Page 21 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
"Fair enough." She takes my glass and dumps it into the sink. "I should have guessed. You strike me as more of a straight whiskey kind of man."
"That obvious, huh?"
She savors a sip of her overly sweet holiday drink, licking the creamy mustache from her top lip. "Let's just say you don't have the look of someone who enjoys drinks with tiny umbrellas in them," she says with a smile. "Water? Coffee? Or should we just get to work?"
"Water's fine," I say, oddly touched by how easily she pivots, not making a big deal out of my dislike for her drink. Most people would be offended or push me to give it another try.
She hands me a glass of water and settles at the dining table, where she's spread out papers, sticky notes, and her ever-present tablet in what appears to be organized chaos.
"So," she says, "I was just looking at the toy drive logistics."
I freeze mid-sip. "The what?"
"The toy drive. It's a big part of the festival." She looks up, noting my expression. "Is something wrong?"
"I thought this was about the distillery's sponsorship. The whiskey tasting, the branded merchandise." I set my glass down harder than necessary. "You didn't say anything about a toy drive."
"It was in the initial proposal," she says, frowning slightly. "The one Ezra signed off on. Each sponsor contributes to different aspects of the festival. Hunter Distillery is handling the toy drive for the kids in the foster system."
The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. Foster system. Of fucking course.
"No," I say flatly. "Find someone else for that."
Her frown deepens. "Owen, we can't just change sponsors at this point. The kids are counting on these gifts. Many of them won't get anything else for Christmas."
"That's not my problem." I turn away from her, needing to escape the confusion and hurt in her eyes.
"How can you say that?" Her voice is soft but intense. "These are children who have nothing, who deserve some happiness during?—"
"They won't get the toys," I cut her off, the words harsh even to my own ears.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, those kids won't see those toys." I'm almost shouting now, the memories pushing up like bile. "The system is broken. The foster parents will take them, sell them, or return them for cash. The good toys never make it to the kids who need them most. It's all for show, to make people like you feel good about yourselves during the fucking holidays."
The silence that follows my outburst is deafening. Lettie stares at me, her eyes wide with shock, her lips parted slightly.
"Owen," she says finally, her voice gentle. "Did that happen to you?"
The question hits hard. I've said too much. Revealed too much.
"We're done for tonight," I mutter, already heading for the door.
"Wait, please," she calls after me. "Let's talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about." I wrench the door open, needing to escape. "Lock your door."
I don't look back as I stride across the space between our cabins, the cold December air doing nothing to cool the burning in my chest. Inside my own cabin, I pace the floor like a caged animal, too agitated to sit still.
What the hell is happening to me? I've spent years building walls, keeping people out, keeping the past buried. And in less than forty-eight hours, Lettie Donovan has me spilling secrets I've never told anyone.
Through my window, I can see her silhouette moving around her cabin. I wonder if she's upset, if I've hurt her with my outburst. The thought bothers me more than it should.
After twenty minutes of pacing and mentally kicking myself, I look out the window again. Lettie's outside now, dragging that same ladder toward the side of her cabin, a string of lights over her shoulder.
She's going to break her neck trying to do that alone in the dark.
"Goddamnit," I mutter, grabbing my coat and shoving my feet into my boots.
