As my gaze drifts over to Pane again, it hits me—he hasn’t talked about the hotels. I mean, he introduced himself as being part of the Maddox Group. Otherwise, I would’ve thought he was some sort of crazy person and I wouldn’t have listened to him. Of course, hementionedhis family’s business but Pane never went into specifics.
He never bragged.
He also didn’t boast when he told me about his usual breakfast. It was simply put. I’m the one who jumped to conclusions about the snobby caviar and elevated his daily meals above mine.
Pane didn’t.
Besides, he loved the biscuits. Devoured them. He didn’t look down his nose at them.
It was for all of those things—the biscuits, the failure with Coleman, the need to save the farm—that I took him to my dad’s shop and helped him.
I dare to sneak another glance at Pane and watch as he pushes back his chair and stands, shaking Coleman’s hand. His shoulders strain against the rugged shirt he’s wearing. The cotton hugs his broad shoulders and defined pecs. I’m sure plenty of women are ogling him behind their beer bottles.
Pane glances up, spots me, and heads in my direction.
Those knee-quaking sage eyes of his make my stomach flutter.
Wait. No, they’re not.
That’s the alcohol that I’ve downed. I haven’t eaten in hours, and that’s why my stomach’s currently engaged in a double Dutch jump rope contest.
Though all that’s true, I find myself being drawn to Pane. Something about him pulls me in.
After excusing myself from Hilary, I drift toward him as he does the same, our gazes never straying from one another.
That kiss jumps into my head, and it’s impossible not to stare at his lips. They’re thick and luscious, looking like they ache to be smooched again.
What is wrong with me? Some guy cuts some logs, and I’m suddenly unable to think straight?
Apparently so, because I’m still inching toward him like he’s a magnet.
When we’re only a few feet apart, Cristina jumps in front of me. “Hey, I heard about the log-cutting. You should have called me. I would’ve given anything to see Coleman Barrier taken down a notch.”
My gaze flicks to Pane, but he’s already got company. Ron’s peppering him with questions, and Pane listens intently, arms folded.
I give Cristina my undivided attention. “Yeah, it was quite the spectacle.”
“How’d he learn to work a chain saw so fast?”
When I don’t answer, her jaw drops. “No! You showed him? On one of your dad’s? I thought you said that you’d never—”
“I know what I said,” I say tensely. “But he needed help, and we’ve got to have the supplies. I don’t know what for, other than slapping a coat of paint on the house and fixing the farm, but we need them.”
She eyes my nearly empty glass. “Want another?”
“No, I’m okay for now.”
Cristina glances around the room. “Where is Pane?”
“Behind you.”
My best friend discreetly glances over her shoulder, looks him up and down, and then turns to me. “If you don’t hit that, Rowe, I’ll never forgive you. I mean, what man can make a popover shirt look sexy? I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Me neither.”
She grabs my arm. “Come on. Let’s sit at the bar.”
As she drags me to the bar top, I toss one last glance at Pane, who’s still in conversation with Ron.
