced.
“Mama’s friend was born and raised in Montana, and she only goes down for the winter.
So it’s a little work-around.” She leaned across the counter.
My gaze naturally slipped down to the cleavage visible in the tugged-down collar of her top.
“We’re honest in the description. We call it Fool’s Gold. ”
Her smile was so broad, I had to chuckle. “You came up with the name?”
She nodded.
I lifted the glass to my lips and kept eye contact as I drank. Her gaze dipped down to my mouth, then up to my eyes, and down to my throat as I swallowed.
She crimped her lower lip between her teeth.
Flavors danced over my tongue. The bitterness and sourness were offset by the orange juice and honey syrup. Impeccable bourbon carried the whole set and the natural charred flavors were softened and transformed by the bitter. “Christ, that’s good.”
She straightened, her triumphant expression tying all sorts of knots around my heart, caging it in, and making her the only one with the key. “It’s one of the recipes I’m the proudest of.”
“What’s another one?”
She leaned across the bar top again. “Be careful, or I’ll serve you something with huckleberry and candied fruit.”
“I’m man enough.”
Grinning, she spun away and got to work.
As she dug out bourbon, huckleberry liqueur, huckleberry syrup, and a container of fruit, she talked about how she’d created the concoction.
“And then Junie found a patch of huckleberries on our land. So we hired a few high schoolers to pick and process them all. You should’ve seen the kids when we candied some of the batch.
It was like…” She laughed. “Kids in a candy shop.”
The muscles around my mouth began to ache. Was I smiling that much? I wasn’t used to it.
“Daddy—” Her voice caught. She faltered but squared her shoulders and kept going.
“He made it an annual thing. Bailey’s Huckleberry Festival, he called it.
We didn’t do it the year we found out he was sick.
And we didn’t do it last year either.” Her smile faded, but she slid a tall glass with a flirty umbrella and speared candied huckleberries in front of me.
The liquid inside was a soft purple. “Tell me what you think.”
This drink was so far from my type, I’d walk away if it was anyone else who’d served it to me. I picked it up, considering the bourbon she was using. “Wynter Summit? Your favorite?”
“We all have our lines.”
I shook my head. I should’ve put two and two together, but I’d been too successful at putting the Kerrigan girls out of my head. I took a sip.
Sweet, but not so much that the bourbon was crowded out. A poor-quality bourbon wouldn’t hold up under the other ingredients. “It’s good.”
“You sound surprised,” she said wryly.
“Honestly, I am. You really know what will work with the flavors and the spirits.”
She lifted a shoulder. “It was my side hustle. I’d come home from college and create recipes.” A wistful sigh escaped her. The melancholy returned. “I missed being home. Do you think—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“You’re questioning your decision to stay away.
” I’d done the same thing since I had called Mae after hearing about Darin’s death.
Wynn’s question would be on a greater scale than mine.
“No, you weren’t wrong. Darin would’ve wanted you to take care of yourself, and he’s one of the few people in the world—your sisters being the others—who would’ve understood. ”
She had her hands folded close to mine. “I’m really glad I can talk to you about this.”
I stroked my finger over the back of her hand. Soft damn skin. Every inch of her was satin. Yesterday’s quick fuck in the car roared into my head. Bad timing. All of it. Us.
There was no us.
I took another hearty drink, polishing the whole damn drink off. Then I grabbed the Fool’s Gold. “You’re going to have to drive, Frosty.”
The family meal was big and chaotic and full of laughter.
Chance had planted himself next to me. He’d asked if I played football in school, if I’d gone to elementary school in Bourbon Canyon and knew the same teachers as him, and whether or not I had a fishing spot.
Then he’d told me about his fishing spots like he was trusting me with top secret information, about their new boats, and that his baby sister woke him up with her crying, but he liked to sing her lullabies.
I’d listened and nodded, working overtime to ignore the furtive glances from all the family members around the gigantic table. Tate had sat on the other side of Chance, a bodyguard of sorts. His wife, Scarlett, was next to him, and Teller had boxed me in. Chance’s other bodyguard.
Tenor had taken a spot across the table beside Wynter.
Her protector? I wouldn’t write him off.
He gave off a nerdy vibe, but that was all it was.
I’d seen him manhandle pushy cows when he was filling the water tanks earlier today, and the hunch in his shoulders didn’t hide the strength in his arms from someone who cared to look.
Not many people looked deeper. Tenor was probably the type of guy who counted on that.
“I heard you used to read Aunt Wynter stories. Did you sing?”
I had just shoveled in a forkful of mashed potatoes—my contribution to the meal along with digging up the carrots. Wynter had seasoned and prepared the crockpot roasts and gravy and even made homemade buns. I’d washed the veggies and peeled and cooked them.
How long had it been since I’d prepared more than a single serving of any one dish? How long had it been since I’d used the kitchen in my loft?
I slowly finished chewing, all eyes on me. “I didn’t sing.”
“Yes, he did.” Wynter’s lips curved. “If the story called for it. Remember that one with the cat?”
Now I did. Her giggles the first time I’d sung could’ve scared me away from reading again, but instead, I’d smiled and made sure to include that damn cat book in the regular reading rotation. “Yes, I remember.”
“Does he still sing for you?” Junie asked sweetly. “Or are they grown up now? Like a real bourbon lullaby? A little alcohol, a few sweet words, and—”
“June,” Mae chided. “There are children present.”
Chance’s head was swiveling around, trying to catch every nuance but too young to understand. I hoped.
“I don’t read to kids anymore,” I answered to make it clear I wasn’t talking about me and Wynn.
What would I say? I was leaving after the funeral. There wasn’t a me and Wynn.
The ache was back behind my sternum.
“You can read to Brinley,” Chance offered.
Tate grunted. He might’ve said something akin to “Fuck no,” but his mouth was full.
“You’ll do a better job than me,” I said. “My reading days are over.”
“You don’t have kids?”
I fisted my hand around my fork. My visceral rebellion against having kids warred with the sudden thought of what my kids would look like. Would they have dark hair like mine or lighter hair like—hell, what was I doing? “No.”
Chance’s wide eyes weren’t releasing me from his curiosity. “Do you want them?”
“Chance,” Scarlett said. “Those are personal questions we keep to ourselves.”
Finally, I was released from the kid’s stare. “Why?” he asked her.
“It can be a sensitive subject, but ultimately it’s none of our business,” she answered while Tate bobbed his head to punctuate each word as he was wiping his mouth with a white napkin.
Chance wasn’t persuaded. “Then he can tell me it’s none of my business.”
I chuckled at Chance’s logic. I didn’t miss the startled gazes turning my way. I took a drink of water, the humor in his frank response growing.
Wynn’s eyes were sparkling, and I liked that even more.
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll let you know.” I wouldn’t have. I’d have figured out an answer to keep from shaming him in front of everyone. I’d spare anyone that if I could.
“It’s Chance,” said Tate. Would Tate ever not be a dick?
“Carter?”
Chance snorted, his little head swiveling between us.
Tate shot me a glare. “You heard me.”
“Cranston?” More chortling from Chance, and I smirked at him. “Nice to meet you, Cory.”
His giggles filled the air. Tate’s siblings were holding back grins, including Tenor. I couldn’t tell with Teller. He was a stony wall on my right. But even Tate’s lips were twitching, his son’s laughter his kryptonite.
“Just be careful, Chance,” Teller started, and I tensed. “If Myles reads to you, the books will be watered-down versions of what you like the best. His stories won’t be the really good, quality books you’re used to.”