It’s that strange lull between lunch and check-in when the grand hall feels almost too large for the number of people milling around. Sunlight pours through the towering windows that face the mountains, catching on the glossy leaves of the massive fiddle-leaf fig trees flanking the seating areas around the fireplaces.
I stride across the marble floor from the corridor that leads back toward the executive offices, my key fob already in my hand. I’m leaving earlier than usual today—something I almost never do—but the moving crew I hired is supposed to meet me out at my grandfather’s place within the hour.
If I don’t get there first, Josiah is liable to chase them off.
I’m halfway across the lobby when I hear my name.
“Porter!”
I turn to see a tall, broad-shouldered man exiting the elevator.
Jaxon Moss. President of the Wyoming Cattlemen’s Association.
Even across the room, he has the presence of a man used to being listened to—salt-and-pepper hair, tanned face, and impeccable suit.
And one of my father’s most loyal supporters in his bid for office, lending both his personal and the association’s financial backing to Dad’s campaign.
“Jaxon,” I say, changing directions to greet him.
We shake hands.
“You heading out?” he asks.
“For a bit,” I say. “Family business.”
He nods knowingly.
“What brings you down from Cheyenne?” I ask.
“Conference planning,” he says. “Just nailing down the specifics before next month.”
“Well, we’re happy to be hosting again. Please let me know if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.”
“I think we’re all set,” he says with a low chuckle. “I just met with your new event manager.”
Ah, Miss Storm.
“Oh, yeah? What did you think?”
Jaxon’s mouth curves. “That girl is something.”
I arch a brow. “Good something?”
His laugh booms through the quiet lobby. “Well, our one o’clock meeting lasted three and a half hours, if that tells you anything.”
My brows lift. “Three and a half?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
Jaxon chuckles again, shaking his head, like he’s still half amused.
“That young woman is charming as hell,” he says. “And she’s got more fresh ideas than anyone I’ve talked to in years.”
I cross my arms loosely. “What kind of ideas?”
“Oh, everything,” he says. “Outdoor demonstrations, local ranch tours, interactive panels instead of boring lectures, something she called a ‘range-to-table’ dinner, where the chefs cook locally raised beef.”
