Page 147

“Christ.” Warren groans.

“By the way,” I say, the email I received earlier today coming back to me. “Nolan Kraus from the Whiskey Enquirer plans to come to the distillery.”

Ezra’s jaw drops, and he shoves his glasses up his nose. “You set it up, Del?”

“I set it up, Ez.” I use my best professional voice, feeling the excitement buzzing in the room. “He’ll be here in two weeks for a photo shoot and interview.”

“Fuck.” River looks around. Everyone’s smiling. “That’s big.”

Vaughn’s bushy brows rise. “You’ve done more for this distillery, Delilah, than this old man knew could be done.”

“You didn’t need the help.” Still, I bask in his compliment.

“But we needed you.” Cole’s voice is a husk in my ears. Around him, nods of agreement from his family.

“Thanks,” I whisper, twisting in his arms to smile at him. The sweet words nearly bring tears to my eyes.

After losing Lucy, I never thought I’d have this again. Instead, I felt destined to always be running, to stand on the outskirts looking in. Now, I’m no longer an interloper, some strange girl River found on the side of the road. I feel like I make up a part of their whole, and it’s the most indescribable feeling. To be accepted, wanted, loved. I deserve it.

Two more shots later, every bottle is filled, and Cole’s taking my hand and helping me off the stool. We walk, fingers linked, the hot August night buzzing around us. But instead of going to his place, he leads me across the tall grass to the Creek House.

“Moving me back in already,” I tease as I scan the front of the house. It looks freshly painted.

“Just trust me.” There’s a stern smile on his face as we climb the porch steps. He opens the door carefully.

I step inside and inhale sharply at what I see.

The Creek House hasn’t just been renovated, it’s been revamped. The wood walls are now a pale lilac. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover the length of one side. Stretching along the opposite wall, a balance bar. Speakers have been installed on the ceiling. In the corner, where the kitchenette was, is a small fridge. In a small basket above, Pop-Tarts, granola bars, and trail mix.

“What is this?” I breathe.

“Your dance studio.” Cole’s eyes don’t leave my face.

“Cole…” I’m at a loss for words, barely registering what I’m seeing while I try to make sense of my emotions.

“Do you like it, Delilah?” His rugged expression turns self-conscious.

My heart hammers.

“It’s so…it’s so…”

Permanent.

“Perfect,” I finish. Tears well in my eyes. “When did you do this?”

“Mornings,” he gruffs. “When you’ve been sleepin’.”

I clap my hands to my trembling heart, in awe of my hardworking man. Then I spin around and face him. “I think…I think it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Good.” Cole’s hands flex at his side.

I tilt my head. Every part of me is trembling. “Why did you do this?”

“I want you to dance, darlin’, and be happy here. I want you to stay with me. On the ranch.”

My heart skips a beat at his declaration. “You do?”

“I do.”