Page 59 of Sweet Like Whiskey

As if he knows as much, Ash doesn’t call attention to it. He simply gives my collar a tug and smiles. “Noted,” he says, facing the petting farm againand clearing his throat. “What kind of chickens are those? The ones with the fancy head floofs.”

It takes me a moment to recalibrate. “Fancy head floofs?”

“What else would you call them?”

“Feathers,” I say flatly.

Ash snorts, smacking me on the chest for reasons unknown. “What are they?”

“Silkies,” I answer. “Not very good egg layers, but folks love ’em.”

“I can see why. They look soft.”

We both watch as a young toddler tries to touch one of the chickens. The chick deftly evades them. Silkies have calmer temperaments than many breeds, and, yes, softer feathers, which makes them good pets. But even the happiest chicken knows to avoid a tottering child.

Ash turns, leaning his back on the fence as he looks in the other direction, off toward the mountains. He lets out a soft sigh before rolling his head my way. “You need to get to work,” he says, not a question.

I nod.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“My…what?” I ask, thrown.

“Your favorite food,” he repeats, a small smile on his face. “Remi likes biscuits. Colton, as he told me—with an entirely straight face, mind you—prefers sausage that’s big enough to ‘really feel the weight of it on your tongue.’” Ash raises an eyebrow, and I snort. My oblivious, straight brother. “And Lawson is a fan of beef stew because it’s Wendy’s favorite, which is just the cutest. So how about you?”

It takes me a long moment to answer him. “Rice pudding.”

I half expect him to make a joke. Maybe tease me that pudding is adessert, not afood. But he doesn’t. He only hums. “Rice pudding. Got it. Shall we?”

Feeling all sorts of mixed up in a way I’m not used to, I nod, and the two of us leave the petting farm behind. Ash splits off to head into the main house, and I turn to watch him go. When he disappears through the dining room door, it takes considerable effort to continue on my way toward the milking barn. For once, all I want is to ignore my responsibilities for a little while and do something selfish. Something that involves the man inside the ranch house. The one who grabbed on with both hands when I called himpartner. The one who looks at home in a pair of brand-new cowboy boots, the mountains a backdrop behind him.

I don’t skip work. Not this time.

But I know, in the depth of me, he’d be worth it.

Chapter 15

Ash

It’s a damn fine morning.

Rain is falling in steady, fat drops. The temperature is a brisk forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. And Jackson Darling, rugged cowboy of my dreams, is standing just inside the dairy cow field, using an auger to dig a hole for a new fence post.

“Good grief,” I mutter to myself, a mug of tea warming my palms as I shamelessly ogle the man before me. He’s soaked, his hat doing nothing to keep the rain off his clothes, and even though he’s wearing a jacket, the motion of his arms has me mesmerized. It’s all too easy to imagine what he’d look like bare. The flex of his muscles. The dark hair dusting his forearms. Not to mention what those arms could do tome.

“Always had a strong work ethic, that one,” Hank says, startling me as he appears at the edge of the deck. He walks over, no beekeeper’s hat on today.

“That’s one word for it,” I agree.Strong. I mentally add a few more.Handsome. Sexy.

Mine.

The thought makes me shiver.

“Mind if I join you?” Hank asks, pulling my thoughts to the present.

“Of course not,” I tell him. “It’s your home, after all.”

“Yep,” he grunts, taking a seat. “But Marigold is always reminding me folks have bubbles. And it’s not polite to burst one without asking.”

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