Christie grabbed menus and turned, leading them through the room.
A few heads turned. Izzy felt it.
Felt the quiet assessment in a place like this—who belonged, who didn’t.
They were halfway to the windows when a voice cut across the room.
“Well now—looky here.”
It carried without effort.
Cal slowed.
Izzy turned.
A long table sat near the windows.
Men in pressed shirts and jackets, coffee and plates in front of them.
At the head—Wade Hollis.
Stetson.
Blazer. Crisp denim. Boots crossed at the ankle.
A cigar between his fingers like it was part of the outfit.
He leaned back just enough to take her in.
Slow.
Intent.
Then he stood.
“Miss Moreno,” he said, smile already set. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you headed back to Denver.”
Cal didn’t react.
Just shifted a half step closer, his shoulder nearly brushing Izzy's.
Izzy stepped forward, composed.
“Mr. Hollis.”
Wade closed the distance like he owned it.
Which he did.
His hand found her arm, guiding her in just enough for a side hug.
Easy. Too familiar.
“I’ve been meaning to get with you,” he said. “Looking for something for my den. Over the fireplace. Figured you might have the right eye for it.”
Izzy smiled, polite and professional.
“I’d be happy to take a look.”
