Cal didn’t look at her. “No.”
The Escalade rolled beneath the covered drive. Stone columns rose on either side, a little larger than necessary, enough to remind you where you stood.
Cal killed the engine. The car went quiet.
“Richest man in Jackson County?” she asked.
Cal’s smile tugged up. “By a long shot.”
Izzy nodded. Her gaze was already moving. Cataloging. Measuring.
“Yeah,” she said. “That tracks.”
She stepped out.
Wealth didn’t hum here. Neither did success.
It felt like a stage. And the lead actor was waiting.
* * *
As they moved down the hall, Izzy slowed.
The walls weren’t crowded. They were curated. American Impressionism and contemporary Western realism—a Maynard Dixon and a small, restrained Hassam.
She knew the collectors who fought for these. Finding them tucked away on a North Carolina ridge wasn’t just surprising. It was a warning.
The housekeeper opened the double doors to the den.
Darker. Richer. Private. Wood-paneled walls gleamed under low light. The books weren’t decorative; the spines were broken, the leather worn from use. The fireplace was massive, built from jagged stone pulled straight from the mountain. Above it, a wide, deliberate absence.
“Well now?—”
Wade Hollis stood near the hearth. Over sixty, but the mountain hadn’t bent him. He wore a Stetson with a perfect crease, pressed denim, and exotic-skin boots polished to a mirror shine.
“Darlin’,” he said. The voice was smooth, with something sharp underneath. “Good to see you again.”
He crossed the floor with the easy stride of a man who had never been told no.
Izzy offered her hand. Professional. A barrier.
Wade took it, but he didn’t shake it. He used it to pull her in. Too close. His gaze dropped—a slow, unapologetic sweep from her throat to her boots.
It wasn’t a look. It was a measurement.
“Mr. Hollis,” she said, her voice a flat line. “Lovely to see you again.”
“Pleasure’s mine, darlin’.”
His hand lingered on the small of her back, the squeeze a fraction too firm. He finally let go, but the ghost of the touch stayed. He gestured to the fireplace. “What do you think?”
“It needs presence,” Izzy said. “Something that can hold its ground against the mountain.”
Wade’s eyes sparked. “Exactly.”
He moved to the sideboard and poured two fingers of bourbon. He didn’t ask.
“Water is fine, thank you,” Izzy said.
