“Excuse me, Wade. I believe I’m owed a dance.”
Wade’s eyes narrowed, but with the town watching, he let out a sharp, ugly laugh and stepped back. Grant pulled Izzy into his arms. He didn’t hold her like the Hollises did. He held her with a firm, protective strength that anchored her.
Izzy didn’t expect him to be able to move, but Grant led her with a surprising, effortless grace, spinning her away from the center of the room. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear.
“Don’t look now,” he whispered, his voice vibrating against her skin. “But those men from Florida—the ones from the landing strip—they’re in the room. And they’ve been clocking you since you walked in.”
Izzy’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on his shoulder.
Across the room, Cal stood by the bar, his face darkening as he watched Grant whisper to her. He looked like a man watching his favorite toy being handled by a stranger.
Wade appeared at Cal’s shoulder, his voice a lethal, low hiss that only his son could hear.
“Don’t stand there looking like a kicked dog, Cal. You’re a Hollis. Don’t let another man take what belongs to you. Get your ass out there and claim what’s yours.”
* * *
Spurred by his father's venom, Cal marched across the floor. He practically dragged Izzy away from Grant, his grip on her wrist a fraction too tight, his pride wounded by Grant’s interference. "We need a quiet minute," Cal snapped, pulling her away from the ballroom and down the corridor toward the private library.
The air in the library was cooler and a world away from the jazz band’s upbeat tempo.
Grant reached the heavy mahogany doors as they were clicking almost shut. He paused, his hand hovering over the brass latch. Through the sliver of space left by the frame, he saw them.
Cal wasn’t talking anymore. He had Izzy pulled flush against him, his hands tangled in her hair. Her eyes closed. From where Grant stood, it didn’t look like a woman being guarded. It looked like a woman who had made a choice.
The white-hot protective flare in Grant's chest didn't turn into anger. It didn't turn into a fight. It turned into a hollow,sinking weight—regret. It hit him that while he'd been busy playing soldier and chasing ghosts, Cal Hollis had been offering her the kind of life she understood.
Grant stepped back, the shadows of the hallway swallowing him.
As the library door latched shut, Izzy immediately stepped back and pulled her wrist free.
"What was that? You grabbed me like I was property."
Cal's jaw tightened. "I didn't want to share you with half the county all night."
"That's not your call to make."
"You didn't stop me."
"No." Her gaze never left his. "I didn't. There's a difference."
Grant walked back down the corridor toward the noise of the gala, the music louder with every step. He found Burke near the bar and leaned in close. "She's in the library with Cal," Grant said, his voice stripped of emotion. "Keep an eye on the door. I've seen enough of his hands on her for one night."
42
Bridlepath Farm
Back at Bridlepath Farm after the gala, the farmhouse sat quiet beneath the moonlight, the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains stretching dark and endless beyond the pastures. After the noise, champagne, and hollow glamour of the lodge, the stillness of the farm felt like another world entirely.
Before Burke and Caitlin headed to their own place, Burke walked over to Grant’s old mahogany stereo. He flipped through the stack of vinyl until he found what he was looking for.
The needle dropped with a soft, rhythmic scratch, and the soulful, velvet voice of Al Green filled the living room. “Let’s Stay Together” drifted through the house, warm and honeyed.
When the front door finally clicked shut behind Burke and Caitlin, the gulf between Grant and Izzy felt massive.
“The guy on the terrace tonight,” Grant said, breaking the quiet. He wasn’t snarling or snapping. He sounded tired. Sincere. “He was Varga. Florida cartel.”
Izzy, who was unpinning her hair, stopped.
