Page 45 of Awaiting the Storm
“Now and then,” he mutters. “Sometimes, he answers. Sometimes, he doesn’t.”
I nod, reading the pain behind his eyes. Holland doesn’t show emotion often, but it’s there now—sadness laced in his words.
“I’ll give him a call,” I say. “Check in. Maybe it’d be good to catch up. Hear how life is treating him these days.”
His eyes meet mine, gratefulness flickering there. “I’m sure his mother would appreciate that.”
We both go quiet for a moment.
“You really think this offer will help the Storms, huh?” he asks.
“I know it will,” I say. “It’ll give them breathing room. Pay down debts. Keep their operation running and give them the funds they need to grow. And we’ll finally get the space we need to move forward with our plans. It’s a win-win.”
He nods slowly. “All right then. Let’s get it signed.”
I exhale, tension releasing in my shoulders. “I’m delivering it myself tonight.”
“Sure you don’t want a courier to make the delivery? Give Maitland a chance to cool down before you approach?”
I shake my head. “No. I want to do it myself. Take her to a nice dinner and talk her through the specifics.”
He smirks. “A public place. Good thinking. But something tells me that talking her through the proposal isn’t the only reason you want to have dinner with Miss Storm.”
I give him a look. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just sayin’. I have eyes. I can see the look on your face when you mention her name. And she is a pretty little filly. I wouldn’t blame you if you were interested.”
I arch a brow. “I’m trying to buy land, Holland. I’m not trying to fall in love.”
He laughs as he walks to the door. “Famous last words, son. Famous last words.”
When he’s gone, I sit back down at my desk and stare at the proposal again.
I’ve made a lot of deals in my life. Pitched a hundred ideas in high-stress boardrooms. But this one feels different. This deal feels more stressful somehow.
Not just because the deal hinges on how tonight goes and my powers of persuasion.
Because it’s her. Because I don’t want her to be upset. I don’t want to hurt her. And that’s not something I’ve ever had to consider in past negotiations.
I recall the memory of her curled up in her bed last night. In my shirt. Her eyes pleading. And the thought does something to me I can’t explain.
I can’t wait to see her again.
Eight o’clock can’t come fast enough.
The Foraged Bistro is tucked back off the main road, nestled in a grove of aspens. It’s quiet here. One of the few places in Wildhaven where the plating is as impressive as the food itself and the wine list rivals the beer menu. Not that I need either tonight.
I just need a clear head.
The hostess leads me to a table in the back corner—low lit and private, just like I asked. The candles flicker against the dark wood, casting a warm glow across the table. I slide into my seat and glance at my watch. It’s five minutes till eight.
I shift in my seat, tug at the collar of my button-down, and roll my shoulders. The white dress shirt feels too formal for a town like this. I wanted to look professional tonight, but now I’m second-guessing that decision. Matty isn’t impressed by suits and ties. If anything, she’s probablyrepelled by them. She’s down-to-earth. The type of woman more likely to notice and appreciate a relaxed look.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I want to be noticed.
I sip my water, scanning the room and looking up every time the door opens. A couple walks in. Then a group of older women. And then she appears.
Matty Storm steps into the bistro like she doesn’t belong here, but she’s owning the space anyway.
