Page 19 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

I didn’t even taste the food. I don’t know why I’d bothered getting all dressed up.

This ridiculous denim dress looks like I’m heading to some honky-tonk date night instead of what this really was.

A business meeting. That was what he had said it was going to be, more or less.

That was what I agreed to. In fact, I was the one who kept insisting it wasn’t a date after all.

I’d told Charli, Shelby, everyone who looked at me twice as I left the ranch that it wasn’t a damn date.

So, why does it feel like my heart just got stomped on?

I stare at the file folder in my hand. His words still echoing in my head—measured, considerate, honest. Too honest. The kind of honesty that makes it impossible to be angry with him.

Which is worse than if he’d come in hot, swinging some greedy, highbrow lingo at me and trying to bulldoze right over me.

That I could fight. That I would fight. But what do I do with this?

Holland Ludlow is offering a damn good deal.

A more than fair price. Caison even made sure to acknowledge what Wildhaven Storm means to my family, to me.

He said he didn’t want to take anything from us.

Instead, he pointed out that parting with a little land just might make it possible to save the rest. To preserve our legacy so that there’s something left to pass down to future Storm generations.

And instead of being smart enough to see the opportunity for what it is and listening to him like a grown-up, all I feel is small.

Like I’ve failed. Like I’ve failed everyone.

So, I did what any other non-grown-up would do.

I ran. The tears were right there, hot and barely hanging on behind my eyes.

I couldn’t let him see me fall apart. Not there.

Not in front of a restaurant full of people.

I left Caison in shock, clutching the folder to my chest and rushing out of the bistro, the bells above the door jangling loudly in my ears.

My truck is just across the lot, sitting beneath the aspens that line the edge of the parking area. I fish my keys out of my pocket with a shaky hand, fingers fumbling as the tears threaten to spill.

Just get to the truck, Matty.

I force my legs to move as I hurry across the asphalt.

“Matty!” Caison’s voice comes racing up behind me just as I touch the door handle.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Dammit.

“Please,” he says, breathless, feet pounding the gravel as he runs toward me. “Stop. Just look at me.”

“I can’t,” I say, still facing the truck. My shoulders shaking.

I hear him slow behind me, then stop. He doesn’t touch me right away. He gives me a second. Then another. And finally, I feel his hand on me. He gently turns me, fingers warm and steady on my arm.

I keep my eyes down.

“I’m five seconds away from falling to pieces,” I whisper.

“Then fall,” he says softly. “I’ll catch you.”

And just like that, I do.

His arms are solid around me, wrapping me up in a strong, warm embrace, and it’s impossible not to collapse into him. I cry, hard but silent, the way you do when you’ve been holding it in for too long. It’s not pretty or graceful. It’s raw and guttural. And Caison just holds me.

I press my face to his chest, my fingers clutching the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth. His scent grounds me. It’s familiar and safe and dangerous, all at once.

When the sobs finally subside, I step back, and his hands come up to cup my face. His thumbs swipe the wetness from my cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.

“I know.”

“I’m not trying to make things worse. I want to make them better.”

“I know,” I say again.

He lifts my chin. His eyes are steady, fierce, dark, and full of something I can’t name but feel deep in my chest. And then he leans in and presses his lips to the corner of one of my eyes right as another tear escapes. He kisses it away and then the one after that. And then his lips find mine .

The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s seeking permission. Then it deepens, and everything shifts.

I wrap his shirt in my fists and pull him closer.

There’s nothing careful about the way I kiss him back.

It’s all hunger and need. Years of built-up loneliness and grief are poured into it.

The weight of being my family’s backbone and fixer melt away.

And now, for once, I just want to be taken care of. Held. Wanted. Kissed just like this.

I don’t even notice the world around us. Just the feel of his mouth on mine, the heat curling low in my belly, the ache that builds when we come up for air, only to dive right back in again. Over and over, like we’re drowning in each other and neither of us can get enough.

I vaguely hear laughter and conversations in the distance. A door chime. Footsteps crunching on gravel. But it all seems miles away. We’re hidden here, half shielded by trees and the darkness of a Wyoming night.

When I finally pull back to take a breath, I rest my forehead against his chest.

“I can’t think straight,” I murmur.

“Good,” he says. “You think too damn much.”

I almost laugh, but it comes out as a wet and shaky gurgle.

“Give me your keys.”

I look up at the command. “What?”

“We’re going to my cabin. I’ll drive,” he says.

I look around, searching the parking lot. “What about your truck?”

“They can tow it for all I care,” he says.

“Caison …”

“Just give me your keys, Matty. Please.”

I hesitate for half a second, then hand them over.

He opens the door, and I slide in first, tossing the file folder still clutched in my hand onto the passenger-side floorboard and scooting across the bench seat.

He follows, and once he’s settled behind the steering wheel, he reaches over and pulls me to his side, tucking me under his arm.

Like he’s afraid distance will break whatever spell we’re under.

And I let him.

We drive in silence, the hum of the tires on the road the only sound. The trees give way to open highway, then hills that roll and dip through the valley. It’s a twenty-mile drive back to Ironhorse, but Caison gets us there in what feels like five minutes.

We pull up in front of his cabin, and he kills the engine, but doesn’t make a move to get out. He just turns to me.

“You sure this is okay?”

I know what he’s asking. He’s not pressuring me. He’s giving me an out if I want one.

But I don’t.

“I’m sure.”

He nods once and opens the door. I follow him out to the porch and wait on the top step as he unlocks the door.

When we step inside the cabin, I take in the space—rugged, masculine, clean, and sparse.

Wood-paneled walls. A leather couch. A woodstove that smells faintly of smoke and pine. It suits the man. Earthy. Warm.

He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t push. Just takes my hand after we both kick off our boots and leads me across the living area toward the bedroom.

The minute we walk inside, his mouth finds mine again. Clothes begin to peel away slowly. Piece by piece as our hands explore each other.

I tug his shirt loose from his jeans and run my hands under the hem and across his abs. The muscles twitch as my nails graze his skin.

He doesn’t undress me like a man in a hurry.

He does it like someone unwrapping a special gift as he unzips my dress and guides it off my shoulders.

The denim lands in a pool at my feet. His mouth finds the sensitive spot at the base of my throat, and he sucks gently at my skin as he walks me backward to the bed.

My head falls back, giving him better access.

He kisses his way across my collarbone and lower, until his tongue grazes the swell of my breast just above the edge of my bra.

His hand cups one plump mound, and he runs a fingertip over my nipple.

The feel of his touch and the scratch of the cotton against the tight bud causes my back to arch into him.

He grins as he does it again. There’s nothing rushed about it.

No frenzied urgency. It’s not about lust, though that’s there too.

It’s about connection. About letting go.

About surrendering to something that’s been building since he sat beside me in Imma Jean’s café.

He holds my gaze as he scoops me into his arms and lays me on the bed. Then he leans back, and his eyes slowly drift down my body like he’s trying to memorize me.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel wanted. I’m not Matty Storm, the ranch manager, the hardhead, the fighter. I’m just a woman. A damn tired one. And in Caison’s arms, for this one night, I’m gonna let myself be soft. Be worshipped.

Be his.