Page 88 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“You sure? It was kind of hot watching you go to town on those donuts.”

Jackson shakes his head, drawing me in for a kiss. Or at least I’m expecting a kiss. Instead, he licks the corner of my mouth, causing a full body shiver to roll down my frame.

“Sugar,” he says in explanation.

I nod weakly, my feet taking a moment to catch up as Jackson tugs me back toward the festival.

Jackson tosses the trash from our donuts into a bin as we pass. A few kids run across the path in front of us, their headbands trailing ribbons in autumnal colors. Some folks are sitting on benches nearby, eating dinner or snacking on Darling’s version of homemade carnival food. Jackson leads me over to a booth for the town’s distillery.

My lips curve into a smile when Jackson orders two whiskey ciders. I accept mine with athanks, the paper cup warm between my palms. A band starts playing nearby, and we head that way,sipping our drinks as we stop to listen to the music. Jackson doesn’t seem to have a problem with PDA because he tugs me close, an arm looped around my stomach, my back to his chest. I don’t mind it one bit, and I trust Jackson to know his town’s attitude when it comes to queer relationships in the open.

By six-thirty, the sun is setting, and many of the families are beginning to pack up and head home. Seeing as it’s Sunday, some of the vendors are preparing to close up shop, too, displaying signs for discounts on their remaining wares. Jackson and I grab a couple maple bacon burgers, eating as we walk.

I don’t think he realizes I have a particular destination in mind until it’s too late.

The first moonlight carriage rides are just departing when Jackson and I arrive. He still has a bite of burger in his mouth, so all he can do is offer a reproachful look as I join the short line.

Once his food is finished, he tosses his trash and walks over. “Someone put you up to this,” he mumbles.

“Why would you say that?” I ask, feigning ignorance. Andgreat, now I sound just like Marigold.

“Because,” Jackson says slowly, “you’re not the type for grand gestures and showing off. This has my mother written all over it.”

My heart beats wildly, Jackson’s casual—and correct—assessment surprising me. I’m not quite sure how he managed to peg me in such a short period of time.

“Well, I think it’s romantic,” I say.Or so I’ve heard.“And it’ll just be the two of us. How is that showy?”

“It’s fifty bucks,” he says quietly. “You realize that, right?”

“It’s on me,” I fire back. “And look—proceeds support the local 4-H club.”

Jackson grumbles some more, but I know I have him hooked when he steps up next to me and places his hand on the small ofmy back to move us forward. Such a gentleman, whether or not he realizes it.

When it’s our turn to board a carriage, I hop up easily. Jackson follows me, settling beside me on the small padded bench that faces forward. I’m not sure what I envisioned when I first heardmoonlight carriage rides, but this so-called carriage is more of a buggy. It’s tiny, with a top opened up to the air and a coachman sitting in a raised chair directly behind the horses. Their brown tails swoosh as we set into motion.

“Nice evening, isn’t it?” our coachman says, turning his head slightly.

It only takes me a second to place him. “Earl?”

The man who first gave me a ride into town in his beat-up truck looks back, recognition lighting his eyes. “The newcomer. Ash. You’re still here?”

I huff a laugh. “Still here. How’s Misty?”

He hums, swaying slightly as the horses move us forward. “She’s just fine, thanks for asking. How ’bout that car of yours? Did Ratchet get ’er running?”

“Scrapped,” I tell him.

He makes a sympathetic sound. “That’s a shame. I had a car like yours when I was a young buck. Lasted a good, long while before it went to parts. Most of the guts were rusted right through. Had to pitch ’em in the dump.”

Jackson gives my knee a squeeze, mouthing the word “romantic” with an expression far sassier than I would’ve thought him capable of. I swat his leg, biting back my laughter. Unfortunately, one of the horses takes that moment to let out some gas. The squeak lasts for several seconds.

Jackson is shaking, his hand over his mouth, as I try my very best not to make a sound. His fingers dig into my leg.

“You folks enjoy the festival?” Earl asks, completely oblivious to the downward spiral of our supposedly romantic evening.

“Sure did,” I tell him. “Donuts were great.”

Jackson coughs.

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