Whiskey flirt foster hou.., p.1
Whiskey Flirt (Foster House Book 2), page 1
WHISKEY FLIRT
A Foster House Novel
WALKER ROSE
LE Publishing
Copyright © 2025 by Walker Rose
Editing by Razor Sharp Editing
Proofreading by Fairy Proofmother Proofreading, Deaton Author Services, and Judy’s Proofreading
Cover design by Ever After Cover Design
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are coincidental and unintentional.
No AI Training
Formatted with Vellum
My name may be front and center on my bakery, but my past is sealed up tighter than a mason jar. I returned to tiny Huckleberry Springs, Montana, to start over, keep my history to myself, and ignore handsome flirts like local distillery owner and rancher, Cruz Foster.
Cruz might make me forget how to frost a cookie, but I’ve been taken in by guys like him before. When he turns up the charm, I punch his efforts down like a first proof of my dinner rolls.
He backs off but continues being sweet. My car dies, and he’s there. I need a ride, and he’s there. I tell him that I miss the whiskey flirt with the lopsided smile, and he’s there with a sizzling kiss.
The real Cruz is even better than the one he shows everyone else. I can’t help but fall for the guy who loves his family, works hard, and leaves his troubled childhood far behind. With my past, is it any wonder a man who can fix himself is my weakness?
But secrets like mine don’t stay out of city limits. If I don’t want Cruz sinking to the bottom with me faster than blueberries in cake batter, I need to break my heart and go back to minding my own business—without him.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Also by Walker Rose
CHAPTER ONE
Cruz
The early morning Montana sky spans above me like a dark blanket, and the highway into Huckleberry Springs from my house disappears beyond my headlights. I yawn, letting out a whoop to wake myself up more. Back in the day, I used to be up until the ripe hour of four in the morning, doing nothing productive and everything destructive. Nowadays, I’m snuggled in bed with a kitten or two by ten p.m. Who in their right mind would start work at this hour?
Elodie Palmer.
The pretty little baker who hides behind her glasses is already at the bakery. Word around town is that she gets up at three in the morning.
The pretty little baker also turns into the quietest woman in town when I’m around, no matter how hard I try.
The pretty little baker has burned my pride enough, so I’ve got to behave around her. I’m done making an ass out of myself.
Today, I’ll be nothing but professional. I’ll drop off the stash of spirits Lane gave me for the bakery to use in a collaboration with the distillery we’re part owners in and continue on with my day.
I reach the buildings on the edge of town and roll through until I approach a brick building with timber accents and a white sign reading Dee’s Sweets hanging above the door.
She told Lane to enter through the back, so I drive around to the alley. I’m supposed to be the contact for this collaboration between her bakery and our distillery for some local craft fairs, but she still goes through Lane. I’d be jealous, but she doesn’t look at Lane any differently than anyone else. Elodie Palmer is a reserved person with everyone, and as much as I want to be, I’m not an exception.
I park to the side of the door in case she’s got more deliveries coming. The clock blinks four o’clock. I’m a half hour early. I was too afraid to be late, so I got up before I needed to.
Getting out, I straighten my shirt and jeans. A piece of lint glows under the streetlamp on my shoulder and I flick it off. There. Professional.
No hitting on my little baker. Not anymore.
I lift the box that has a bottle of each type of spirit we make and a bonus bottle that I couldn’t resist including. As soon as I open the pickup door, a thumping beat vibrates through my body. From what I’ve figured out, Elodie lives on the second level, which can’t be that big with its peaked roof and the bakery below it. On the main level, the front with the counter and seating area is roughly half of the floor plan. The buildings next to her are closed and their second levels have businesses, not residential tenants.
Is Elodie playing music that loud?
Light floods onto the sidewalk from the open back door of the bakery. I ease through the screen door and step inside. I’m enveloped in a sweet, yeasty cloud. Trays line a long stainless-steel table pushed against an island. Heavy bass music fills the air.
I should announce myself, but I haven’t seen the elusive woman yet, and I’m drawn inside like a moth to a vanilla-scented flame. When I round the corner, I stop short and barely keep from dropping the box.
Elodie’s back is to me. She’s by a wall of cabinets, dressed in her normal baggy pants and oversized shirt. She’s also dancing. Gyrating, hip-thrusting movements that are raw and raunchy. A full-bodied expression of the real person inside the quiet baker.
Fuck me. I’m frozen. I knew she had curves that would make me salivate, but her punctuated movements pull her loose clothing tight. She’s a moving, pumping tease.
A tease who thinks she’s alone. I should turn around.
My feet don’t move. It’s like my boots are pasted to the floor.
“Ugh, yeah.” She pumps a hand in the air and grinds low to the floor, holding her apron out of the way. “Make me wanna come with you, grind with you, sixty-nine with you.”
My throat grows thick and swallowing is difficult. Hearing her say “sixty-nine” when she’s not counting out my change has upended my world. I grip the box of spirits with both hands.
Turn around. Me or her, it doesn’t matter. One of us has to put an end to this scintillating purgatory.
“Put it right here, baby, down there, baby.” She winds her way back up and drops low again, shocking me with the speed. The dark hair wrapped into a floppy bun on top of her head bounces as much as her ass cheeks.
The beat of music winds its way low in my body. Goddamn it, turn around.
The brain-body connection comes online. My boots finally move. I put my back to her.
“Elodie?” My voice is rough, thick.
The music drowns out my voice.
“I’ll make it good.” The sound of her shoes scraping on the floor. “Put it right here, baby, down there—”
“Elodie!”
“Aaack!”
I spin around just as a container of sea salt flies from her hands and hits the floor. I take a step to get it for her, but my hands are full and her eyes fly wide behind her thick-framed glasses.
Her expression grows more horrified. “Oh my god!”
“Sorry! I’m sorry.”
My heart is racing, both from her dancing and the shouting, but I got a glimpse of an Elodie I sure as hell would’ve never seen otherwise. Does anyone witness this side of her?
“I knocked,” I explain lamely. How do I fix this? Be professional. Do your job. I force a smile past the swirling emotions of the last few minutes. “I have a special delivery.”
She blinks and steps back like she’s going to close herself into the pantry. “Lane was supposed to be coming.”
“He got called to the main distillery in Denver. You got me instead.” I smile to defuse the situation.
“You’re early,” she says with a panicked whisper, her hazel eyes owlish behind her frames. She’s closing down on me, and I can’t let that happen.
“Good thing I was, or I would’ve missed your deepest secret.”
She gives an astounded shake of her head.
“That you can dance.” I say it lightly, but my heart is pounding. I’ve mucked all this up. Can I save the morning? I balance my load on one arm, stoop to pick up the salt, and hand it back to her. I flash her my winningest grin. As seedy as it sounds, it usually works with women.
She doesn’t accept it right away. The grin or the salt. A deeper flush creeps up her neck. “That was private.”
My stomach sinks all the way to the ground. My chest does one twist and holds, thinking of a question that’s none of my business, but I need the answer more than I need to be professional. “Was it for Lane?”
“No,” she says, scandalized, and snatches the salt. “It wasn’t for anybody, but why isn’t Lane doing the drop-off?”
I’ve never seen her this riled up, but then I barely see her, period. Something I’m trying to remedy, but not today. “He asked if I could make the drop, and I didn’t think it’d be an issue.”
Her stern stare makes me want to squirm like I’m back in elementary school. My instinct is to claim I didn’t do it, whatever it is. Do I look like hell? My clothes are clean and I brushed my hair, but I discreetly glance down to check myself regardless.
She drops her gaze from my face down to my boots. I gave them a quick polish before I left. They’re work boots, but clean. When she wrinkles her nose, I want to sniff an armpit. I showered last night, but something about me is not up to her standards. My stomach sinks further.
She squares her shoulders and marches to the island. “You can set the bottles here.”
I follow her and set the box down. I can’t leave like this. She’s upset with me, and possibly with Lane. I’ve gotta save this. Not just for the distillery. For me.
It’s been years of trying to get to know the elusive baker better, but unless I eat cupcakes, muffins, and cannoli three meals a day, I don’t usually see her around. The one time I finally get a glimpse of the real her, and I’ve scared her?
The back of my throat burns. That won’t do. “I really am sorry that I scared you.”
She lifts her chin. “You startled me. Next time, I need to be notified of any delivery changes.”
There’s still something in her tone. Something that feels personal, but not in the way I’ve wanted from her. Has it all been for nothing, trying to get to know the only woman who’s caught my attention in years? “Do I bother you?”
She draws back at the abruptness of my question. “Your flirting does.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide my interest.” I’ve been called shameless before, but I don’t go where I’m not wanted. I had enough of that growing up.
“Oh.” If possible, her face turns redder, and she blinks several times. “But you aren’t, you see.”
“I’m not what?”
Her eyes narrow. “Interested.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shouldn’t do this here, but she’s actually talking to me. Confusing me, but I appreciate the dialogue nonetheless.
She huffs out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know what you want, Cruz. I’m not the type of girl you date.”
The pleasure that ripples over me when she says my name is dulled by her disbelief. The first time I stepped into Dee’s Sweets, I got caught in an aloof, hazel tractor beam. I was brushed off by the woman with a mop of mahogany hair that’s as haphazard as the clothes she wears. I developed a sweet tooth that only craves shy bakers.
I need to drop this whole entire topic, yet I can’t quit. Her attention is on me, but again, not in the way I’ve wanted. “And just what type do I date?”
I don’t date much. I’ve done my share of fucking around, but since moving to Huckleberry Springs, I’ve kept my personal life tame.
Vulnerability flickers in her eyes before she shakes her head, ignoring the question, and pulls the box toward her.
Quiet and stubborn. That’s apparently my type.
I plant my hands on the counter and lean forward. Is she . . . jealous? Is she really interested? Should I have taken my chance and asked her out? Should I do it now?
I left playing games in my childhood. I open my mouth to shoot my shot.
“Have you washed your hands?” Her gaze drops to where I’m touching the countertop.
Here’s a bar of soap, Cruz. Use it.
Old shame wells inside me, and Want to go out sometime? dies on my tongue. “I’m not dirty.”
She hits me with a plaintive look, but there’s a thread of understanding. “I didn’t say you were,” she says softly, “but I serve food to the public.”
Right. I was too defensive. This is her place of work, and I’m not an unwashed kid anymore. I peel my palms off the table and hold them out in surrender. “Yes. I’ve washed them.”
“You don’t have a hairnet.” She shoos me back, but there’s a brusqueness behind that keeps it from feeling personal. “Thank you for the delivery. Sorry for hollering at you.” She says the last part with equal efficiency, but there’s a hint of real remorse there.
Elodie keeps a lot of herself from showing. That elusive part of her calls to me. She doesn’t foist her overwhelmed emotions on anyone else. Usually. Except for this morning.
If I’m the exception, I’ll take it. It’s something to show for this one-sided obsession. “No problem.”
Her attention swings to the bottles, and she frowns. “Wait. I only ordered one bottle each of whiskey, gin, and vodka.”
She did, and she told us to surprise her with any flavor. We gifted her three bottles. We’re not going to charge her, but I have the feeling that news will be as appreciated right now as asking her out. “I tossed in a Butter Barrel. It’s made like a bourbon, but we didn’t follow the aging or proofing guidelines. What we were after is a buttery flavor with a bourbon richness. Thought it would make a good flavoring for something.”
“Like what?” she asks, slightly interested.
I have no idea beyond wanting to surprise her with something. “An icing?”
She nods and works her teeth against her lower lip. Then she gives her head a shake. “I have plenty of ideas for the other bottles, so this isn’t necessary.”
Maybe it’s the early morning or that I got caught ogling her or the flashbacks to being a loser kid, but my attitude roars to the forefront, tired of being repressed for so many years. I don’t like to be dismissed. “How about a thank-you?”
She winces and nods once. “Thank you. You can leave it on the invoice.”
Great. I’m treading too close to being a jackass. “It’s a gift. We appreciate local businesses and want to help out. Keep it and enjoy a glass.”
She slides the box closer to her and studies the bottle. “I don’t have time to enjoy a drink. It would get old and go to waste.”
“It might get a little rusty tasting after a couple of decades from oxidation, but it’ll still taste good. You keep it in case you come up with something. Bourbon’s meant for sharing.”
“You said it was whiskey.”
Ah, I’m starting to track this woman now. She either doesn’t like to be messed with or she’s very literal. “Sure is. Want a sip?”
“I’m working.”
“It’s part of my job, so it’s normal.” I give her a reassuring smile. A private tasting is the least I can do for disrupting her.
“It’s five a.m. somewhere?”
“Ha! Yes.” Damn, she’s got a hidden sense of humor. I can see her mind working behind those cunning eyes. The baker’s got me thoroughly fascinated now. She’s shy but bold, like a young whiskey, clear and strong like a quality vodka, and prickly like a potent gin. “How ’bout we have a taste and I’ll go?”
That came out flirtier than I meant, but I do like showing off our products.
She chews the inside of her cheek, assessing me. Her creamy skin has returned to its normal color, but her lips are a ruby red.
Her guards are firmly in place. Dammit, she’s going to kick me out, but I give it another attempt. “It’ll only take a minute. Two sips for a tasting is all I’m asking. Promise.”
As soon as promise leaves my mouth, the shine in her eyes dulls. “I have to get back to work.”
Dang, that went south. I would’ve kept my promise, but someone in her life must not have, for her to shut down that fast. If I keep pressing, she’ll trust me even less. I’ve waited this long, and today I got to know her just a little better. I’ve got time.
I back toward the door. “If you want a taste tester for any of the new recipes, hit me up.”
Her lips form a troubled line. “Do you need to approve my food before the fair?”
I’m caught on what to say. I want to tease her and say absolutely I do, but she’s wound tight and I don’t know which way she’ll spin. “Not at all. Everything you make is perfection. You could’ve named your store that. Confection Perfection.”
“That’s actually not bad.” She purses her lips. “But Dee’s has meaning.”
“I’d like to hear about it sometime.”
Her expression shutters. “It’s, um . . . it’s private.”
Mercurial. That’s not a word that would normally pop into my head, but it does now. “An inside story?”
She moves the bottles from the box to another counter and pushes them close to the wall. “I’ll bring some samples by during the next crochet group so you all can approve them before the Billings craft fair.”
