Page 71 of Awaiting the Storm
But I do tell her how Matty looked at me last night, as if maybe shesaw me as more than a nuisance from the ranch next door. Like maybe she finally trusted me. Or wanted to.
As I speak, I realize that I’m not just referring to a woman I’m trying to befriend to secure a business deal. I no longer want to win her over simply to finalize a land sale.
I want her.
Her.
All of her.
That realization settles in my chest, feeling solid, heavy, and undeniably right.
“I think I’m falling for her,” I say, almost to myself.
Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I believe you are. I can see it written all over you,” she says, squeezing my hand. Then she releases it and sits back. “Now, when do I get to meet this lucky woman who has captured my son’s heart?”
I shake my head. “I’m the lucky one. And you might have to wait a little while; it’s still new and fragile. I just hope she lets me in. She’s been through a lot. Her ex did a number on her, and she doesn’t believe anyone will stick around.”
“Then show her you will,” my mom says simply. “Stick around.”
I nod, my heart thudding in my chest.
I plan to.
After dinner, we walk through the square, past the old elk antler arches and shops. We make our way to Gaslight Alley so she can pop into Mursell’s Sweet Shop and pick up some of her favorite homemade chocolates. Then I have myself custom-fitted for a new cowboy hat at Encounter Hat Company.
The sky is soft with twilight, and the moon hangs low over the mountains as we make our way back to my truck.
Mom loops her arm through mine and leans into me. “You’ve grown up good, Caison Galloway,” she says. “Becoming a real good man.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“You’ll get there.”
I lean my head on hers. “I had a damn fine example.”
She nods, but doesn’t say a word.
She doesn’t have to.
Ifind my phone buried under a tangle of old receipts, hair ties, and half-empty tubes of hand lotion in the top drawer of my nightstand. Dead as a doornail, of course. I can’t even remember the last time I looked at it—months ago. Maybe four or five?
I find a charging cord in the bottom drawer and plug it in by the bed, watching the screen flash to life. The red charging symbol pops up, low and dim. I let it sit to do its thing while I take a quick shower, pull my hair up, and head downstairs for supper.
When I walk into the kitchen, Grandma’s pulling a pan of golden fish fillets from the oven.
“Those look good,” I say as I join her. “Need any help?”
She sets the pan on the granite countertop and points to a bowl of lemons already sliced and waiting. “Yes. Can you drizzle the top with a little olive oil and squeeze a couple of wedges over them?”
“Sure.”
She wipes her hands on a floral dish towel before pulling two large serving platters from the cupboard. Then she arranges grilled asparagus spears and roasted tomatoes on it and tops them with a light dusting of goat cheese crumbles. To the other, she adds roasted sweet potatoes.
Charli and I help her carry everything over to the table, where Daddy and Grandpa are already seated, both eyeing their plates like they’re trying to figure out where the beef went.
“Asparagus?” Daddy grunts, poking the stalks.
“Yes,” Grandma says. “It’s rich in fiber, folate, and potassium, which lowers blood pressure and cholesterol and can potentially stop blood clots.”
