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“Lord forgive me for speaking ill of the dead again”—Mom glances around, like Jesus might be eavesdropping at a nearby table—“but nothing could drag your father away from the ranch. I’m not surprised he wants to drag you there too.”

The server sets down our salads.Piles of lettucetruly is a more apt description.

“Did Dad ever mention the name Cash to you?” I ask.

Mom dips the tines of her fork into her light vinaigrette before she digs into her lettuce. “Sweetheart, it’s been a long time since I spoke to your dad. But Cash—wasn’t he one of the neighbors’ boys? The Rivers, I think. There were so many of those kids, I couldn’t keep track. They just kept having them.”

“Cash was at the reading of the will.”

“Really?” That gets Mom’s attention. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

I lift a shoulder, like my pulse isn’t thrumming at the memory of my run-in with the blue-eyed cowboy. “Your admin said you were booked solid this week.”

“Ah. Right. So what about this guy Cash?”

“He’s Dad’s foreman. Apparently, Dad told him he’d inherit the ranch.”

Mom laughs, rolling her eyes. “Of course a cowboy would say that. Your dad was an idiot, but not that much of an idiot.I’ll give you some advice, Mollie. Don’t listen to a word those cowboys say. They’re sweet-talking sacks of shit.”

My turn to laugh. “Not to put too fine a point on it. Trust me, I have zero interest in cowboys. Least of all Cash. He wasn’t a sweet talker anyway. He was an absolute dick.”

Mom harrumphs. “Their moods are the worst. I’m sorry you got to witness that firsthand. Trust me, sweet girl, my lawyers will have this all straightened out ASAP. You won’t ever have to deal with Cash again.”

That’s the hope.

But as I valiantly make my way through the roughage that is my lunch, I can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t seen the last of Cash Rivers.

CHAPTER 4

Mollie

ATTAGIRL

I’m notproud of using a bottle of Opus One to lure Palmer to my apartment later that week. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

The three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, along with two wineglasses, whose bowls are coated with purple residue, sit empty on the coffee table in front of me. Mom gifted me a case of the rare vintage to celebrate the launch of Bellamy Brooks’s first collection. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion ever since.

Or in this case, an emergency.

I prop my feet on the table’s ledge and angle my laptop closer to my face. Scanning the spreadsheet, my eyes ache. I need to take out my contacts, but I don’t want Palmer to see me in my glasses.

“I thought you said you needed to de-stress?”

I glance up to see Palmer resting a shoulder against the jamb of the bedroom door. He’s gotten dressed, his suit jacket hanging over his arm. He bears no sign of the sex we just had, other than his undone collar and slightly swollen lips. They’re curved in a smirk.

I grin. “Mission accomplished.”

He strides across the room, all commodities-trader cockiness. “But diving back into Excel is going to reverse all those feel-good endorphins I just gave you.”

“You can’t give me endorphins.”

“I gave you something better.” Leaning over the couch, he presses a quick, hard kiss to my mouth. “That was good, Mollie.”

“But your lines”—I laugh against his lips—“they’re pretty bad.”

“I deliver where it counts. You’re welcome.”

I playfully swat his shoulder. “You’re the worst.”