Page 15 of Awaiting the Storm
“Holland offered me a fresh start,” he finally continues. “Figured I’d give it a try.”
“You planning to play by his rules?”
His gaze meets mine. Steady. Intense. “Not if they’re wrong.”
I study him. He seems sincere, and hell if he isn’t handsome as sin.
“I get that you’re skeptical. I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust me either. Not yet. And, yes, you are correct in assuming that I had ulterior motives for my visit the other day. I wanted to feel you guys out.”
“Why?”
“I’m interested in doing business together. And I’d like to discuss it more. Maybe over dinner one evening?” he asks.
“Dinner? Really? That’s your play? Do I look like the kind of girl who can be swayed by a fancy meal into making a deal with the devil?”
He snorts. “The devil? Geezus. I’ll admit, I’m no saint, but I’m not the devil, Maitland. I’m not trying to sneak in and take advantage of you or your family. It’s not how I do business. If I bring any propositions to your table, it’ll be ones that are fair and mutually beneficial to all parties. You have my word.”
Imma Jean floats back over. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks Caison.
He finishes the last bite of his croissant and brushes his hands off. “No, ma’am. I need to get back to the ranch,” he says to her before turning to me. “Thanks for letting me sit here. Even if it was under protest.”
“I didn’t protest.”
“You didn’t exactly welcome me either.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m reserving judgment.”
“I’ll take it.”
He stands and tips his chin. “See you around, Maitland.”
“Matty,” I say.
He smiles. “Matty. You have a good day, and I’ll be in touch soon about that dinner.” And with that, he’s gone.
I watch him leave, annoyed that I’m looking at all. Annoyed at the little flutter in my chest as I watch him cross the street and get into his truck.
Caison Galloway is trouble, wrapped in a sharp jaw and a smooth voice. I just know it.
“He sure is a looker,” Imma Jean says as she tops off my coffee.
“I guess,” I mumble.
“What was that I heard about dinner?” she asks, and I don’t miss the giddiness in her tone.
“Don’t get any ideas. He’s not wanting to date me. He just wants to wine and dine me because he thinks it will impress me into doing business with him.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” she murmurs.
“Trust me, Imma Jean, all Caison Galloway is interested in is making money for Ironhorse.”
She smirks. “Oh, honey, I may be old, but I’m not blind. And believe me, the way that man was looking at you, he’s interested in way more than money can buy,” she muses before walking off to fill another customer’s mug.
I sit there, drinking my coffee, licking icing off my thumb, and wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with a man like that.
I’m sitting in my office, surrounded by vet bills and feed invoices, when the door swings open. Holland raps his knuckles on the frame as I flip through the paperwork spread across my desk. The late afternoon sun beams in behind him, casting long streaks of light across the floor and illuminating the dust dancing in the air like ash.
I don’t look up immediately; I wait until he clears his throat and says, “Come have a drink with me. I have someone I want you to meet.”
