“What’s wrong?” She must’ve sensed the shift of my thoughts.
I blink. I’ve been staring at the sweeping arches and looming picture windows on this side of my house. “Just marveling over how much has changed. I used to stay home alone in a dirty apartment in filthy clothing. Then I moved in with the Baileys, and I dunno, maybe deep down I thought they all just tolerated me because Myles married into their family. Lane earned their respect, but I was respected only by proxy.”
“You underestimate that charm of yours.” She reaches over the console and squeezes my hand. “And how likable you are when a girl is trying really hard not to notice.”
“You made it look easy,” I say softly with no blame in my voice, and stroke the back of her hand with my thumb. “But then I moved here. My last name is Foster, but I’m only part owner because of Myles. We have an understanding about our rank at the Foster House Gold site. Lane’s the top, under Myles of course. Then it’s Iverson, because he was in charge of the Hennessy trust that Myles bought the land from.”
She tilts her head like she’s working through the information I just gave her to see my point.
When she doesn’t respond, I continue. “They’re my friends. Jamison and Campbell are too, and while it’s because I work with their guys, they don’t have to have anything to do with me. Then there’s your sister and Edna. I work with them, and I’m sort of their boss, but at the same time, they’re friends. Edna doesn’t have to take me to bingo. I have people. That kid sitting in his underwear, eating stale, dry cereal before school, where he’d get teased, has his own crew now.”
“Oh, Cruz.” She clambers over the console and into my lap. “You’re breaking my damn heart.” She runs her fingers over my scalp, and I hum at how good it feels. “If I could go back to my childhood and give you half the love and support I got, I would.”
“I never felt sorry for myself.” I stroke a finger along her jaw. She’s on my lap, and blood is rerouting. I’m almost fully erect, despite our heavy conversation. “I was just angry. Then I didn’t care.”
“You care a lot.”
“Now I do, yeah.” I trace her lower lip. “I care about you. And if we keep going like this, I’m not going to get to feed you.” Stroking my hands down her arms, I eventually release her to open the door. I climb out with her in my arms.
She giggles but clings to me. “You can put me down.”
“I know.” I like the idea of walking into my house with her in my arms too much. “I’ll come back for the bread.”
I unlock the front door and toe it open. Going through the entry with a mat for shoes and a line of hooks for coats and hats, I’m careful to keep from hitting her limbs as I carry her into the main room.
She looks around, a small gasp leaving her. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Lane says I should put a picture up or something.”
“Why?” Her wide eyes take in my arched ceiling, the massive panes of glass, and the clear walls. “It’s so simple and beautiful.”
“It’s open and clean.”
She wiggles to get her feet on the floor. I set her down, but I don’t let her go. “That’s important to you. It’s why your pickup is spotless, and you’re always freshly showered. You leave to do chores, but you never come back dirty.”
“Am I getting called out for having good hygiene?”
“It’s just a thing for you. You’re not compulsive about it. Meanwhile, I’m often dusted in flour and my main style is sweats.”
“I like you in sweats.” I wish she wasn’t in anything at the moment.
She catches the gleam in my eye and smirks. “Give me a tour.”
“This is the living room.” I snicker when she shoots me aha ha, smartasslook.
“I like your furniture.” She tows me to the plush, earthy-brown couch flanked by a matching chair. Red plaid throw pillows are some of the only color besides the wood in the room. “It looks comfy.”
“I’ve taken a few naps on it.” I lead her to the kitchen. “This is where I don’t make as much magic with eggs as you.”
“I can make you eggs. You make me whiskey to bake with.”
“It’s my favorite of what we produce.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms and her eyes twinkle. “It’s my turn to ask about your job. What makes whiskey different than gin or vodka?”
“I’ve never thought about it.” I scratch my chin, enjoying her real interest in my world. The guys and I discuss what we make and why, but not like this. I treat all three spirits equally when it comes to my profession. But personally? “Whiskey is an all-in-one. It’s like a meal in a glass. Vodka, to me, is more of a starting point. You can drink it straight, but people rarely do. It’s an excellent canvas to paint with other flavors. Gin’s not quite the same. I like it best straight because its flavor profile is often more delicate than whiskey. I like a simple life and a complex drink.”
“And I like your perspective.” She breaks away from me to wander around the space. She peeks in the oven, checks out the microwave, and opens both doors of the fridge. “You have nice appliances.”
