Page 89 of Sweet Like Whiskey

Earl simply hums. “My cousin makes those. You shoulda seen the prep that went into this weekend. First, there was the batter…”

As Earl regales Jackson and me with a detailed description of the donut-making process, including therightway to hole a donut—“you see, some folks stretch the hole, and others punch it”—Jackson’s hand remains on my knee, his thumb drifting ever so slightly. It’s a distraction that has me missing a good portion of Earl’s ramblings, but I don’t think the man minds.

When we round a corner, heading back in the direction of the festival, I finally set eyes on the moon. It’s big and round in the sky, beautiful, and I’m about to point it out to Jackson when our carriage comes to an abrupt halt.

“Whoops,” Earl says. “One of the horses has a little business to attend to.”

I open my mouth to question what sort of business a horse might possibly have when a tail lifts into the air.

Oh. Oh, no.

It’s all I can do not to react when the horse’sbusinessplops audibly onto the concrete. I can feel Jackson’s eyes boring into the side of my head, but I refuse to look.

“There we are,” Earl says, hopping down to take care of the mess.

Jackson squeezes my leg again, but I shake my head, staring resolutely at the moon.

We get back on the road before long, and it only takes another minute before our carriage is slowing to a stop.

“Hope you folks enjoyed the ride,” Earl says kindly, tipping his hat. “Have a fine rest of your evening.”

“Thank you, Earl. It was lovely,” I tell the man, stepping out after Jackson. “See you around.”

Earl nods, and another couple boards the carriage behind us as Jackson and I head toward the festival.

“Not a word,” I warn him. “I tried, okay?”

Jackson gives my arm a gentle tug, pulling me to a stop. When I bring my eyes up to his, the often hard lines of his face are settled into something soft and tender. “You did,” he says, and unless I’m mistaken, he sounds appreciative of that fact. “Come on. I have an idea.”

“Yeah? Something to salvage this disaster of a night?” I only half-joke.

“I happened to like this night,” he says as we walk back into the crowd. “Talk of exes and horse dung included.”

I grab my chest. “Shit, Jack. I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He snorts, grabbing the back of my neck and kissing my temple. I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.

Jackson leads me through the rows of booths, back over to the Darling Whiskey stand, where he forks over enough cash to grab a growler of cooled whiskey cider. We pass his family’s booth on our way out of the festival, Remi wavingat us from where he’s boxing up their display. Before long, we’re on the road.

Instead of having me drive back to his house, Jackson directs me down the gravel path to the horse barn.

“We’re not doing a drunken trail ride, are we?” I check. “Because I’m not sure that’d be a wise decision, Jack.”

He shakes his head, fighting a smile as we get out of the company truck. “No, we’re not.”

“Okay. So…”

“Just c’mon,” he grumbles.

I chuckle, trailing after him into the barn. Jackson flips on a single overhead light that illuminates the hallway but not the horse stalls, and then he grabs a rope dangling from the ceiling.A hatch door opens as he tugs, a ladder coming down with it that Jackson settles onto the ground.

I peer up into the darkened space. “What’s up there?”

“Hayloft,” he answers.

I swing my gaze his way slowly. “Jackson Darling. Is your idea of romance a romp in the hay? Because that might be the most country thing I’ve ever heard.”

He looks heavenward, as if asking for patience. “Just get up the ladder, Ash.”

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