Page 9 of Sweet Like Whiskey

Jackson grunts. “My dad made it.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I say in shock. “Your dadmadethis? From scratch?”

He crosses his arms, expression neutral. “Mm. He has…hobbies.”

“Jesus. My hobbies are reading and watchingDrag Race,” I mutter.

“What’s that?” Jackson asks.

I shake my head quickly. “So meals are served here. And people stay for dinner? They don’t go home to eat with their families?”

He shrugs, leading me back out into the hall. “Some of them do, but some of ’em stay. They’re…a close group. You’ll see.”

I notice how he saysthey’re, as if excluding himself.

“And you?” I ask. “What do you do around here?”

He pauses at the base of the stairs, hand on the railing. “A bit of everything.”

With that, he heads up, and I huff a laugh, following. Jackson peeks inside the guest room Mrs. Darling—Marigold, as sheinsisted I call her—showed me earlier. My bags are propped inside. Two measly suitcases. Everything I fled Maine with.

Jackson walks further down the hall. “Your bathroom will be here,” he says, motioning to a full bath with a stone-walled shower. “You’ll be sharing it with my brothers.”

“They live here?”

He nods, opening another closet. “Towels and laundry,” he says before explaining, “Colton and Remi live in-house. Lawson, too, now that… Well, he’s in the middle of a divorce. That’s why we needed somebody looking after the ranch house. Lawson’s wife had the job before you. She’s a great cook. But she left the position six months ago.”

“Who’s been doing the cooking since then?” I ask, following Jackson back downstairs.

“My mom,” he says. “My dad, too. Me, sometimes.”

“You’ve all been busy,” I note.

He hums, not disagreeing.

“Well, I’m glad to be here,” I tell him truthfully. “I’m not formally trained, but I’ve always loved cooking, and I don’t think I’m half bad at it. And, frankly, I needed a job. Badly. I hadn’t planned on moving, I just kind of…did? But then my friend told me you were hiring, and I talked to your mom, and it’s almost like fate, you know? The timing couldn’t have been better.”

And geez, Ash. Stop talking already.

Jackson grunts, staring at me. I offer a smile, but his gaze flicks down the hall, to where another man is approaching.

“Hey,” the younger guy says. He has honey-brown hair and blue eyes, like Jackson’s.

“Hey,” Jackson replies, waving a hand my way. “Remi, this is Ash, our new cook-slash-keeper.”

Remi shakes his head, tapping his chin just below his mouth, and Jackson nods, his hands starting to fly in purposefulmotions. I watch, surprised, as he signs to his brother in what appears to be fluent ASL. Halfway through, Jackson speaks up.

“Ash, this is my brother Remington. He’s Deaf, and he’s not wearing the sound processor for his cochlear implant, so he can’t hear you.”

Remi holds up his hand in a clear hello. I mirror the gesture, adding my own “Hello” and a smile.

Remi signs something, and Jackson interprets for me. “He says, ‘I’m excited to try your food. I’m sick of Jackson’s spaghetti.’”

Jackson sends a gesture Remi’s way, and based on Remi’s responding laugh, I’m guessing it was impolite.

“Well, I’m happy to cook for you,” I say. “Any favorite foods?”

Remi watches his brother’s hands before looking at me and saying himself, “Biscuits.”

---