Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Durban
I drive down the road to the lodge. The tasting with Stanford and January was only a few days ago, and instead of dreading the family dinner, I’m struggling to stay under the speed limit.
Images flash through my head as quickly as the countryside. Her pink lips on the glass. The sounds she made when she tasted the whiskey. Her questions. She was curious, and fuck. I liked sharing my knowledge, and when the attractive recipient is equally interested, well . . . it’s hot.
I just got out of a relationship. It can’t be a coincidence that now I’m undeniably single, my lust has attached to Campbell like the most powerful Velcro in the world. I’m not ready to dive into something with anyone, and I might be learning more about Campbell, but she’s not my type.
I’m not hers. If she goes for the Stanfords of the world, then I’m not the guy she’s looking for, and she’s likely not looking for anyone at all right now. The upcoming weeks will be her reason to stay single, and after that, she’s still got a career to build.
We don’t belong together. Knowing that, I can control myself.
I’m coasting down the long drive to the guest lodge. A woman is swaying on a black Morgan, Hailstorm. He’s one of the most requested horses the guests use. Impressive looking when he’s freshly brushed, and a giant teddy bear with a penchant for treats, he’s a perfect guest horse.
The woman’s hair is tucked under her cowboy hat, but I recognize the flare of her hips. Campbell’s in jeans, and the strong muscles of her legs are evident, gripping the sides of Hailstorm. I’ve never been envious of a horse before.
Time to flex that control. No ogling Campbell. But I can wonder what the hell she’s doing. Tonight, we’re deep in the wedding bullshit. What’s she doing out for a pleasure ride?
I slow even more and roll my window down. Hailstorm’s tail swishes.
“Enjoying yourself?” I ask.
“As much as I can.” She cocks her head so she can see me from under her Stetson. Her hips roll with each step, and her back is straight, making her breasts jut out. Fuck, she looks good on a horse.
“Cutting it close, aren’t you?” The dinner is supposed to start in an hour and a half.
She purses her lips. “Stanford wants to use Hailstorm to ride away with the bride, and I have to start working with him and January. Stanford needs lessons, and he has to learn how to lift January into the saddle.” She rolls her eyes toward me. “It has to be photogenic, you know.”
“Hailstorm will be. Not sure about them.”
“It’s my job to make sure they all are,” she says woodenly. She continues riding, and I keep my speed even with her.
Her job is planning. She can’t possibly mean she’s doing the rest. “You aren’t training them, are you?” William has staff who can do it.
She smacks her lips. “Personally requested.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“You’re not the joking type.” She smiles when she says it, and fiddles with a silver chain around her neck.
“I repel girlfriends when I tell jokes, remember? It’s like oil and water.”
“Is that a science joke?”
“Seems I am the joking type.”
Laughing, she reaches over the saddle and rubs a hand over Hailstorm’s gleaming withers. “It’s a bad one, but I almost pulled a muscle laughing so hard, so it wasn’t the jokes. Had to be her.”
I was only kidding, but she’s sticking up for me. My appreciation for her grows, and it has nothing to do with the flare of her hips from the way she’s astride Hailstorm, or how the sun makes her eyes dance.
She juts her chin toward the other side of the pickup. “I’m cutting in front of you so I can get to the barn. Stanford and January want to meet Hailstorm. Then I have to run home and get cleaned up. Then I’ll meet everyone in the bar.”
I brake so she can pass in front of me. “See you in a few.”
“I’m gonna need more than a few,” she grumbles as she rides past.
I watch her retreat, looking like a natural. I never paid attention to talk about the Hawthorne girls when I was an employee of the ranch, but didn’t she use to do rodeo? Barrel racing? Or was that Jamison? Maybe it was roping? I could see her doing breakaway with that lithe, powerful body.
She’s going to look back and find me staring. I hit the gas harder than intended and spin out some gravel. Hailstorm doesn’t break his stride. He’s chill as can be, his tail swishing. He’s a good choice to ride into the sunset with, but Stanford shouldn’t be making Campbell train him.
I park and make sure my mind’s in the right place. Admiring Campbell’s thighs isn’t making me presentable in the groin department. Neither is the memory of her laughing at my joke. I can’t believe she remembered to ask in the first place.
If I sit here any longer, I’m going to keep thinking about Campbell. She’s already consuming an inappropriate amount of my thoughts.
I walk into the back entrance of the guest lodge to avoid the guests roaming in the front and sitting on the porch.
I’ll be seeing them soon enough. This whole situation is unbelievable.
At least it was until Campbell told me why she’s really doing it.
She might be wanting to strike back at her cousin because of the hurt, but she probably doesn’t realize how much she’s tormenting Stanford.
I have a hard enough time fighting off wet dreams about blow jobs and wide-eyed questions about whiskey. Then somehow whiskey became part of the blow job, and I’ve been awake since three in the morning.
Stopping in the kitchen before turning into the bar, I marvel over my change in circumstance. Five years ago, I would’ve had to justify my presence in the guest lodge. Now, I gave Campbell a list of what I need for tonight, and she took care of it with Chef.
Chef Cecil has worked at Hawthorne since before I did, and his meals are next level.
They’re one of the things I’ve missed since living on my own.
He glances up from the beef Wellington he’s preparing for tonight.
His usual jovial expression is replaced with grim determination. “Durban. What can I do for you?”
“Other than cancel this wedding?”
He barks out a laugh. “I would if I could. That poor girl should not be enduring this. Have you heard the latest?”
“About the horse training, or is there more?” I hover by the entry.
Anyone who’s been in Chef’s kitchen knows we can only go so far.
Two more steps and I’d have a hair net slapped over my head, a beard net clamped across my ears for my mustache, and an apron tied around my neck.
And then Chef would scowl at my cowboy boots, as if I’d walked through a cured manure pile right before I entered.
Chef sucks his lips against his teeth. “That’s it, but there’ll be more.” He shoots me a knowing look. “That boy’s just getting started.”
A rolling cart full of lemon and lime wedges, maraschino cherries, fresh simple syrup, and other cocktail supplies is waiting for me. “Thanks for this.”
“Anything to make this easier for one of my girls.”
I appreciate that everyone around here is rallying around Campbell. It says a lot about her.
I push my goods to the bar. Tables are butted together and surrounded by chairs. Campbell talked them into serving the family meal in the bar so the drinks can flow. The bar’s ambiance has a more classic Western vibe than the dining room, and I’d rather work behind a counter than a little cart.
I spend the time putting my supplies away and lining up the bottles I’m going to use, making sure the labels are visible. Eventually, people start filtering in.
A young woman flops onto a stool. Her shoulder-length blond hair flares out at the ends. “Is it too early to order?”
“Sydney.” An older woman with a severe bob, wearing black slacks and a loose cardigan, glares at her. “We are sitting at the table, not the bar. There’s no need to be drinking yet.”
Sydney’s shoulders go rigid. “There isn’t going to be enough liquor for tonight.” She pushes away from the counter and drags her feet to the table.
“Is there a seating arrangement?” another woman asks, smoothing her hands over her black cocktail dress. The pearls at her neck catch the light.
Mother of the groom? She has the same pointy chin, and the hair in her chignon is only two shades lighter than his. A man strides in, a hand in his slacks pocket and his charcoal sport coat hanging open. He stops beside the elegant woman and scowls at the setup.
Stanford sweeps in, January hot on his loafers. The back of her hair is mussed, and her face is red. Stanford’s fly is half open.
He stops, frowning. “Where’s the planner?”
“You mean your ex?” Sydney mutters.
I almost fail at holding back my smile.
“Late like always.” Stanford stomps to the bar. “Vodka raspberry lemonade.”
January stands on the same side of Stanford that Sydney’s on. “I’ll have one too.”
Sydney leans over. “Wanna tell your beau that the barn door’s open?”
“Jesus, Syd,” January snaps. “What?”
Sydney recoils and looks around. Everyone’s attention is on them, their disapproving stares on Sydney. “His fly’s open.” She says it loudly and wiggles her index finger by her head. “And you might wanna fix your hair. What were you both doing out in that barn anyway?”
My stomach sinks. The barn. Did Campbell have to witness what they were doing, or had she finished with Hailstorm by then?
I crush the raspberries, grateful that she isn’t here to witness the casual bickering. She’d probably get blamed for it.
“Where do I sit?” January’s mom says louder than before.
When the attention switches to her, Stanford jerks his zipper up. I finish making his drink.
“She’s late again.” Stanford rubbernecks toward the door.
“As always,” January says in a snide tone.
I slide the bride’s cocktail over and toss two raspberries in. They plop, creating a tiny splash. Her dainty frown is no match for the lack of shits I have to give.
Stanford gulps half of his, but his gaze is plastered on the doorway.