Grant didn’t miss a beat. “This is Izzy.”
The woman’s gaze came back to her face.
A beat passed.
Izzy offered a small, polite smile. “Hi.”
“Naomi,” she said. “Barn manager.”
Izzy had spent years handling gallery donors, difficult artists, and wealthy men with egos the size of small countries. Somehow, this woman with a lead rope made her feel underdressed.
Izzy nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
Naomi didn’t respond to that.
Instead, she shifted her attention back to Grant. “We’ve got Hollis coming in this morning. Said he’d be here by nine.”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “I know.”
Naomi’s eyes flicked once more toward Izzy.
Then back to the horse.
Conversation over.
Izzy shot Grant a look.
“Well,” she said,“that went well.”
His mouth moved—barely.
“She’ll come around.”
“Comforting.”
A bark sounded behind them.
Izzy turned.
A dog trotted down the aisle toward them—medium-sized, quick, alert. One blue eye. One brown. Ears up, tail already wagging like it had somewhere important to be.
“Well hello,” Izzy said, crouching slightly.
The dog slowed, studying her.
Then, apparently satisfied, stepped forward and pressed his head into her hand.
“Oh, you are a good decision,” she murmured, scratching behind his ears.
The tail wagged harder.
“Steve,” Grant said.
“Of course, his name is Steve,” she said. “Does he have a mortgage and a favorite lawn mower, too? He looks like he’s about to tell me my tires are low.”
Steve leaned into her like they’d known each other for years.
Grant watched.
