Page 28 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

I find my phone buried under a tangle of old receipts, hair ties, and half-empty tubes of hand lotion in the top drawer of my nightstand. Dead as a doornail, of course. I can’t even remember the last time I looked at it—months ago. Maybe four or five?

I find a charging cord in the bottom drawer and plug it in by the bed, watching the screen flash to life. The red charging symbol pops up, low and dim. I let it sit to do its thing while I take a quick shower, pull my hair up, and head downstairs for supper.

When I walk into the kitchen, Grandma’s pulling a pan of golden fish fillets from the oven.

“Those look good,” I say as I join her. “Need any help?”

She sets the pan on the granite countertop and points to a bowl of lemons already sliced and waiting. “Yes. Can you drizzle the top with a little olive oil and squeeze a couple of wedges over them?”

“Sure.”

She wipes her hands on a floral dish towel before pulling two large serving platters from the cupboard. Then she arranges grilled asparagus spears and roasted tomatoes on it and tops them with a light dusting of goat cheese crumbles. To the other, she adds roasted sweet potatoes.

Charli and I help her carry everything over to the table, where Daddy and Grandpa are already seated, both eyeing their plates like they’re trying to figure out where the beef went.

“Asparagus?” Daddy grunts, poking the stalks.

“Yes,” Grandma says. “It’s rich in fiber, folate, and potassium, which lowers blood pressure and cholesterol and can potentially stop blood clots.”

I glance over at Charli, and we both roll our lips to prevent from laughing at the scowl on Daddy’s face.

“Is this trout?” Grandpa adds as he cuts into the fillet.

“It is.”

“You couldn’t batter and fry it?” he grumbles under his breath.

Grandma swats at both of them with her napkin. “Don’t start. It’s fresh caught from cutthroat trout, right out of the Snake River, and it’s good for you, which is more than I can say for those sausage links Imma Jean keeps sneaking you two behind my back.”

Charli snorts. “It looks and smells amazing, Grandma.”

I hum my agreement and take a bite of the sweet potato—soft, roasted with just a touch of cinnamon. So delicious.

“Hmmm … tastes better than I thought it would,” Grandpa mutters a few minutes later, shoveling another bite of flaky fish into his mouth.

Daddy follows with, “Yeah. Fine. It’s pretty good.”

“Would it kill you to say thank you ? It’s not easy, making this healthy stuff flavorful. I’ve been scouring cookbooks down at the library and watching all those shows on the cooking channel.” Grandma arches an eyebrow.

“Thank you, Mom,” Daddy says as Grandpa mutters, “Thanks, dear.” It’s begrudging but heartfelt enough to make Grandma smile.

Charli waits until we’re a few bites in before she drops the news. “Well, I just got off the phone with Shelby. They wrapped up in Cheyenne a couple of hours ago.”

All heads turn toward her.

“She and Jupiter finished second in the final run,” Charli announces, grinning. “Took home eight thousand six hundred eighty-five dollars.”

“Hot damn,” Daddy breathes, sitting up straighter. “That’s my girl.”

Grandpa lets out a low whistle. “Pretty darn impressive.”

“Axle placed third in bull riding,” Charli continues. “And Royce took first in steer roping. The family showed out!”

Pride swells in my chest. I can’t help it. My little sister—two years off the professional circuit and still able to cause a stir and bring home a decent-sized purse. She amazes me.

“Shelby said they’re driving straight through tomorrow night after the closing ceremonies,” Charli adds. “She wants to be back for the training session she has on the books Monday, which is insane. I told her I could handle it.”

Daddy leans back in his chair and gives a low, satisfied nod. “Shelby bringing home ribbons is gonna do nothin’ but boost our barrel racing client list.”

“That’s true,” I say, already mentally planning. “I’ll add a little feature on our website. Pictures of her and Jupiter with the ribbon and a congratulations message. Give the folks something to see when they click the training tab.”

“Put up some video clips too,” Charli says. “Shelby sent me a few that Cabe recorded of her final run. I swear it looks like she and Jupiter are flyin’.”

“Perfect,” I murmur. “Text those to me.”

All of their eyes come to me.

“I’m sorry. Did you say text them to you?” Charli asks.

I give her an exasperated look. “Yes. My phone is charging upstairs now.”

“Oh, wonderful! Welcome to the twenty-first century. Now I can add you to our group chat,” Grandma bellows.

Charli’s eyes glint with amusement. “You should be embarrassed by the fact that our sixty-nine-year-old grandmother is more with it than you.”

“Whatever,” I say as I roll my eyes and then glance at Grandma. “And don’t add me to the group chat.”

By the time the dishes are cleared, washed, and put away and the kitchen’s wiped down, the house has quieted.

Daddy’s watching the news with Grandpa in the living room, both of them dozing in their recliners.

Grandma’s humming to herself in her sewing room, and Charli is heading out to meet Elise at The Soused Cow.

I slip upstairs and into my room, kicking the door shut with my heel.

The first thing I do is grab Caison’s flannel from where it’s slung over the foot of my bed. It still smells like him, though the scent is starting to fade a bit. I shrug out of my jeans and sweatshirt and tug it on, the fabric soft and warm against my skin.

I grab my phone from the floor, now at seventy-two percent, and thumb through the missed texts and notifications.

There aren’t many—a few missed calls from Harleigh, a couple of unopened text messages from Charli and Shelby.

One voicemail from Carl, which I ignore and delete without listening to it.

Reaching over for the file folder that Caison gave me last week, I pull out his business card and load his number into my Contacts. Then I open a new message and scroll to his name.

Me: Hey. Are you still in Jackson?

A few seconds pass. Then the dots pop up.

Case: Who is this?

I smile as I type.

Me: Guess.

Case: Can I get a hint?

I hit the camera icon and snap a picture of my bare leg with the hem of his flannel brushing the top of my thigh.

My finger lingers over the arrow for a moment before I press it and squeeze my eyes shut.

I can’t believe I sent that.

A beat.

Case: Matty?!?!

I lean back against my pillows, grinning as I imagine his surprise.

Me: Yes. I finally dug my phone out of hibernation.

Case: Good. I like being able to access my girl without having to go through her sister.

Me: Your girl?

Case: Working on it.

Those three little words send a thrill up my spine.

Me: So, what are you wearing?

Case: Nothing.

Heat blooms across my cheeks and down my neck.

Me: What?

Case: I’m in bed .

Me: You don’t wear pajamas? A T-shirt?

Case: Nope.

Imagining a naked Caison Galloway has my body tingling.

Case: Is my flannel all you’re wearing?

I bite my bottom lip, heartbeat picking up.

Me: Maybe.

Case: Matty.

Me: Yes?

Case: You trying to kill me?

That makes me laugh.

Me: Maybe. Fair is fair, considering what you did to me in your truck last night.

Case: What I did to you? I’m the one who had to take two ice-cold showers.

Me: Two?

Case: Yeah. Because once I got into bed, I started remembering how you looked when you shattered in my lap while I touched you.

My breath catches.

Me: You’re very good with your hands, Mr. Galloway.

Case: You haven’t even felt the half of it, baby. Wait until I get my mouth on you.

My thighs press together on instinct. I tug the flannel closer around me.

Me: Promises, promises.

Case: That’s a guarantee.

Case: And next time, I’m going to have you begging .

A shiver rolls down my spine.

Me: You like the idea of me begging?

Case: Fuck yes.

Case: You. In my shirt. Crying my name with my hands and mouth on your body.

I swallow hard, my breath seizing.

Me: And then what?

Case: No.

Me: What?

Case: Not over text.

Case: I want to show you in person. So I can watch your face.

Me: When?

Case: Tomorrow. I’ll stop to pick you up on my way back from Jackson. Pack an overnight bag.

I stare at the screen, my pulse hammering.

Me: Okay.

Case: Sweet dreams, Matty.

Me: Good night.

I tuck the phone under my pillow, sink down into the flannel, and close my eyes.

Sleep comes easy tonight.

And my dreams are sweet, thanks to the sexy cowboy who stars in them.