“He likes to think he’s a big deal, but even I know that he’s the bottom of the corporate ladder.”
“What do you mean ‘even you’?” He pulled into the garage and hit the button again.
“You know what I mean,” I said, irritated. I shouldn’t have to explain it.
“You’re an intelligent woman, Madison, and I think people underestimate you, but I don’t think you should underestimate yourself.” He killed the engine but didn’t move to get out.
I wasn’t some intern or whoever he mentored at Copper Summit. He didn’t have to be patronizing. “You don’t think I’m smart.” My wonky sleep was charging up my crankiness, fueling the stress of being a pauper in this prince’s carriage. “You think I’m doing the wrong thing with the bar. You think I’m wasting my time and my money, and who knows what else you think I’m doing wrong since you run a bourbon empire for a living. And you also think I’m a fool because I’m not siphoning as much knowledge as I can from you.”
I couldn’t look at him, but the brush of heat against my cheek told me his gaze was on me.
“I think you’ve been dealt an awful hand,” he said gently. “I think you’re between a rock and a hard place and you can’t see the way out. I think you haven’t had the ability to ever bet on yourself because there’s never been a safety net, so you’re doing what’s tried and true. I think you’re not hitting me up for information because you’re afraid I’ll use your trust against you.”
He said it matter-of-factly, but I heard the hint of consternation. Everyone trusted Teller Bailey.
Did I? His reaction after the bricks came through my windows came to mind. His first instinct had been to check on me. To cover me and protect me. To gauge my well-being. And then he’d continued to take care of me.
“It’s not that I think you’ll hold it against me.” I twisted my fingers together until the bite of pain told me to keep talking. “If I turn Flatlanders into something else, what kind of business do you think I’ll get? Who’s going to buy cheerful cookies from Mad Maddy? Who’s going to say, ‘Hey, sorry for teasing you about your frayed pants that were too small in fourth grade? Can you putHappy6th Birthdayon the cake?’ Or ‘Remember when we pushed you into the mud puddle? Good times. I’d like four dozen snickerdoodles.’”
Surprise rippled through his expression. “You want to open a bakery?”
A bakery and candy shop. “It’s just an example.”
“A pretty specific one.”
I loved baking. It was one of the few things I had gotten compliments on in my life. “The world doesn’t need more bakeries.”
“That sounds like Damien’s bullshit, and it’s not allowed on my property or when I’m with you.” Before I could react at his surge of protectiveness or tell him it was my dad’s quote, he opened the door. “Let’s head in. I’ll show you the guest room.”
I followed him through the pristine garage, which smelled faintly of paint and exhaust, into the house.
He continued through an entry that was larger than either of the bathrooms in Flatlanders. “You can leave your shoes on. Don’t worry about it.”
I did worry about it. The dark-stained hardwood floor was cleaner than the garage, and his boots left dusty prints. I wiped my feet off, taking in the sizable laundry room to my right and the expansive kitchen to my left.
“Seriously, Mads.” He had stopped and was frowning at my shoes. “The vacuum will clean up the dust tomorrow. It runs every day at eleven.”
Of course he had a robot vacuum. That wasn’t his only toy. A double oven was proudly mounted on the far side of the kitchen with a microwave next to it. The matching French door fridge stood across from it and acres of counter space circled the room. In case that wasn’t enough, an island with its own freaking sink bordered the dining room on the other side.
“Holy crap.” The farther in I went, the more I spun in a slow circle to take it all in. A restaurant-worthy exhaust hood? Envy beat deep in my chest. Talk about the haves and have-nots. Teller had all the toys. “This kitchen is wild.”
“I don’t use it much.”
“How could you not?”
“Cooking for one isn’t a lot of fun.” He opened a wide fridge door. “Are you hungry? Mama made me some smothered pork chops.”
My stomach growled. The damn thing wouldn’t shut up around him. “No, I’m good.”
He arched a brow and cocked his head toward a rectangular table with a black resin strip down the middle. It was masculine and simple and fit the rest of the vibe around the place. He hadn’t overdecorated, that was for sure. There were no stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls. My dad had loved to hunt, and while I didn’t care about trophy heads, I hadn’t liked them staring at me or the allergies I had developed.
“Sit,” he commanded. “I’ll heat up some food.”
“I had dinner.”
“We’ve been working all evening.” He shrugged out of the red flannel he’d tossed on before we left the bar. He was still in a black shirt, but I’d never tire of that chest. “Besides, I’ve gotta ask you to hang out here for a while in the morning while I help with chores and haying.” He sent me a sidelong glance like he was waiting for an argument.
I was supposed to be irritated. I had work to do at the bar and someone had just vandalized it. But his house was clean and quiet. All the chairs, tables, and windows were intact. His toilets and sinks probably weren’t even cracked.
