* * *
The jazz band shifted into a slow, syrupy ballad. On the floor, Burke was lost in Caitlin’s eyes, his hand steady at the small of her back. He looked like a man who had forgotten the world was on fire.
Grant didn’t have that luxury.
He was dancing with Naomi, her head barely reaching his chest. Her height was a blessing—it gave him a clear, unobstructed line of sight over the crowd. He scanned the room, his eyes moving like a predator’s, until he saw them.
The two men from the Hollis Country Club.
They had entered from opposite sides of the Great Room. They weren’t wearing the “Lodge” style; their suits were too sharp, their eyes too hungry. They weren’t looking at the peonies or the champagne. They were clocking Izzy.
Grant looked at Burke, trying to catch his eye, but the Sheriff was hooked, line, and sinker by the woman in green.
“Grant, you’re killing me,” Naomi hissed, stumbling as he stepped too wide. “Can you focus? You’re leaden-footed.”
Grant didn’t answer. He watched Cal spin Izzy toward the open terrace doors. The midnight blue of her dress caught the moonlight, and then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the veranda.
A moment later, Cal stepped back into the room alone, heading toward the bar.
Then, one of the Florida men adjusted his jacket and slipped out onto the terrace.
“Go break in on Burke,” Grant commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “Tell him ‘Terrace.’ Now.”
Naomi looked confused for a split second, her brow furrowed. Then she saw the direction of his gaze. Her expression sharpened into that of the partner he trusted. “Oh. Yeah. Got it.”
She dropped his hand and moved through the dancers like a heat-seeking missile toward Burke.
Grant cut toward the open doors with quiet, dangerous intent. Hestepped out into the mountain air, cutting off the Florida man before he could get within ten feet of her.
“Isabella,” Cal said, stepping between them with a proprietary smoothness. He handed her a flute of champagne, his thumb grazing hers. “Grant was just leaving. He’s got a farm to run, and I’ve got the prettiest girl at the ball to escort to the stage. It’s time for Dad’s big moment.”
Grant stood his ground, his shadow falling long across the stone. He was an inch taller than Cal, broader in the shoulder, and a hundred times more grounded. He didn’t look at the champagne. He looked at Cal like he was a problem that needed solving.
A waiter appeared, gliding through the terrace doors with a silver tray. He offered a glass to Grant, the bubbles hissing in the mountain air. Grant didn’t move a muscle.
“I’m fine,” Grant said, his voice a low rumble.
“Suit yourself,” Cal smirked. He tucked Izzy’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Let’s go, darlin.”
They stepped back inside, Grant following like a silent, charcoal-clad ghost.
The Great Room had gone quiet. Wade Hollis stood on the small riser near the fireplace, looking every bit the benevolent king. He raised his glass, his voice booming with a practiced, politician’s warmth.
“Friends, neighbors,” Wade began. “We all know the toll this valley has taken. For too long, our families have had to drive to Asheville or Charlotte for cancer treatment. But not anymore.Tonight, I am proud to announce that the new wing of Jackson Valley Hospital is officially fully funded.”
A cheer went up, but Grant’s eyes were on the men from Florida standing near the exits.
“We’re naming it in honor of the woman who raised me with the grit of these mountains,” Wade continued. “The Evelyn Hollis Memorial Wing. To progress, to health, and to the folks in Sylva who made this happen. Eat, drink, and dance!”
The band kicked into a lively swing. Wade stepped off the riser and headed straight for Izzy.
“My turn, darlin, I believe,” Wade said, sliding a hand onto her waist.
Grant watched from the edge of the floor. One snake to the next. Wade didn’t dance like a host; he danced like an owner. He pulled Izzy closer than was polite, his hand moving slow and heavy across the small of her back. Izzy kept her face a perfect, polished mask of Denver-bred charm, but Grant saw the way her shoulders stayed braced. She’d dealt with men like Wade in the high-stakes galleries, men who thought their checkbooks bought them a woman’s dignity.
She played it flawlessly, but Grant was done watching.
As the song shifted into something slower, Grant moved. He didn’t ask. He simply stepped into Wade’s space, his presence an immovable force.
