Page 10 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I huff a laugh. “Biscuits. You got it.”

Remi signs something else to Jackson, and the older man nods, adding his own, “Yeah, catch you later.”

Remi gives me a wave, which I return, and then he jogs up the stairs to the second floor.

“He’s quite a bit younger than you,” I note.

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. And he’s twenty-eight. Hardly a kid anymore.”

Still, I’d put Jackson closer to forty. That’s a decent gap.

“I need to check on a few things before lunch,” Jackson says, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. “Can I leave you on your own?”

“You’re going to throw me to the wolves on my first day here?” I ask, grinning. “What if I mess up lunch?”

“I think you can handle it,” he mutters.

I don’t know if he truly has that much faith in me or if it’s a test of some sort, but I hop on the chance, eager to get started.

“Yep, I got this,” I tell him, heading past into the kitchen. The time on the stove says ten, which gives me a good hour to figure out a meal.

I’m looking through the old recipe book when I feel Jackson’s presence behind me. I glance over my shoulder, finding him standing in the doorway, a serious expression on his face.

“You need help, you tell me,” he says simply.

My lips twitch into a smile. “Will do, boss.”

Jackson frowns for a beat, but then he nods and turns from the doorway. His heavy boots tread through the house before the sound of the front door opening and closing reaches my ears.

I think grumpy Jackson Darling might just have a heart of gold.

“I’m so fucked,” I say to myself, spotting a recipe for buttermilk biscuits. “Ah. Bingo.”

I can hear people laughing inside the house before I can see them. Lunch is already spread out on the long dining room table, ready to go, so I grab the two pitchers of lemonade I made up and head that way.

Inside the dining room, there’s a door that leads directly out onto the porch. It’s open now, and a couple individuals are trailing in. A few others are already seated, excited expressions on their faces. They notice me quickly.

“Hey,” I say, giving the men and lone woman a smile. “I’m Ash. The new guy.”

“Well, shit,” one of the men says. He takes off his cowboy hat as he pulls out a chair. “I didn’t even know we had a new guy. What’s all this?”

I set the lemonade down as I answer him. “The soup is chicken pot pie. I didn’t have time to make arealpot pie, so that’s what the biscuits are for. It’s my first day. Cut me some slack.” There are a few chuckles at that, and I grin, going on. “There’s also strawberry poppy seed salad, sweet potato fries, and ham sandwiches. I honestly didn’t know how much twenty people would eat. I might’ve gone overboard.”

“Son,” an older man says, pouring himself a glass of lemonade, “I think you’ve done just right.”

“This looks great,” the woman adds, giving me a smile. “Andshit. Here come the rest of the vultures.”

She hastily ladles herself a bowl of soup as several more people come through the door, all of them stomping their boots on the porch before stepping into the dining room. No one, I notice, takes off their footwear.

“Is Ira here?” I ask, looking around at the eclectic mix of young and old. I notice Hank, the elder Mr. Darling, come through the house-side entrance to the dining room.

“That’s me,” one of the older gentlemen says. I’d estimate him to be around fifty.

“The biscuits in the blue bowl are gluten-free,” I let him know. “There’s no flour in the soup, so you should be all set there.”

His eyes widen. “Well, dang. Thanks for that.”

“No problem,” I say, stepping back as the plates, bowls, and silverware at the end of the table are picked up. The ranchers start dishing up their food, and a rush of warmth fills my chest as I watch them.

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