Page 8 of Sweet Like Whiskey

His smile widens, and I find my gaze drawn to the angles of his cheeks and the way his eyes crease gently at the corners. “They’re divorced, but they live ten feet apart?”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” I tell him, nodding my head toward the ranch house. “Come on. I’ll show you around the kitchen. You staying close or outta town?”

“Oh, uh… I’m staying here.”

My feet stutter to a stop, and Ash skids to a halt beside me. “Pardon?”

“Well, my car broke down on the way into Darling. Ratchet has it?” he says a little uncertainly.

“The mechanic,” I mutter.

He nods. “Yeah, he’s taking a look at it. But until I have a car again, your mom said I could stay here. She set me up in the guest room.”

I shut my eyes tight and pinch the bridge of my nose.Of course she did.

“Is that…okay?” Ash asks, sounding concerned.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, opening my eyes and waving him forward. “Just fine.”

Yep.

Everything will befine.

Chapter 3

Ash

Jackson Darling is, in a word, trouble.

Or maybe, more accurately, I’m in so much trouble when it comes to him.

The man continues to show me around the kitchen, pointing out the mixer that’s inside a low cupboard, but which pulls out and rises up on a moving platform so it’s counter-height when in use. He points out where measuring cups are and whisks, of which there are three, and explains the general organizational system for the pantry. He even explains the different kinds of milk in the fridge because of course they use their own fresh pasteurized milk.

But the entire time Jackson is walking me through the job, my eyes are firmly on him.

If someone asked me to describe “cowboy in his prime,” that would be Jackson Darling. He’s rugged, his voice gravelly likehe just woke up, a plaid shirt rolled to his elbows and worn jeans wrapped snug around his thighs. His hair is falling in a haphazard mess, pieces in front of his eyes like they just couldn’t be contained. The brown is threaded through with the faintest hint of copper, the color a little more prominent in his close-shaven beard. And there’s a roughness to the way he walks and the way he talks, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes speaking of a man who’s seen a good few decades of life.

But those eyes, so crystalline blue, carry a softness I wasn’t expecting.

Of course, when the man looks at me and grunts, “Did you catch that?” that softness all but disappears.

I hold in my smile. “Got it. Blue lid is whole milk. Red is buttermilk.”

He grunts again, shutting the fridge door. “We’ve got some recipes in the book there,” he says, pointing next to the utensil holder, “but you’re welcome to cook whatever you’d like. We don’t have any peanut allergies. No vegetarians. Ira is gluten-free, but he brings a bag lunch just in case.”

“I can make gluten-free options. That’s not a problem,” I assure him.

He looks at me for a moment before humming, the sound short and to the point. “Let me show you the cleaning supplies. We don’t expect you to keep it sparkling in here. It’s a ranch house. It’s gonna get dirty. But some basic upkeep when you’ve got time would be appreciated.”

I nod along, following Jackson into the hall where there’s a storage closet. The contents are pretty self-explanatory.

“And everyone eats together?” I check.

“Anyone who wants to eat,” he says simply, waving me down the hall. “They come in if they’re hungry. They know the time. It’s not your job to feed the stragglers.”

I huff a laugh, stilling when we step into a massive dining room at the back of the house. It looks like it might have been added as an extension, three of the walls made out of panels of glass that overlook the pastures. A porch wraps around the outside of the room, a few rocking chairs set atop the wood. Inside, a long,longtable rests, easily able to fit the twenty or so workers the Darling Ranch employs.

“Where did you find a table like this?” I ask, stepping forward to run my hand along the wood. The outer edges are rough and uneven, like the bark on a tree. In fact, the entire piece looks as if it could have been made from a single vertical cut out of a massive tree trunk. Grain lines run along the top of the table, although they’ve been polished smooth.

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