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“You don’t have any more of that wine, do you?”

“I’m done for tonight, I think.” I lift my laptop. “Got a lot to do.”

I don’t wait for him to ask about my work or why it has me so stressed out, because I know he won’t. His lack of interest isn’t malicious. We just don’t have the kind of relationship where we check in with each other that way.

Palmer straightens and adjusts his belt. He’s tall. Broad. Handsome.

Part of me wishes I felt disappointed he doesn’t push harder to stay and hang out, maybe even spend the night. We had a nice enough conversation while we drank the wine, chatting about former classmates and the bar that just opened down the street here in uptown.

Palmer and I ran in the same circles in college, although we were more acquaintances than friends. A couple of months ago, we ran into each other for the first time since graduation. Three hours and one dance-floor make-out session later, I asked him to come home with me.

We’ve been hooking up ever since. It’s exactly what I need: good, no-strings sex that requires very little effort on my part. He’s not interested in dating me—like most twenty-something-year-old guys making Wall Street money, he’s not interested in monogamy, period—and I’m definitely notinterested in dating him. He’s a little too corporate for my taste. A little too full of himself.

Hence why a larger part of me is relieved he’s heading out. Looking at the numbers on the spreadsheet, I’m going to have to do some creative math to pay Bellamy Brooks’s bills this month. Maybe I’ll ask our publicist if I can pay her quarterly going forward?

I yawn. “Wow, I’m tired.”

The smirk is back. “Bet you are.”

I roll my eyes. “You really need to work on your lines.”

“And you really need to go to bed.” He digs his keys out of his pocket. “Thanks for the wine. And the orgasm.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, throwing his line back at him. “Drive safe.”

He smiles, too, handsome as hell. “Safety is my motto.”

“Wow. Worst one yet,” I tease.

“You like it.”

A beat passes. Palmer looks at me.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m confused, tired, grieving, or what. But suddenly I’m asking, “What would you do if you inherited a ranch?”

Palmer lifts a brow. I didn’t tell him about Dad’s will. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I never told Palmer Dad even owned a ranch or that he died. My father is not exactly a light topic of conversation, so makes sense that I’ve never brought him up when I’m with Palmer.

“Why?” he asks. “Did you inherit one?”

“Just play devil’s advocate.”

“That’s really fucking cool if a ranch did fall into your lap. Back in high school, I’d go to my friends’ ranches all the time. We’d have the best parties out there.”

“I’m talking about a working ranch. Like with cows and stuff.”

Palmer screws up his face. “Shoveling shit? No thank you.”

“Right? I don’t get whyanyonewould choose to do that.”

“I mean, to be fair, it would be cool to get out in nature a little.” Palmer glances at the condo’s floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook uptown Dallas. The city sits beneath a blanket of steamy haze, tinged yellow by the sunset. “Living here, I can go whole weeks without ever being outside. Makes me feel like a vampire. My dad and I hunted a lot when I was a kid. I miss that sometimes.”

“It’s just as hazy and hot on a ranch as it is in Dallas.”

He turns his head to look at me. “I don’t know. All this concrete, the buildings, the cars, the pollution—you can’t compare that to the wide openness of a ranch.”

“Maybe.” I glance back down at my laptop. My stomach is killing me. “Thanks for humoring me.”

“If you really did inherit a ranch, I’d gladly visit you.”