Page 93 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“We’ve all had bad taste at one point or another,” I mumble. In my case, my brief crush was on the mayor’s son. A man who, to the best of my knowledge, is still quite straight. “Your turn.”

Ash gives my leg a squeeze. “I once broke my femur in three places.”

I cringe. “Lie. I hope.”

“You’re right. Haven’t ever broken a bone. Have you?”

“Luckily, no. Which is a minor miracle, considering how rough and tumble us boys were growing up.”

“God,” Ash says, shaking his head. “I would have loved to see a small Jackson Darling running around the ranch. I bet you were ridiculously cute, all pouty and serious even then.”

My heart kicks up an extra beat. “I’m notpouty.”

Ash laughs. “You’re pouting right now.”

I clear my expression, and he snorts. “I used to have an unhealthy obsession with Dolly Parton,” I say, getting us back on track.

He looks me over carefully, his eyes widening. “Holy shit. Truth. Seriously?”

I nod, plucking a short piece of hay out of Ash’s hair. “It was the music, believe it or not.”

“ThatI believe,” he says, laying his head back on my shoulder. “Considering you’re a gay man.”

I snort, looping an arm around his middle. His stomach is warm beneath my palm, even through his shirt. Ash’s hair tickles my nose as I breathe, the earthy scent of hay mixing withhim.

“I hate shellfish,” he says quietly.

“Lie?”

“Nope. Truth. I never was a very good Mainer. Drink up.”

I take a sip of the cider, fingers playing over Ash’s shirt. He hums, shifting against me.

“My brother once bet me I couldn’t eat ten hot dogs in ten minutes,” I say. “I succeeded.”

“Colton?” he asks.

“Mm.”

Ash snorts. “Figures. And that’s a lie. I don’t think you made it.”

“I sure did,” I say proudly. “He never said I had to eat the buns.”

Ash looks back at me, grinning. “Ah, so you’re a cheater.”

“Nope. Just good at outsmarting my brothers.”

He huffs a laugh and curls his fingers in agimmegesture. “Hand it over.”

I bring the jug to my lips and take a sip.

“Fuck, Jack,” Ash mutters, already knowing my intent.

Hand on his jaw, I angle his face my way. He accepts the drink from my mouth, his lips warm and tasting of apples. I let my other hand drift lower, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt as Ash’s arm loops behind my head.

“You know, I have to be up in a couple hours to cook breakfast,” he murmurs, letting out a breath when I shift my lips down to his neck. “We should probably…get back.”

“Or,” I propose, slipping my fingertips underneath the waistband of his briefs, “we could stay up here all night and take a nap after breakfast.”

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