Dust storm a single dad.., p.2
Dust Storm: A Single Dad Cowboy Romance, page 2
Libby let out a displeased grunt.
Then the other door opened.
Blonde hair danced on the wind like rays of gold. The woman straightened and turned, studying her surroundings through the privacy of an oversized pair of sunglasses.
Libby eased forward, letting me steal a look at her from behind.
She had a pair of fuck-me legs and an ass to match.
Her fingers flexed as she grabbed the door and slammed it shut. The sun caught something shiny on her hand.
A goddamn engagement ring.
2
CASSANDRA
Exiled. A smoke trail lingered in my wake as I fled Manhattan like an outlaw on the run. 1,700 miles sat between me and the life I had worked tirelessly to curate.
We need time for things to cool down.
The situation is too volatile.
We’ll bring you back once a new headline has everyone’s attention.
I hated Texas already. The air was so fresh it was nauseating. The breeze was giving me a headache.
Tripp cut his eyes at me as he guided the rental car down the poorly paved service road. “I don’t think a media blackout includes checking the headlines.”
“I need to see how they’re spinning it.”
With a snap of his wrist, Tripp confiscated my phone. “Lillian isn’t your problem anymore.”
“She’s still a problem.”
“Well, she’s my problem now,” he stated with an odd mix of dismissiveness and finality.
That was the problem with being engaged to a colleague. Well… Technically, Tripp was my boss.
But that was just semantics.
I looked down at the diamond glinting on my finger, willing it to become a wishing star.
I would have wished for a time machine to take me back to the beginning of the week to when I had a job. When I was respected. When I wasn’t being banished to the Lone Star state by my boss turned fiancé.
I settled back in my seat, closed my eyes, and counted to three. “I’m not sure why you think it’s a good idea to hide me away on some ranch. And stop trying to convince me it’s a business development project. We both know I’m being put in timeout.”
Tripp reached for my hand, but I snatched it away. I wasn’t feeling particularly affectionate at the moment.
Swallow a demotion and take the project Rebecca Davis—now Rebecca Griffith—offered, or start looking for other employment.
Tripp called it “crisis management.” I called it an ultimatum.
“It’s for your own good. One-hundred percent of people read the headline, fifty-percent read the body, and no one reads the retraction. Lying low and giving everyone time to forget what happened is preferable to demanding retractions and rebranding,” he said, putting a palatable spin on the situation.
It was complete horseshit.
And I was about to be inundated with a Biblical amount of horseshit. And bullshit.
“I’m not chicken shit. I can fix this.”
“Just because you can fix it, doesn’t mean you should be the one to fix it.” He took a left onto a dirt road. “I have to think about the firm. And if you cared about me and your job, you’d be thinking about what is best for the firm, too. Do you want to be right or win?”
“I can’t win if I’m in the penalty box.”
Tripp scoffed. “A business development project is hardly the penalty box, Cassandra.”
“You’re sending me to Texas.”
“Which is one of the largest state economies in the country.”
“On a cattle ranch,” I hissed, then cut my eyes to the Manolos on my feet. They weren’t made for dirt. Neither was I.
I should have been sitting in my office preparing press releases to quell the rumors around Lillian Monroe’s very public meltdown. I should have been fielding calls and scheduling meetings to spin the story and drum up some public goodwill.
Instead, Lillian was sunning herself on a yacht in Spain, and I was heading for bullshit.
Tripp’s face was unbothered. “I know it’s not optimum, but this is best for everyone.”
Great. Now he was using his publicist voice on me.
I stared out the window as grassy plains rolled by. “What about us? How is this the best thing for us? What about our wedding?” My throat grew tight, but I effectively choked it down and put on my game face. “When do I get to come back?”
Tripp flashed a placating smile. He had tuned out of the conversation the moment it started. “Once things cool down, we’ll talk about setting a date. The optics are—”
“More important than our comfort.”
I knew the saying well. It was Tripp’s party line whenever he put the firm or one of his clients ahead of our relationship.
Shove it down. Fake a smile. Don’t flinch. Don’t let them see you crack.
I wondered why I had a ring in the first place. Was that just optics too?
On many occasions, he told onboarding publicists to get a fake engagement ring to wear. It kept the tabloids from speculating if our PR experts were dating the clients they represented.
I twisted the ring on my finger.
No … it wasn’t fake.
He had proposed to me. We had an engagement party. We had…
No date.
No dress.
No bridesmaids or groomsmen.
We had nothing.
“Game face,” he chided as a farmhouse came into view.
Dust rolled in the distance. I slid my sunglasses on and took in my new prison.
Tripp put the car in park and handed my phone over.
No service. Not a single bar. I had truly been exiled.
Without a word, Tripp hopped out.
Might as well not put off the inevitable. Game face.
My stiletto sunk into the dirt as I eased out of the car, and I shifted my weight to my toes. At least February in Texas was better than February in New York.
A shadow loomed to the right.
Holy shit. With the sun to his back, all I saw was the silhouette.
But damn. What a silhouette.
The horse was a little terrifying. Were all horses that much bigger in person? I’d always imagined horses being more approachable.
That thing was a tank.
The horse shifted, letting rays of sunlight illuminate the man’s face.
The brim of his cowboy hat still shadowed most of his features, but I could make out a thick beard along his jaw and long hair tied in a knot at the base of his neck.
The rider braced his heavy boots in the stirrups. My gaze ran up those long, thick thighs to find his wide hands resting casually on the saddle. His chest was wide, gently curving down into a soft belly. A plaid button-up was tucked into his belt, accentuating his rounded abdomen. It was proper and rugged all at once.
Not wanting to be caught staring, I averted my eyes and slammed the door. My calves sang as I tiptoed around the hood.
“You made it.” Rebecca Griffith lumbered down the porch steps, resting a hand on top of her baby bump.
It had, admittedly, been a while since we had seen each other. She left New York for greener pastures, and I kept climbing the ladder until the day I took a metaphorical stiletto to the face and tumbled down to rock bottom.
“Look at you,” I said, slapping on a smile.
Becks groaned. “Don’t remind me. I feel like I’m going to explode. And a pipe burst at our house so we’re staying with Nathan’s parents. I started sleeping on the couch because I hate going up the stairs to bed.” She laughed. “Sorry. That was too much information. How was the flight?”
Tripp opened his mouth—probably to complain about how packed the plane was—but I cut him off.
“Just fine. Thanks.”
An older man joined Becks. He was a spitting image of the cowboy, just a little more cleaned up.
What had once likely been a salt and pepper beard was now completely salt. He wore a flannel tucked into his blue jeans, and a pair of boots that had seen better days.
“Ma’am,” he said as he lifted his cowboy hat by the crown and extended a hand. “Pleasure to have you with us.” His eyes cut to Tripp. “And who’s this fella’ you brought? Your chauffeur?”
Tripp sneered. “Tripp Meyers. VP of publicity for the Carrington Group.”
The older gentleman studied him with an unflappable poker face. “Your—uh—group. They always send a VP as a chaperone?”
Gravel and dirt crunched behind me. Darkness hovered over us like a storm cloud.
“Doesn’t inspire much confidence if she needs a babysitter.” The bass rattling behind me shook my bones.
“Tripp is my fiancé,” I clarified to everyone, taking control of the narrative. Although I was less than thrilled to be here, doing my penance was the fastest way to get my life back on track.
Someone snorted, and I wasn’t sure if it came from the cowboy or the horse.
I put on a boardroom face and laid my hand on Tripp’s arm. “He had the time in his schedule to see me off before he heads to Europe.”
The shadow behind me was silent. The old man softened. Becks looked like she wanted to throw up.
And honestly? So did I. But I didn’t have time for unexpected vomit today.
“Well,” the old man said. “Pleasure to meet you both. I’m Silas Griffith.” He pointed a finger at the looming presence behind me. “I’m that one’s daddy, and a soon-to-be grandaddy—again—to this one.” He pointed to Becks’s belly.
Tripp’s eye twitched with annoyance. “Can we skip the hillbilly pleasantries?” he sneered through gritted teeth with practiced discretion.
“Mr. Griffith, I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible to discuss the current financial state of the ranch, and the deliverables you’re envisioning at the end of my contract.”
His mustache twitched with amusement as he lifted a weathered finger and pointed behind me. “Then you’ll have to talk to that Mr. Griffith.”
I turned and nearly ran into a wall.
The cowboy had hopped off his horse. He crossed thick arms over his barrel chest. His boots were wide-set, as if he was bracing for impact. “Pretty sure I said I was fine with her being here as long as she wasn’t my problem.”
That was quite the welcome. Apparently, southern hospitality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Silas laughed. “Son, when you took over for me, everything became your problem. Congratulations. I’m gonna go take a nap.”
“I have work to do,” he argued.
But Silas was already back up the porch steps. “Jackson should have the cabin ready for her. Momma told him to get it cleaned up. See you all at dinner.”
Becks—my fellow Manhattan expat—groaned as she turned back to the house. “Sorry. Gotta pee. Don’t get pregnant. It’s awful.”
“But—” My voice cracked as Becks scrambled into the house as fast as she could.
Tripp checked his watch. I didn’t know why he looked so antsy. His flight didn’t leave until tomorrow.
Hot breath blasted against my skin.
Was the other Mr. Griffith breathing down my neck already? That wasn’t how this was going to go.
I turned to tell him to back the hell off when hairy lips brushed my shoulder. I shrieked, nearly jumping out of my skin.
A flash of white caught me by surprise as the cowboy—Silas’s son—grinned. “She won’t bite.”
But did he?
“That horse is the size of a tractor-trailer. I was more concerned with getting trampled.”
Offended by my assessment, the animal stomped a hoof into the ground.
I looked over my shoulder and found Tripp wandering around the car aimlessly as he searched for a single bar of cell phone service.
I didn’t have the patience or desire to deal with him at the moment.
“Cassandra Parker,” I said, finally making the introduction so we could stop standing here and spinning our wheels.
He didn’t offer a handshake. Rather, he kept those wide arms crossed for a long moment before mimicking his dad and lifting his cowboy hat by the top. “Christian Griffith.”
His eyes raised to track something behind me, so I turned to follow his gaze.
Tripp had wandered off, chasing the ever-elusive connection to the rest of the world as he repeatedly tried to talk to whoever was on the other end of the call. His endless string of “Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” was grating.
“Does your boy toy need to be put on a leash?” Christian asked.
Some days I felt like he needed a muzzle.
“He’ll be fine.”
Tripp, not paying any attention to his surroundings, walked straight into the back of a pickup truck, slamming his knee into the trailer hitch.
“Motherfucker!”
He doubled over, grabbing his leg as he checked the screen of his phone to see if the person on the other end heard him. He stumbled backward until the heel of his loafer let out a horrifying squelch.
Tripp froze. Slowly, he looked down at what he had just landed in.
Christian had moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me. An amused smirk curled up beneath his beard.
“Why is there mud?” Tripp huffed as he pulled his foot out of the pile with a disgusting squish.
Christian chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s not mud.”
The stench hit me immediately and, from the looks of things, Tripp realized it too.
“Shit,” he said with disgust.
“There you go, buddy. Now you got it right,” Christian said in the most placating tone possible.
Tripp took a step back to try and wipe the bulk of the manure on the grass, but slipped.
I clasped my hands over my mouth in horror as he pivoted to avoid the hitch again, and landed back in the pile of manure.
“Look at that,” Christian mused with a flat expression. “You live up to your name.”
Without another word about Tripp, he turned and hopped back into the saddle. “Cabin’s this way.”
3
CHRISTIAN
Libby was peeved as I rode out past my house to the cluster of cabins that had been sitting unused for the better part of a decade.
I couldn’t blame her. I was annoyed too.
I tipped my chin down to peer over my shoulder. Cassandra drove the rental car behind me while Tripp—still shouting into his phone as if a cell tower would magically appear—trudged along beside her, covered in shit.
I didn’t blame her for not wanting to be trapped in a car with the human cow patty, but he seemed like the kind of guy who could afford the incidental charge for fucking up the rental. It sure beat the mile walk out to the cabins. He was red as a cherry and seething in anger.
Tripp.
What kind of fucking name was that? Was it short for something?
Trippworth?
Trippington?
Tripped-over-his-ego?
Libby let out a displeased grunt as I hopped down. I used a manger knot to tie her to the post in front of the cabins for the few minutes it would take me to show Cassandra around inside.
Then I could get back to the never-ending to-do list that seemed to get longer and longer each day.
When I finished here, I’d get Libby squared away and head back to that fucking desk for another hour before I went to the house to oversee the girls doing their homework.
Then it’d be time for showers all around and bedtime before we did it all again tomorrow.
Thank God for aftercare at school, extracurriculars, and my mom being a taxi service.
There just weren’t enough hours in the day.
Cassandra pulled up in front of the cabins and hopped out. I could feel the displeasure radiating off her body.
Before we built the new bunkhouse right after Gracie was born, the ranch hands lived in the cabins.
That had been…
Shit. Gracie was eleven.
How was the new bunkhouse a decade old?
“Home sweet home,” I said as I turned to face Cassandra.
I couldn’t get a good look at what was going on in her head behind those big sunglasses, but her face was passive.
Twenty feet away, Tripp had stopped to shout at someone through his phone, as if they’d hear him yelling halfway around the world.
Lord knows they weren’t hearing him through the call.
Cassandra had popped the trunk and was heaving a suitcase the size of a small bedroom out of the back. She didn’t even teeter on those ice picks she was walking around on.
I cut my eyes to the jackass who didn’t care enough to give her a hand. “He’s not gonna help you?”
She didn’t even give her fiancé a quick glance. “He’s busy.”
“I’ll get it, Cass,” I grunted as I stepped up to help.
Her head snapped so hard I was surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash. “It’s Cassandra.”
I chuckled as I unloaded the rest of her five suitcases. “Alright, Princess.”
Her lips twitched in a thin line.
I tipped my chin toward the cabin. “Go on in. Should be unlocked.”
“I can get my bags,” she insisted.
I stepped closer. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should have to.” I tipped my head toward the door. “Inside. I have shit to do.”
Cassandra relented and strutted toward the cabin. If I was a betting man, I’d say that a cabin with electricity and water was her version of “roughing it.”
But I didn’t say that out loud.
I hung back a second longer and indulged myself in another look at that ass. Cassandra’s fancy white pants were out of place on a cattle ranch, but I wasn’t complaining.
I let myself appreciate the way they made her legs look a mile long. If the shit stain who put a ring on her finger wouldn’t appreciate the way she looked, why shouldn’t I?
I snapped out of it when I smelled Tripp getting closer.
It took Cassandra a few tries of wiggling the doorknob before she got the door open.
“The light switch is on the wall to the right,” I said as I pack-muled her luggage toward the cabin.
She reached inside, feeling around on the wall until she found the switch. Her head of blonde hair had barely slipped inside when I heard the scream.
