Page 47 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
But with Beck at my side, the weight of their disdain doubles. Eyes flick to him with open hostility, lips curling in disapproval. Old grudges hang thick in the air, heavy as smoke.
“Smile, Atwood. I’ve got your back,” Beck murmurs low enough that only I can hear, leaning in slightly.
He looks relaxed, damn him, as if the stares and whispers don’t touch him at all. “You’re supposed to look like you belong here.”
“I do belong here,” I snap under my breath, though the tremor in my voice betrays me.
He shoots me a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then act like it.”
I want to elbow him in the ribs, but instead, I paste on a brittle smile and follow him down the aisle to the seats at the far end of the table. The sound of my heels against the floor feels deafening, each step measured, deliberate. People part for us, not out of respect, but like we’re carrying the plague.
I can feel the heat of their stares burning into the back of my neck as I take my seat, sliding my folder onto the polished surface. My hands are trembling, but I lock them in place. No weakness. Not here.
Beck pulls out his chair with all the calm of a man about to sit down at his own kitchen table. He doesn’t so much as glance at the crowd of disapproving faces, and somehow, that makes it worse.
I lean closer, whispering through clenched teeth. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t look at me, but the smirk tugging at his lips is answer enough.
I grip my pen until it digs into my skin. If I survive this meeting without strangling him, it will be a miracle.
Then my father walks in, pausing when he takes note of who is seated next to me. His lips thin to a taut line, eyes disapproving. I know he will chew me out later, but for now there is nothing he can do.
He clears his throat and takes a seat at the head of the table. The room settles into silence. My heart slams hard against my ribs. This is it. No more hiding, no more running. It’s time to prove myself, or lose everything.
He strikes his gavel once, and all eyes shift to me. My throat dries instantly, my heart ricocheting against my ribs.
“Miss Quinn,” he says with clipped formality, “I believe you have a presentation for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may proceed.”
I rise on shaky legs, clutching the folder like a lifeline. For a moment, I can’t make myself look at them—all those faces, familiar and stern, some lined with disapproval, others with thinly veiled delight at the prospect of my failure. My palms sweat, but I draw a breath, steadying myself.
When I glance sideways, Beck is lounging back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on me. Not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Somehow, that helps. Just a little.
I open the folder, clear my throat, and begin.
“My proposal is built on transparency, sustainability, and community trust. Wrangler Creek deserves a cause that not only benefits us now but builds a legacy we can be proud of.”
As I speak, the words begin to flow. I talk about the local schools, about the ranchers struggling with drought, about building a program that lifts up the whole town instead of a select few. My voice steadies, gaining strength with each sentence. I flip through charts and plans I’ve labored over for months, highlighting the steps I’ve outlined, the partnerships I’ve secured.
For a moment, I almost forget about Beck, about the glares, about the undercurrent of hostility in the room. I can see it in some of their faces—hesitation, interest, maybe even grudging respect. But then, like clockwork, the questions come.
“Where will the funding come from?”
“You’re asking us to gamble on promises.”
“Without secured capital, this plan is meaningless.”
The voices overlap, sharp and skeptical. My breath hitches, but I straighten my shoulders.
“I’m working on securing the funds,” I say firmly. “And I believe we can draw support from places this town has long overlooked, including the Morgans.” I announce, glancing at Beck for a moment, who gives me a nod of approval.
Their reaction is instant and visceral. A ripple of gasps, mutters, a few outright scoffs.
“The Morgans?!” someone sneers from across the table. “That family has never given this town a dime unless it was to fix theirown mistakes,” he attacks, glaring at Beck, who doesn’t even flinch at the accusation.
