Tugging at my thin linen top, the fabric already sticks to my skin. It’s the week of the Summer Explosion in Cole County, so it’s been an insane rush of tourists and preparations at the Miller house. Tate and I decided to add two cabins, which has taken more of my time than I had to spare overseeing construction during rodeo season. We hadn’t expected so many to want to stay here, and it’s proven to be a great stream of revenue for the ranch.
Fortunately, the competition night isn’t until next weekend, but Gary and Rhonda Miller will be coming into town for the festivities that span the Fourth of July. What they don’t know is we’ve planned a surprise dedication ceremony for them. They’re wonderful people and deserve all the praise.
The extra responsibilities at the ranch have made it nearly impossible for me to keep up with multiple shifts at the bar. Jim finally hired some additional staff, so I’ve been able to spend fewer nights there, which meant more time with Ward. Speaking of which, he’s the exact reason I’m late. The man insisted on showering together, which meant my hair got wet, and then I had to blow-dry and style it.
My brother is going to kill me. Once a week, we meet for lunch, and I’ve blown him off for the past few weeks because of my schedule. But there is nothing Beckett hates more than someone being late.
Sweeping my limp hair off my shoulder, I wave as I shuffle past the receptionist’s desk in his office building. It’s one of the newer miniature skyscrapers here in Carruthersville. A structure that speaks of the type of businesses that own or rent space here.
It’s a mad dash through the hallways once I jump off the elevator, stopping at Beckett’s office door to find a woman seated behind his desk.
Chocolate-brown eyes meet mine as she looks up from her paperwork. “Hi, can I help you?” Her voice is firm, but with a southern twang more pronounced than mine, confirming she’s not from here. Honestly, she reminds me of River. No-nonsense with that shrewd stare and straight mouth.
“Um, this is my brother’s office. Beckett Hughes?” I stay outside the doorway as if nervous to cross the threshold. There’s no way I’m remembering wrong. I’ve been coming here for the past five years.
“Oh. Oh my goodness,” she stands from her desk, straightening her cream pencil skirt. “You’re Beatrice.” She stops in front of me, extending her hand for me to shake. “It’s so nice to meet you. Beckett talks about you all the time.”
“Hi,” I laugh nervously.
“Apologies, I’m Harper Brookes, the new estate lawyer here at the firm. I just moved to town. Beckett gave me his office and moved down the hall. I can show you.”
“Thank you.”
Beckett had mentioned that a new lawyer was joining the firm. He hadn’t said anything more, and I hadn’t asked. So much about his career flies straight over my head, so I don’t even bother trying to comprehend it. He loves what he does, and that’s good enough for me.
“Knock, knock,” Harper cracks her knuckles against the doorframe.
The office is bigger than his previous one, with more filing cabinets and a massive bookshelf filled with law volumes along the wall. “Hey, Beck. Sorry, I’m late.”
“No worries. Seems you met Harper here,” he gestures, still scribbling across his legal pad.
“I did. Are you ready for lunch? I’m on a little bit of a time crunch.” For good measure, I glance at my watch.
Without even meeting my stare, my brother hands me his card. “Better idea. I’m swamped with the ranch stuff. Take Harper to lunch, on me.”
My heart sinks a little. It’s been weeks since I had time alone with Beckett. I may have canceled on him over the last few weeks, but he has never canceled on me. Whatever he’s working on must be super important. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since he, too, is now involved with Boulder Ranch as their tax lawyer.
Turning to face Harper, I give her my best Betty smile. “Well, looks like it’s us then.”
Together we move down the hallway, waiting for the elevator in silence. It’s not until we step foot out on the sidewalk that she speaks again. “This weather is so much more stifling than in Alabama.” Her long, delicate fingers fan her face as if that will provide any reprieve when the heat and humidity mix like this. It won’t. You’ll only sweat more.
It’s a short walk to the cafe that Beckett and I usually go to. The small talk flows effortlessly before we enter the tiny restaurant. The conversation remains surface-level, but is comfortable.
Entering The Villa Cafe is like stepping into what I would assume an upscale coffee shop looks like in a big city. I’ve never been in one, so I can only make that assumption based on movies. The interior is alive with chatter, clinking silverware, and the lingering scent of Brazilian coffee. They say we’ve become caffeine addicts, and that couldn’t be truer.
Harper leads us to a two-seater by the front window. Beckett and I always sit near the back as he’s terrified someone will recognize him and interrupt our lunch, asking for legal advice.
“This place is so cute,” Harper chirps.
“Yeah, we come here a lot.” Glancing over the menu, I mentally slap myself. I already know what I’m going to get. It’s the same every time.Maybe that’s your problem, Betty.
For once, I study the menu harder. It’s so hot outside, I can’t imagine eating anything I would consider comfort food, yet my eyes pause on the meatloaf sandwich. I’ve never tried it, nor does it sound appealing, but it rattles my insides. Meatloaf is Nash’s favorite.
“I’ve been eating nothing but takeout, so I should have a salad,” Harper says absently, “But a loaded BLT sounds scrumptious.”
I can only stare at her, absorbing her accent. Everyone has always told me how strong mine is, and I never really heard it until I listened to someone else. “Where did you say you’re from again?”
“Oh, yes. The suburbs of Alabama. Grew up in a super uppity neighborhood, went to an Ivy League college, then to law school, married our family friend.” My eyes go wide at her words. “Oh, no. Nothing crazy. He’s only three years older than I am. Anyhow, we got married, I did all the things a southern belle wife from money should do,” she sighs heavily as if recapping the past exhausts her. “Then we had my daughter Ainsley. She’s eight. I wasn’t happy, so I got divorced, and here I am in a new city where I don’t know anyone and am trying to do things all on my own for the first time at the ripe old age of thirty-nine.”
