Man, he thought, a sudden, sharp desire blooming in his gut.I’d like to get my hands on that.
The thought was visceral. Raw.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, forcing his expression to remain as flat as a high-plains horizon. He put himself in check before the thought could even settle.
She was Caitlin’s best friend.
She was an art dealer from Denver who probably thought a “busy day” involved a long lunch and a gallery opening.
And most importantly, she was a temporary fixture. A week, maybe two, and she’d fly right back to Denver.
Grant didn’t do the one-night-stand thing. Not anymore. Women in this town got clingy; they got attached to the idea of being the one to “tame” the Scott brother who stayed behind.
He wasn’t ready for attachment.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be again.
He shifted his weight, his starched shirt crinkling.
“You look…” He paused, searching for a word that wasn’t spectacular. “You look like you’re lost, Moreno. The gala is a few states over.”
Izzy’s lips tipped into that dangerous curve, her dark eyes flashing.
“And you look like you’re headed to a hearing at the courthouse. Does that shirt actually let you move, or is it just for show?”
Grant’s mouth twitched, a rough sound, almost a laugh. He pushed off the counter, closing the distance just enough that the clean line of jasmine and silk slipped under his skin, crowding out the smell of coffee.
“It’s for show,” he said. “And it’s the only thing keeping me civil.”
He set his mug down, his gaze traveling one more time over the way the silk moved against her legs, memorizing the picture before the rest of the world got to see her.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for his keys. “Let’s go give Caitlin a heart attack. Just try not to break any hearts while you’re at it. I don’t want to have to clean up the mess.”
Izzy brushed past him, the scent of something floral and expensive catching in his lungs, the split in her jumpsuit flashing a glimpse of thigh that made him grip his keys until his knuckles went white.
“I’ll try to contain myself, Cowboy. But I make no promises.”
Grant followed her out, watching the sway of that silk and the dangerous little confidence in her stride, and silently reminded himself that a week or two was a very, very long time to keep his hands in his pockets.
Just before they stepped off the porch, Izzy’s hand found his forearm—a brief, grounding touch that had nothing to do with silk or attraction.
“Are we still doing it?” she asked softly. “Asking your dad about Clara?”
Grant looked down at her, the playful tension of the kitchen replaced by the cold weight of the mystery. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll find a moment with my father.”
11
Saturday Evening — The Party
By the time the first cars came up the drive, the barn was already warm with light.
Music drifted out through the open doors—low, familiar, something from years back that didn’t need announcing to be recognized. Laughter followed it, soft at first, then building as people filtered in.
The long table sat under the rafters, lit gold from above. Candles flickered along the center, catching on glass, on plates, on the edges of everything Izzy had spent the day putting together.
Outside, the firepit burned steady. Chairs circled it, a few already occupied, the glow of the flames pulling people toward it without asking.
Grant stood just inside the barn doors, one shoulder against the frame, watching it all come together without stepping into the middle of it.
