Page 91 of Whiskey Neat

“Raincheck on the conversation?”

“Absolutely.”

A few minutes later, we walk upstairs to the scent of savory goodness wafting through the room. The stairs let out into a small foyer that leads to the kitchen, and Salem’s mom is fussing over food preparation.

“Would you mind setting the table, Salem?”

“Not at all.” He grabs a stack of plates from a cabinet, nodding to a drawer. “Want to grab utensils?”

“Sure.”

The two of us gather everything together and Salem leads me to a dining room. There’s already a pitcher of water and glasses on the table.

“Does she do this all the time or is it because I’m here?”

“A little of both,” Salem says. “She likes playing Martha Stewart when she can, so she tries to make it nice even when it’s just her and Dad, but I think she’s kicked it up a notch with you staying.”

“That’s cute.”

He smiles. “It is.”

Just then, the sounds of a door opening, heavy footsteps, and a bellowing voice fill the space and Salem groans.

“Oh god. Why is my dad home?”

He practically stomps to the kitchen, and I follow just in time to see his mom smack his dad’s hand away from the salad.

“Why are you home?” Salem asks in the same accusing tone he used on his mom earlier.

“I live here.”

I have to fight back laughter as Salem glares at me with his hand on his hip.

“I thought it was poker night.”

“It was, but James and his wife were watching their grandkids and the youngest one had a blowout all over the cards while James was bouncing him on his lap.”

“A blowout?” Salem asks.

“Diaper blowout. It happens, but it’s not easy to recover from.” His eyes shift to me. “Hello.”

“Hello, sir.”

“Will.”

“Indy.”

“Indy Hart?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I read about you on the business page. You bought the old bar in town.”

“I did. Well, me and my business partners did.”

“The place you work?” his dad asks, shifting his stern gaze to his son.

“Yep,” Salem says, clearly uncomfortable.

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