Page 31 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I should tell him to stop.

I damn well should.

“He’s gone too far this time!” comes a shout.

I whirl around in alarm, finding Colton striding my way. “What?” I ask. Surely my brother isn’t talking about…

“Noah fucking King,” he says, brandishing his phone and coming to a stop in front of me. “He stole another client right out from under me. I just got off the phone with the McGregors. Their horse, Belinda,lovedme, and Noah undercut my prices andtook’em.”

I let out a sigh. “You know that’s how business—”

“Oh, I think not,” Colton says, his blue eyes spitting fire. “It’s personal with him. It’salwayspersonal.”

“You two need to let bygones be bygones already,” I mutter, heading toward the horse barn.

He lets out apft, keeping in step next to me as the rain comes down, more like a mist than falling drops. “There’s no rationalizing with that man, Jackson. He’s had it out for me since the beginning.”

“You don’t help.”

He lets out an affronted sound.

“You don’t,” I reply, despite his obvious ire. “You two are like dogs, yapping at each other through the fence. One day, that fence is going to crack, and one or both of you are gonna get bit.”

He looks at me in what might be confusion or possibly shock before shaking his head. “We’re notdogs. And I’m not the problem.”

“Sure,” I say.

“I’mnot.”

I don’t argue it further, and Colton is quiet beside me as we reach the barn. I expect him to stew about his rival for a few more minutes before heading on his way, but he sticks close, trailing me to the tack room.

“By the way,” he hems in a tone I don’t much care for, “did I just hear Ashley call you darlin’?”

Oh Lord.

“No,” I lie.

“It’s cute,” he says, grinning like a fool. “He’s keen on you.”

“You sound twelve,” I grumble.

“What twelve-year-olds do you know that say ‘keen?’” he asks. “It’s okay to like him, you know.”

I open my mouth to respond—with what, I don’t know—but I don’t have time before my brother thumps me on the shoulder.

“Later,” he says, walking off just as succinctly as he arrived. I assume I’m alone—blessedly—but a soft sound to my left alerts me otherwise.

“Jesus, Remi,” I say, switching to ASL when I see he’s not wearing his processor.‘Stop sneaking around.’

He snorts, hands moving fast.‘Not my fault you were in your head and didn’t notice me.’

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, shaking my hand to wave him off. Turning, I start collecting some tack that needs repairs. There’s a leatherworker in town who does the work for us.

Remi makes a soft sound, drawing my attention.‘Can I ask you something?’he signs, a contemplative expression on his face.‘Serious question.’

Fuck. As if I can deny my brother.

I nod.

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