Chapter 16 #2
“We’ve been here for an hour. After a while, it’s just an excuse for Cruz to stare at his wife.”
Envy should be a second skin by now. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s sweeter when your own wife walks in.” His smile is lopsided and just so damn happy, I don’t know how to react.
Hillary grins, her gaze dancing between us.
I want to tell him to knock it off, but there’s a gravity in his tone that sticks with me. Besides, if I get all serious, it’ll take the fun out of it for my niece. But something about this feels so achingly real. Breakfast together. The muffins. He called me his wife in public.
Maybe that’s not what’s bothering me. Maybe it’s that I’m wishing it was more real than it is.
Lane
Every table in the tasting room has someone around it. The crowd is chatty, and sporadic laughter punctuates the noise. A normal summer day.
My mind is on this morning and the shy way my country girl, who’s returning to her dusty roots, entered the bakery. Did buying feed go okay? Jerome didn’t give her a hard time, did he? He likes to jack up the prices for people he thinks are from out of town. He’ll recognize her name. Right?
Should I call Emerson? No. I’m taking it slow so we don’t do a two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance. But this morning was nice. Can there be a future where I look out the window and see my wife? Have a quick snack with her? Invite her to the tasting room when I’m working?
I should’ve done that when I saw her, when it was more organic.
Iverson enters from the distillery and heads straight for me. “Nice crowd.”
“Been like this since we opened.”
“Good.” He puts his back to the customers and leans against the counter. “Everything’s ready for you and Cruz to be out of town.”
“I appreciate it.”
He dips his head. “Tell everyone ‘hi’ from me and the family, especially if you see Mae. The kids love Grandma Mae.”
Each time I hear that, my chest expands to two miles wide. “I’ll fit it in while I’m kicking my niece’s ass. Elsa thinks she can win against me in horseshoes, and again, I’m going to have to prove her wrong.”
He laughs. “She kicks my ass. I’m glad someone can take her.” He slaps my shoulder and exits through the distillery.
I busy myself with refills. A half hour before closing, only a few tables have people.
I duck into the storeroom to stock for tomorrow.
When I come out with a bottle of Butter Barrel, Juneberry vodka, and lavender gin, Emerson’s on a stool at the bar.
She’s still wearing the ponytails and overalls.
Whatever the reason, she’s committed to the look, and I’ll have dreams of taking her out of those damn things for the rest of my life.
She cocks a brow when she sees me. “You’re always in that storeroom. Is there something good back there?”
“There’s nothing but goodness back there. Our best work.”
She smiles and pulls a menu toward her. “What do you recommend tonight?”
I set the lavender gin on the counter. “It’s a gorgeous summer night. I have just the thing.”
“I don’t like gin.”
“You haven’t tried our gin.” I get a long-stemmed glass. In a shaker, I add the gin, a squeeze of lemon, and sparkling wine. I shake it with some crushed ice and strain it into the glass.
“What is it?” she asks when I slide it in front of her.
“Our take on a lavender French 75, only we infuse the gin with lavender instead of using a lavender simple syrup.”
She takes a tentative sip. “Hmm?” She licks her lips and tips the glass again. “It’s really light and refreshing.”
“Good though?”
“Yes, but not in your face about it.” She tips her head. “Kind of like you.”
“I’m not in your face?”
“No.” She swallows a bigger amount this time. “You wait for your opportunity.”
The back of my neck heats. “Are you talking about the trust?”
“No. I’m talking about when you come out of the shower in nothing but a towel. And when you cook dinner. When you do things like fix an old pickup that meant nothing to anyone but an old, lonely alcoholic, and you do it just in case his kids come home.”
“You did. Come home.”
“It’s not my home.”
I lean my forearms on the counter. “Why is that?” She stares at her glass, her gaze following a string of bubbles from the bottom to the top of the liquid. “Have you gone into the house yet?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Instead of asking her why, I wait. People at two of the tables get up and leave. “Thanks for coming,” I call to them.
Emerson’s still not talking, so I push away. When I’m cleaning empties, the last table leaves. I nod and smile at them, turn off the open sign, and lock the door.
I return and dump out the ice and various citrus peels.
“My mom always wanted better,” she says, her voice barely audible.
The glass in front of her is empty. I take that and add it to my pile to clean too.
“She wanted nicer clothes, more brand names, and hell, anything new. But Dad liked to have fun. Not wild parties, but he enjoyed ranching. He liked hanging with the animals, and it didn’t bother him if we had money or not.
He liked staying home, brewing his own beer and being with his family. The family she left.”
I keep loading our small dishwasher and cleaning up the counters. If my mundane activities are getting her to talk, then I’ll clean this whole place by hand.
“She blamed him, she blamed Brooks, and she blamed me on her way out.”
“Shit. How old were you?”
She runs her lower lip between her teeth. “Seven.”
“That’d mess up a kid.”
“Yeah.” She sighs and looks around. “I hear what she said when I think of that house. And I think of how he so casually told me that he asked her to take me with her, but that she didn’t want me either.”
“Jesus.” I ditch my duties and round the bar to sit sideways on the stool next to her. I frame her legs with mine. “Em.”
A tear rolls down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb and turn her face toward me.
She gives herself a little shake. “I can’t believe I went there. I don’t want to be a Saturday night downer. I try to stay away from things that are bad for me—too much drink, drugs, and men.”
“What about your husband?”
She peers at me. “I think you’re the most dangerous drug of all.” She strokes her fingers down my face. Her fingertips scrape over my stubble. “A bold, strong whiskey. Stronger than you’d expect, and it’ll burn you if you’re not ready.”
I sway closer to her. “What about if you are ready?”
“I think . . .” Her gaze roams my face, from my hairline to my chin. “I think maybe I can handle one drink.”
I tilt her face up and set my lips on hers.
Cautiously, I take more, adding more pressure.
She lets me, and I stroke my tongue inside.
Her whimper is my undoing. I drag her closer, but it’s not enough.
I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her to the top of the counter.
Then I flick open the clasp of one flap of her overalls.
Her chest rises and falls, but her attention lifts to the window and she stiffens. “What if someone sees?”
“No one’s coming.”
She wets her lips, but anxiety still plays across her face. I’m not getting cockblocked by windows, after-close customers, or helpful Hennessys or Fosters who decide to check on me.
“I know a place.” I hand her the bottle of gin and say, “Hang on.”
I pull her into my arms, and she lets out a delighted cry.
“Lane! What are you doing?”
“Taking you somewhere we’ll have some privacy?”
She drapes her free arm around me. “For what?” she asks in a purr that goes straight to my dick.
I take the stairs two at a time. “We’re going to indulge tonight, Em.”
“How are you—it’s three flights,” she says when I hit the last set.
I curve into my office and set her on my desk, but I stand back and let her look around.
“This is your office?” She slides off the desk and goes to the window.
Maybe my pride should be trashed. She’s not so out of it that she can’t think of anything but getting me closer, but this place is tied to my ego. It’s thriving in part because of me.
“This view is something.” She crosses her arms over herself, but her hip isn’t kicked out and she’s not hunched in.
I stand beside her. “It is.”
A few moments go by. In the fading sunlight, the sea of trees leads to a rolling landscape with the mountains in the background. A romantic picture.
“When I fixed cars, I loved what I did. I’d go to the grocery store and see a car with a timing belt that I replaced. Or a classic with a rebuilt engine that I had a hand in. But that was that. The car worked; it was functional.”
“Or in the case of the classic, it was a work of art, but you can’t list yourself as an artist.” She turns toward me. “But here, your name is on the business.”
“In a way. It’s Myles’s place.”
“And you keep it running. An uncredited artist.”
“Not quite like that.” Yet I appreciate her insight.
“But I know,” she says. “I know you’re a big part of why this place keeps ticking, that you kept my dad’s now classic pickup going, and that those cattle are so unbothered because you take care of them.”
“I can’t do this without my brothers.” I pivot to face her and lean my shoulder against the glass.
“They can’t do it without you.”
She’ll never know how much it means to hear her say that. To know that she notices me. “Be careful, Em. I might start thinking you like me.”
She feathers her fingers along my collar and over my chest. “I guess that’s not a bad thing. Since we’re married and all. For a little longer.”