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.”
