Page 36 of Awaiting the Storm
Matty stays seated.
Cabe leans over and says something to her—something I can’t hear—as he’s pulled to the dance floor, and she nods. Then it’s just the two of us at the table.
The moment stretches with expectation again.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her.
She looks at me. “Which part?”
“That you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
She studies me for a long moment, then leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, voice low.
“I don’t know what your game is, Caison. I really don’t. One minute, you’re all business, and the next, you’re on the dance floor, looking at me like I hung the moon. So, what is it? What are you after? The ranch? The land? Me?”
I exhale slowly.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, and it’s arrived sooner than I planned.
But somehow, tonight … it doesn’t feel right to lie. And it sure as hell doesn’t feel right to blurt out the truth.
“I came here for the land,” I admit. “That’s the truth.”
She tenses, face going blank.
“But,” I add, “you weren’t part of the plan.”
Her eyes lock on mine, wary.
“You’re not the kind of woman a man can ignore, Matty. And I’m not proud of it, but I came here tonight, thinking this would be a golden opportunity to catch you with your guard down. I had an agenda. Something I wanted. Now …”
“Now?” she repeats, a challenge in her tone.
I shrug, honest for once. “Now I just want to get you back on that dance floor, feel you against me again, make you smile, and get you to relax just so I can know what your laugh sounds like when you’re not holding back.”
For a second, her expression softens.
But then she stands and smooths her dress down with a practiced hand. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
“Okay,” I say slowly.
I guess the conversation is over.
She takes one step, then looks over her shoulder at Charli as she comes off the dance floor.
Charli’s watching us like a hawk. When Matty disappears down the hall, she turns to me with a slow, wicked grin.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “The night just officially took a turn.”
I raise an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”
She taps the empty shot glass Matty left behind. “Because when Matty Storm starts drinking tequila, you’d better believe something’s gonna catch fire. The question is, are you, Caison Galloway, going to be the one holding the match or the one who gets burned?”
My head is splitting open—or at least, it feels like it is about to.
The first thing that hits me when I open my eyes is regret. The sunlight streaming through my bedroom window is blindingly bright, and my mouth feels as if I sucked on cotton balls all night. I groan and roll over onto my back, pulling the pillow from beneath my head to cover my face and shield myself from the harsh light of day. Unfortunately, the movement jostles my stomach, triggering a fresh wave of nausea that rises in my throat.
My leg brushes against something warm and soft.
