Page 79 of Sweet Like Whiskey

Jackson hops out of the vehicle, grabbing the blanket and cage from the back and then heading off toward the milking barn.

“Fuck,” I mutter, unmuting my phone. “Nicholas?”

“I’m here.”

“I’ll meet you, but I have an hour tops before I’ll need to be back to cook dinner for the ranch.”

He’s quiet for a couple seconds. “You’re cooking for them?”

“Yes?” I say slowly. “It’s my job.”

“Oh.”

“You know I love cooking,” I point out, wondering why he seems so surprised.

“Yeah, sure,” he says hastily. “I just… I didn’t expect it, is all. That’s a lot different than…”

“Sports PR?” I fill in.

“Well, yeah.”

“I wanted a change,” I remind him. “I told you that.”

There’s another pause. “Should I come to you? If you’re short on time.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, that’d be great,” I admit.

“Where are you at?”

I rattle off the address and start making my way back toward the ranch house on foot. Nicholas says he’ll leave right away, so I head around the house to the front porch to wait, watching as Marigold tends to her garden. Not fifteen minutes later, a vehicle pulls down the drive, and I stand.

Nicholas parks in front of the house before stepping out of what I assume is a rental. He’s wearing a button-down and his nice wing-tip shoes, looking the same as I remember.

I head down the porch stairs to meet him. “Want to sit outside?”

“Sure,” he answers, looking me over quickly.

I lead Nicholas to the wraparound porch at the back of the house. We take seats on rockers, both of us quiet for a moment.

“You’re different,” he finally says.

“You like the boots?” I ask, giving him a grin as I cross one foot over the other.

He shakes his head slowly. “It’s not just the boots, Ashley. You look different.”

I lean back in my chair, watching the dairy girls graze in the shade. “How so?”

“There’s…less strain on your face. Is your pain improving?”

“It’s the same,” I tell him. “Minimal most days. Not gone.”

He makes a soft sound. “Would you like me to do an adjustment before I—”

“Nick.”

He falls silent. “I think I get it. I didn’t at first. When you left, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you were running, maybe?”

“And you don’t think that now?”

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