Page 64 of Awaiting the Storm
Long, blonde, and cascading in loose waves all the way to her waist, it catches the soft light of the porch like spun silk. I’ve never seen it down before—not once. She usually has it braided, tied back, or twisted up. But now? Now it’s wild and free, and it looks like something I want to wrap both of my hands in while she gasps against my mouth.
I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
I throw the truck in park and jump out before I can let that thought spiral too far out of control. The engine’s still running, lightsilluminating the gravel. I meet her at the passenger side, my boots kicking up rocks as I move quickly toward her like a man possessed.
She has her hands tucked into her back pockets, and her eyes flick up to meet mine as her lips lift into a sexy little grin, as if she knows exactly the kind of chaos she’s stirring in me.
“Hey,” she says, voice low.
“Matty,” I breathe, opening the door for her.
I take her hand as she climbs up and in, slow and graceful.
“You look beautiful,” I whisper.
She glances away, hiding a smile, her cheeks flushing.
As I round the hood to get to the driver’s side, a flicker of movement catches my eye. I turn my head and see Carl.
He’s in the entrance of the barn, arms crossed, face tight with anger that he’s not even trying to hide. The barn lights cast shadows across his jaw, and the fury in his eyes is unmistakable. He remains still, silent, just watching us like a man witnessing something precious slip through his fingers.
I hesitate for a moment, tempted to offer him something—a nod, a shrug, or some form of acknowledgment—but I don’t. There’s no need to rub salt in the wound. Right now, my focus is solely on the woman in my truck, not on engaging in a pissing contest with her jealous ex.
The Prairie Pie is warm, lively, and filled with the aroma of fresh dough, tomato sauce, and garlic—essentially, it’s a slice of heaven. The walls are covered with bold murals depicting cowboys riding horses and roping calves. Every table is bustling with people laughing, chatting loudly, and stuffing their faces.
A young fella is playing a worn guitar near the kitchen, his stool tilted back on two legs as he strums and sings an old Merle Haggard song. His voice is smooth and soothing, drifting through the space without overpowering it.
We find a booth in the back, far enough from the noise to talk, but still part of the atmosphere.
When the waitress shows up, Matty doesn’t even take the offered menu from her hand.
“Large pie,” she says. “Pepperoni, prosciutto, every veggie you got, and extra cheese. Like … extra-extra cheese.”
The waitress raises a brow, amused. “That it?”
“Glass of red. Pinot Noir, if you have it. If not, Cab will do.”
“Got it,” the waitress says and glances over at me. “And for you, handsome?”
“I’ll take a beer. A Stella.”
“Tap or bottle?”
“Bottle, please.”
She walks away, and I grin at Matty. “You come here often?”
“Every chance I get,” she says, leaning back. “The pizza is amazing. Wine’s passable. The ambiance is perfection. And that guy”—she nods toward the musician—“used to go to school with my youngest sister. He had the biggest crush on her. He even came out to the ranch for a few riding lessons.”
“No kidding?”
“Yep. Broke three fingers, trying to ride Cabe’s old bronc.”
I chuckle. “I hope that at least earned the poor guy a date.”
“Nope. Harleigh said if he couldn’t handle that old bronc, he sure as hell couldn’t handle her.”
She giggles, and I swear the sound punches me right in the gut. God, I didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect to feel this much. This early. This fast. But Matty Storm is just that. A storm brewing and ready to level everything in sight.
