Page 11 of Falling for Cocky Cole
"She mentioned her family's farm isn't doing great," I continue, steering back toward business. "Made me think about how we could help each other out. Win-win situation."
Caleb's expression tells me he's not buying my purely business-minded explanation, but he lets it slide. "It's a good idea, Cole. We should talk to Grant about it."
"I will." I lean back, feigning casualness. "Just wanted to run it by you first. See what you thought."
"I think it's solid." He picks up the jar of apple butter again. "Mrs. Walker makes all this herself?"
"Most of it. The baked goods are fresh daily."
Caleb nods, impressed. "That would definitely appeal to our guests. The whole local, artisanal angle plays well with the city folks."
"Exactly." I start gathering the products back into the bag. "I'll take these to the kitchen, see if Marta wants to use some fortomorrow's breakfast. We can put the apples in a basket at the front desk."
“Okay, good luck with your business plan,” Caleb says.
“Thanks.” I glance at him before closing the door behind me. His face holds an unreadable expression. Suspicion? Amusement? I can’t blame him. I’ve never been this enthusiastic about any business deals; it’s usually Grant’s domain.
Well, there’s a first time for everything.
As I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, my mind races with plans. I need to convince Grant this is a good business move. I need to see Ivy again. I need to prove to everyone—maybe even myself—that I'm more than Cocky Cole, more than the middle brother who flirts with guests and fixes engines.
I want to be the man who helps save the Walker farm. The man who deserves Ivy Walker.
It's not just about getting her into bed again, though God knows I want that too. It's about showing her I can be good for her. That what happened between us wasn't just a momentary lapse in judgment on her part, but the beginning of something worth pursuing.
5
IVY
I'm sitting cross-legged on Emily's bedroom floor, helping her arrange a tiny tea party for her stuffed animals, when I hear the front door open. My hands freeze mid-pour over a miniature teacup. Grant is home. I check my watch—six o'clock, right on time. My heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing for weeks now, but I push the feeling down. It's been seven days since he kissed me, seven days of careful distance and polite smiles. Seven days of pretending nothing happened.
"Daddy's home!" Emily abandons Mr. Foxy and Princess Sparkleberry, rushing out of the room with the thundering enthusiasm only a five-year-old can muster.
I stand up, smoothing my jeans and sweater, taking a deep breath before following her at a more measured pace. By the time I reach the hallway, Emily is already in Grant's arms, chattering about her day while he listens with that focused attention he gives his daughter—like she's the only person in the world.
He looks up when I appear, and our eyes meet over Emily's honey-blonde head. His gray-blue gaze is unreadable as always.
"Hello, Ivy," he says, his deep voice formal.
"Hi, Grant." My reply is equally professional, betraying none of the electricity I feel crackling between us.
Emily squirms to be put down and tugs at her father's hand. "Daddy, you have to see my drawing! Miss Ivy helped me make a picture of Carter Ridge with ALL the cabins!"
Grant smiles at his daughter. "Just give me a minute with Miss Ivy first, okay, Em? I need to hear about your day."
Emily nods and skips back toward her room, leaving us alone in the entryway. The sudden quiet feels heavy.
"So," Grant says, setting down his keys on the small table by the door. "How did it go today?"
I force myself to meet his eyes, to act normal. "Great. Emily finished all her lunch today, even the carrots. We practiced writing her name, read three books, and spent some time drawing. She had a small meltdown when her crayon broke, but we worked through it."
Grant nods, absorbing the information. "That's good. The carrots are a win. She usually hides them in her napkin."
"I know. She tried that trick on me the first day." I smile despite myself. "I told her foxes love carrots, and she didn't want to disappoint Mr. Foxy."
A small laugh escapes him, and the sound makes my stomach tighten. I haven't heard him laugh much since I started working here.
"Clever," he says, and I see a hint of warmth in his eyes before they shutter again.
