I held her gaze and lifted the bottle. “One swallow. It’ll take the edge off your nerves.”
“Mason—”
“One. Then you can call me an idiot again.”
“You are an idiot.”
“There we go.”
Her lips parted, probably to insult me harder, but I tipped the bottle gently against them before she could. Not forcing. Not pushing. Just steadying what she couldn’t steady herself.
She took a swallow.
Then she gagged.
I pulled the bottle back, biting down hard on a grin because laughing would probably get me stabbed. “Good?”
“That tastes like a cupcake committed a felony.”
Edge slapped the side of the truck. “Romantic!”
Sienna coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I hate all of you.”
“Another,” I said.
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No, future husband.”
That word should not have hit me like it did.
Future husband.
It went through my chest like a brand.
Her eyes widened a little, like she heard it too. Like the words had left her mouth without permission and now hovered between us, dangerous and bright.
I lifted the bottle again.
She let me.
The second swallow went down easier. Color came into her cheeks. Her shoulders loosened a fraction. She exhaled, long and shaky, and leaned back against the seat.
“Well?” I asked.
She stared at the ceiling. “One of my bones unclenched.”
A laugh tore out of me before I could stop it.
She gave me a sideways look. “One bone. Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.”
She smacked me again, but weaker this time.
We rolled back onto the highway with vanilla vodka between us, Sienna muttering about legal coercion, cheap liquor, and how the institution of marriage had clearly fallen apart if it could be entered into beside a gas station with slot machines.
