Page 25 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)
I ease the truck up the long driveway to Wildhaven Storm.
It’s been a while since I went on an actual date.
In college, I had girlfriends, but most of our dates involved me walking across campus to their place for a night of Netflix and Chinese takeout or occasionally going to a frat party, where we’d drink cheap liquor and play beer pong.
In Texas, there were women—lots of women—but none of the connections lasted more than a night or two.
I was more focused on building my résumé than on building a relationship.
Now, however, things are different. Being back home has awakened a longing for something more.
Or maybe it’s Matty who has awakened that desire.
I bring the truck to a stop in front of the house, and the screen door creaks open.
And she steps out.
She’s wearing jeans that fit her like they were painted on—tight enough to leave my mouth dry and my brain misfiring.
But it’s not just the jeans that cause my heart to stop; it’s the sweater.
It’s slouchy and soft-looking, slipping down off her left shoulder and revealing smooth, sun-kissed skin that I want to press my mouth against. Yet even that isn’t the main attraction.
It’s her hair.
Long, blonde, and cascading in loose waves all the way to her waist, it catches the soft light of the porch like spun silk.
I’ve never seen it down before—not once.
She usually has it braided, tied back, or twisted up.
But now? Now it’s wild and free, and it looks like something I want to wrap both of my hands in while she gasps against my mouth.
I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
I throw the truck in park and jump out before I can let that thought spiral too far out of control. The engine’s still running, lights illuminating the gravel. I meet her at the passenger side, my boots kicking up rocks as I move quickly toward her like a man possessed.
She has her hands tucked into her back pockets, and her eyes flick up to meet mine as her lips lift into a sexy little grin, as if she knows exactly the kind of chaos she’s stirring in me.
“Hey,” she says, voice low.
“Matty,” I breathe, opening the door for her.
I take her hand as she climbs up and in, slow and graceful.
“You look beautiful,” I whisper.
She glances away, hiding a smile, her cheeks flushing.
As I round the hood to get to the driver’s side, a flicker of movement catches my eye. I turn my head and see Carl.
He’s in the entrance of the barn, arms crossed, face tight with anger that he’s not even trying to hide.
The barn lights cast shadows across his jaw, and the fury in his eyes is unmistakable.
He remains still, silent, just watching us like a man witnessing something precious slip through his fingers.
I hesitate for a moment, tempted to offer him something—a nod, a shrug, or some form of acknowledgment—but I don’t. There’s no need to rub salt in the wound. Right now, my focus is solely on the woman in my truck, not on engaging in a pissing contest with her jealous ex.
The Prairie Pie is warm, lively, and filled with the aroma of fresh dough, tomato sauce, and garlic—essentially, it’s a slice of heaven.
The walls are covered with bold murals depicting cowboys riding horses and roping calves.
Every table is bustling with people laughing, chatting loudly, and stuffing their faces.
A young fella is playing a worn guitar near the kitchen, his stool tilted back on two legs as he strums and sings an old Merle Haggard song. His voice is smooth and soothing, drifting through the space without overpowering it.
We find a booth in the back, far enough from the noise to talk, but still part of the atmosphere .
When the waitress shows up, Matty doesn’t even take the offered menu from her hand.
“Large pie,” she says. “Pepperoni, prosciutto, every veggie you got, and extra cheese. Like … extra-extra cheese.”
The waitress raises a brow, amused. “That it?”
“Glass of red. Pinot Noir, if you have it. If not, Cab will do.”
“Got it,” the waitress says and glances over at me. “And for you, handsome?”
“I’ll take a beer. A Stella.”
“Tap or bottle?”
“Bottle, please.”
She walks away, and I grin at Matty. “You come here often?”
“Every chance I get,” she says, leaning back. “The pizza is amazing. Wine’s passable. The ambiance is perfection. And that guy”—she nods toward the musician—“used to go to school with my youngest sister. He had the biggest crush on her. He even came out to the ranch for a few riding lessons.”
“No kidding?”
“Yep. Broke three fingers, trying to ride Cabe’s old bronc.”
I chuckle. “I hope that at least earned the poor guy a date.”
“Nope. Harleigh said if he couldn’t handle that old bronc, he sure as hell couldn’t handle her.”
She giggles, and I swear the sound punches me right in the gut. God, I didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect to feel this much. This early. This fast. But Matty Storm is just that. A storm brewing and ready to level everything in sight.
Conversation is easy between us. We talk about everything and nothing. I ask questions, not really caring much about the answers. I just like hearing her talk.
The waitress brings our drinks and leaves the bottle for Matty.
The more she sips, the more she relaxes and opens up.
She tells me about the horses she researched online and is considering bidding on in the next auction, the new makeover the barn’s getting next week, and how the almanac is predicting record snow this year.
Then she moves into stories from when she was young.
How her mother taught her how to ride and make pie crust from scratch.
How her grandma Evelyn once chased a black bear out of the kitchen after they left the back door open one night.
I tell her about my parents, the farm, and summers spent in Wildhaven with Waylon.
By the time the pizza comes, we’re both laughing. Matty’s got a wine flush in her cheeks, and her sweater’s slipped lower on her shoulder. I don’t know if she even notices, but I do know it’s killing me.
She takes her first bite of pizza, eyes fluttering closed, and she moans in delight, causing my skin to prickle.
“Mmm …”
“Good?” I ask as I watch her swallow.
“Better than good,” she mumbles. “It’s the cheese. It’s gotta stretch like a good six to seven inches between bite and plate, or it doesn’t count.”
“Seven inches, huh?”
She shoots me a look and grins. “Don’t.”
I laugh into my beer. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The musician switches to something a little more upbeat—something with a twang and a steady rhythm that has a few couples getting up to dance in the space between the booths. Matty taps her foot to the beat and sips her wine.
“You wanna dance?” I ask, eyes on her.
She hesitates. Then shakes her head. “Let’s finish the pizza first. I’m not letting good cheese go cold.”
We don’t end up dancing. We sit there long after the last slice is gone, talking and sipping and listening to the hum of the night around us.
I can’t stop watching her.
She talks with her hands. She laughs with her whole face. She licks stray sauce off her thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I have to look away before I do something dumb—like reach for her hand and lick a dollop off myself.
By the time we head back out to the truck, I swear the temperature has dropped twenty degrees and the air is frigid. She hugs her arms around herself, and I shrug out of my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders.
She gives me this look—soft, appreciative, like she’s not used to someone being so attentive to her needs. And the thought pisses me off. I know her father loves her, her grandparents as well, but they also rely on her a lot.
Who does she rely on?
The question plagues in my mind as I tuck her into the passenger seat of my truck, quickly hopping in myself to start the engine and get the heat circulating.
Matty pulls her legs up, wraps her arms around her knees, and rests her head against the back of the leather seat. Eyes closed. A smile on her lips.
“You okay over there?” I ask, and she hums in response.
I think the wine is working its magic on her because she seems relaxed and content. Or maybe it was the extra-extra cheese. I chuckle at the thought, and her eyes open at the sound.
“What?” she whispers.
I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and cup her cheek. “Just thinking that you might be in a cheese coma.”
Her eyes crinkle in amusement as a giggle escapes her, and I can’t help myself. I lean over and press my lips to hers. She sighs against my mouth before tilting her head slightly, allowing me to deepen the kiss. Our tongues tangle, soft and slow.
When I finally lean back, her eyes flutter open.
I really want to take her home with me, pick up where we left off the last time I had her in my bed, but I made her a promise that I was going to take her home.
And I don’t break promises.