“A writer huh? What do you write?”
“Travel pieces, mostly. I was supposed to be covering the Gathering in Maine, but ended up in Texas instead.” I look at him sideways “Don’t ask.”
“You work here?”
He gives me that slow, knee-weakening grin. “You could say that. I co-own the firm with my brother.”
I stop walking. I stop in my tracks. “Wait,youown this PR firm? I thought you were a rodeo cowboy.”
“I contain multitudes,” he says with a shrug that turns into a slight wince. His hand moves to his shoulder—the injured one, I assume.
“Should you be working with that shoulder?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He tilts his head like I’ve surprised him. “Probably not. But I’ve never been great at resting.”
Amanda reappears, awkward but efficient. “Ms. Bonney, your office is this way.”
“Right,” I say, tearing my gaze from Grant.
“Don’t let me keep you,” he says, taking a deliberate step back, eyes still locked on mine. “But if you need a tour guide, my offer still stands.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As Amanda leads me down the hall, I swear I can feel his gaze burning into my back. I don’t look. Not because I don’t want to. Because Ireallydo.
Something about this man gets under my skin in a way no one has in a long time. It's unsettling. And maybe a little thrilling.
My temporary office is small but functional, with a desk, computer, and a view of downtown Wellington. I try to throw myself into research for a rodeo feature and The Heritage Festival, figuring I might as well make the best of my situation and pitch a story to Brè about it.
By late afternoon, my eyes sting, my stomach is hollow, reminding me I haven't eaten since those stale pretzels this morning. I gather my things and head toward the elevator. No sign of Grant. Somehow that’s both a relief... and a disappointment.
Outside, the Texas heat punches me in the face. A storm is rolling in despite the heat, the humidity causing my blouse to cling to me.
I dig for my phone in my bag, step off the curb to hail a cab and—
Snap.My heel catches in a sidewalk grate and breaks clean off.
“Perfect,” I mutter, stumbling. I reach for balance and grab the nearest object: a shiny black pickup truck parked at the curb.
“Having trouble there?” comes a voice through a half-lowered window.
I squint through the tint. Can’t quite see. “Just a footwear malfunction. Sorry about your truck.”
“No problem. Need a ride?”
The voice is familiar. My stomach dips. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Suit yourself.” The window glides all the way up, and the truck rolls away, leaving me wobbling like a baby giraffe in designer pain.
I hobble, one heel clicking and the other dragging like a drunk peg leg, until I spot a bench and practically collapse onto it like I’m auditioning for rock bottom. Not graceful. Not cute. I don’tsit. I deflate. Like an air mattress with a slow leak and too much history.
I rummage through my bag for my phone and groan seeing my phone’s clinging to life at 5% battery, pulsing like it’s holding its breath for me. The hotel is four blocks away. The car I rented – still at the hotel where I left it, because I didn’t want the hassle to try find parking here and just because the universe enjoys a good finale, storm clouds roll in like they were personally summoned.
“Seriously?” I ask the sky. It responds with rain.
The sky, naturally, responds with a fat, arrogant raindrop right to my forehead.
Digging through my bag for anything to cover my head with—I freeze. No wallet. No cash.No passport.The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. My passport was in my wallet. Without it, I'm stuck in Texas for God knows how long.
