Whiskey Proposal

Lane Foster was supposed to be a potential client—nothing more than the quiet, sinfully attractive co-owner of a Montana distillery. An account big enough to put my brand-new marketing company on Denver’s radar. A simple meeting for a make-or-break pitch.

Instead, it was one night. One explosive kiss. One promise to see him again.

Then I ghosted him.

So imagine my surprise when I return home for my father’s funeral and learn Dad’s final I will inherit my childhood home. But only if I marry Lane Foster first.

Fine. I’ll marry the man. One month. One simple house sale. One emotionless divorce.

Except then he fixes up my father’s old truck without being asked. He makes space for me to work—and for my rapidly growing flock of chickens. He talks to me, touches me, makes me feel things way too much.

To make it worse, the tiny, judgmental town I ran from is welcoming me home.

I’m starting to wonder if my husband really wants a divorce. Or if I do either. What began as a whiskey proposal feels way too neat. But in my experience, that means it’s time to settle up because everything’s about to go sour.