“Spoken like a twenty-one-year-old.”
She raises a brow. “How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
“Thirty-three.”
She fakes a shudder. “Ew, ancient. You’re practically rusting before my eyes,” she teases.
“Watch it now.”
Once the drinks arrive and we order—rib eye for me, filet for her—the conversation settles into something easy. Which surprises me.
I’d expect dinner with a brand-new employee to feel … awkward. Formal.
But it doesn’t.
Harleigh leans her elbows lightly on the table, chin resting in her hands as she talks.
“So, Mr. Garrison, I know your family has owned the Belicourt since it was built, but how long have you been running the show?”
“Porter.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re off the clock, so you can call me Porter. And I took over the position from my father nine years ago.”
“Wow.”
He lifts a brow. “Wow?”
“It just seems crazy to me that you’re old enough to already be nearly a decade into your career.”
“Is that another dig at my age?” I ask.
“No, it’s genuine amazement. Besides, you seem so agile for an old man,” she says cheekily as she takes a sip from her glass.
“Thank you.”
She smiles.
“I guess I’m lucky. My name came with a built-in career path.”
She nods enthusiastically. “My family ranch is kind of the same way.”
“Wildhaven Storm, correct?”
Her eyes brighten. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“I do have access to our employee files.”
“Oh, of course you do,” she says.
“Tell me about the ranch.”
“It’s gorgeous. Eleven thousand acres on the edge of Wildhaven. Pastures as far as the eye can see. It has been in our family forever. My great-great-grandfather started it with, like, twelve cattle and a stubborn mule.”
I chuckle.
“And now it’s a thriving horse ranch,” she continues proudly. “And thanks to my sisters, the home of a new state-of-the-art rodeo school that will have its grand opening next month.”
