Page 13 of Awaiting the Storm
I glance out the window, suddenly very interested in the Chevy parked across the street. Maybe he won’t see me.
“Matty!” Imma Jean’s voice floats over. “Have you met Case?”
So much for that.
I turn back, school my expression into something neutral, and raise a brow in question. “Case?”
Caison’s eyes catch mine, and I feel the contact all the way down to my boots.
“Only pretty ladies and my mom call me Case.” He winks at Imma Jean, and I swear she blushes from head to toe. “And, yes, we’ve met. Good to see you again, Maitland,” he says, making his way over like we’re old friends. He’s holding a cup of coffee and a croissant and slides onto the seat right beside me like he’s been invited.
“You too,” I reply, though it comes out cooler than his greeting.
He sets his drink down and rests one arm on the back of the stool as he twists to face me.
I raise an eyebrow. “You always invite yourself into other people’s spaces?”
He glances around. “It looks like open seating to me. And this particular stool happens to be the best seat in the house,” he says, easy as can be.
I snort. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Galloway.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Noted. But I wasn’t trying to flatter you, Miss Storm. This stool is right below the heating vent,” he says, pointing toward the ceiling.
Imma Jean returns just then and sets my coffee in front of me with a flourish, along with a large cinnamon roll slathered in icing on a floral china plate. “You eat that whole thing,” she says with a wink. “You’re too skinny.”
I laugh. “You say that every time I come in here.”
“And I mean it every time. You Storm girls burn through calories faster than a spark in dry brush.” Then she glances at Caison and smiles again, soft and knowing. “Caison, you behave now. This one may seem tougher than old boot leather, but she’s soft as a lamb’s wool inside.”
“Is that right?” His amused eyes come to mine, and somehow, that smile of his turns into a sexy grin.
I feel my face heat and take a long sip of my coffee to cover it.
Imma Jean winks at me and bustles away, off to chat with anothercustomer, and I’m left alone next to a man I still don’t trust, sipping coffee like it’s going to shield me from the way he’s looking at me.
“What do you want, Galloway?” I ask, setting the cup down. “From me, I mean.”
“Maybe I don’t want anything.”
I tilt my head. “That’s right. You just came by the other day to be neighborly, correct? I don’t buy it. Everyone wants something. Especially people who work for Holland Ludlow.”
His mouth tightens just a touch. Not enough for most folks to notice. But I’ve been reading people my whole life. It’s a defense mechanism.
“I’m not sure what your problem with Holland is, but I’m not him,” he says.
“I didn’t say you were. I just said you work for him. What’s that old saying?A man is known by the company he keeps?”
He nods slowly, like he gets it. “So, you think you know me now?”
“I know men like you. Question is, do you know who you’re in business with?”
“Holland and Priscilla are like family to me. He and my father were best friends,” he replies.
We lapse into silence. I take a bite of my pastry. It’s spicy and sweet, and it melts on my tongue. I chew slower than necessary, giving myself time to think before I speak again.
“Wasyour father’s best friend? They’re not friends now?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “My father passed away in March. Pancreatic cancer.”
