Page 106 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I swallow roughly.

“So you’re gonna let me look after you,” he goes on, tone unyielding. “You don’t gotta like it, but you’re gonna do it. We clear?”

I let out a breath, hand sliding up Jackson’s side. “Yessir.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, easing back. “None of that.”

“Jack,” I groan, trying to snag his shirt before he can get too far.

He evades me. “Nope.”

“It’s been aweek.”

“The doctor said you needa relax,” he says, slipping off the bed and grabbing his thermos.

“Orgasms are relaxing,” I defend.

“Maybe later,” he says, making my pulse jump. “If you’re good.”

“If I’m… Oh, fuck you! That shit doesn’t work on me like it works on you,” I call.

Jackson simply chuckles as he rounds the doorway into the hall. A beat later, he yells, “Get some rest, Ash. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

“All I’ve been doing is resting,” I mutter to myself, resituating and wincing as pain flares along my spine.Andmaybe he has a point. “Fuck.”

As Jackson heads off to work the ranch, I grab my coffee and my phone. There’s a text from Nicholas, telling me he heard what happened and that he hopes I’m doing okay. He included a couple recommendations for physio places nearby, which, honestly, shows a lot of restraint on his part. In the past, he would have drafted up an entire outline for my recovery period.

Accepting the olive branch for what it is, I send a thank-you, not at all surprised the news of my injury made it through the country club grapevine back in Maine.

Iama little surprised when, a second later, I get a returned text. It’s a picture of Nicholas next to…a dog? Included are the words, “Meet Smokey, the new you.”

I bark a laugh, a smile pulling at my lips. Shaking my head, I message back, wishing Nicholas and Smokey the best before closing out the text thread. I check the early morning voicemail from my mom next. She says she booked her flight for the end of the year, and she’s looking forward to seeing me. Truth be told, I’m looking forward to seeing her, too. She was worried, of course, when I called to tell her what happened. But I convinced her to wait and fly out for the holidays instead of coming now.

Hopefully, by that point, I’ll be all healed up.

Letting out a sigh, I swing myself slowly out of bed. The sling on my left arm is more annoying than anything. I remove it to get dressed and replace it before washing my coffee mug with one hand. Then I slip my feet into boots and go for a walk.

The air is crisp but the sun bright as I make my way around the property, no particular destination in mind. Marigold insisted I take time off to recover, and how could I argue when I’m not supposed to be using my arm? They managed just fine for nearly six months before I came along. Surely they can manage for another week or so.

My feet bring me over to the petting farm. It’s too early to be open to the public, but I let myself in through the double gates, leaning down to hand out scritches to the goats that run over. Their rectangular pupils gaze up at me, so odd and endearing. I chuckle as their ears flop around, insistent tongues running repeatedly over my hand.

“Figured I’d find you here,” a voice calls.

“Ginnie,” I answer, standing up as my friend comes into the pen. Her hair is in twin braids today, the brown curls semi-tamed. “Were you looking for me long?”

“Only a minute,” she says. “I figured I’d either find you here with the kids or over at Jackson’s. I tried here first.”

I huff a laugh. “Sounds weird when you say kids like that.”

She smirks at me. “Are you officially moved in yet?”

I nearly stumble. “I’m notmoved inat all,” I tell her, pulling my shirt out of the teeth of a particularly forward goat. “I’ve just been staying at Jackson’s—”

“For the past week—”

“While I recovered, yes,” I finish.

Virginia raises an eyebrow. “And you’re honestly gonna tell me you plan to sleep in the ranch house again once you’re metaphorically back on your feet?”

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