Chapter Ten
The lobby is quieter than usual for a weekday afternoon.
It’s that strange lull between lunch and check-in when the grand hall feels almost too large for the number of people milling around.
Sunlight pours through the towering windows that face the mountains, catching on the glossy leaves of the massive fiddle-leaf fig trees flanking the seating areas around the fireplaces.
I stride across the marble floor from the corridor that leads back toward the executive offices, my key fob already in my hand. I’m leaving earlier than usual today—something I almost never do—but the moving crew I hired is supposed to meet me out at my grandfather’s place within the hour.
If I don’t get there first, Josiah is liable to chase them off.
I’m halfway across the lobby when I hear my name.
“Porter!”
I turn to see a tall, broad-shouldered man exiting the elevator.
Jaxon Moss. President of the Wyoming Cattlemen’s Association.
Even across the room, he has the presence of a man used to being listened to—salt-and-pepper hair, tanned face, and impeccable suit.
And one of my father’s most loyal supporters in his bid for office, lending both his personal and the association’s financial backing to Dad’s campaign.
“Jaxon,” I say, changing directions to greet him.
We shake hands.
“You heading out?” he asks.
“For a bit,” I say. “Family business.”
He nods knowingly.
“What brings you down from Cheyenne?” I ask.
“Conference planning,” he says. “Just nailing down the specifics before next month.”
“Well, we’re happy to be hosting again. Please let me know if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.”
“I think we’re all set,” he says with a low chuckle. “I just met with your new event manager.”
Ah, Miss Storm.
“Oh, yeah? What did you think?”
Jaxon’s mouth curves. “That girl is something.”
I arch a brow. “Good something?”
His laugh booms through the quiet lobby. “Well, our one o’clock meeting lasted three and a half hours, if that tells you anything.”
My brows lift. “Three and a half?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
Jaxon chuckles again, shaking his head, like he’s still half amused.
“That young woman is charming as hell,” he says. “And she’s got more fresh ideas than anyone I’ve talked to in years.”
I cross my arms loosely. “What kind of ideas?”
“Oh, everything,” he says. “Outdoor demonstrations, local ranch tours, interactive panels instead of boring lectures, something she called a ‘range-to-table’ dinner, where the chefs cook locally raised beef.”
He whistles softly. “She had mock-ups, schedules, vendor lists, sponsorship proposals … hell, she even planned a two-step class for those of us who want to bring our wives along.”
A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I like her. Enthusiastic. Relentless. She definitely doesn’t believe in doing anything half-assed.”
He leans a little closer. “And somehow,” he says, lowering his voice, “that little firecracker managed to finagle another five-year contract and deposit out of me.”
My head jerks back. “Five years?”
“That’s right.”
I let out a low whistle. “Well, damn.”
He nods. “You’ve got yourself a hell of a negotiator.”
I stare past him for a second, processing.
Harleigh’s been on staff just a few short weeks.
And she just secured a five-year contract with the largest cattle organization in the state.
That’s more than impressive.
Jaxon claps me on the shoulder. “Your old man would like her.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure he would.”
Jaxon glances at his watch. “Well, I’d better get rolling. Long drive back.”
We shake hands again.
“Good seeing you, Porter.”
“You too.”
He heads for the revolving doors, leaving me standing in the middle of the lobby with a strange feeling of pride and a growing curiosity about the young woman currently shaking things up at my hotel.
I stop at the front desk and inform Mabree that I’m leaving for the evening but that I can be reached on my cell should anything urgent arise. Then I head for the side exit, pushing through the glass doors into the crisp Wyoming air.
The mountains rise beyond the property like a painted backdrop. Dressed in every color under the sun.
The employee parking lot stretches out ahead of me, scattered with pickup trucks, SUVs, and the occasional sedan.
And right in the middle of it, I catch the sight of a blonde ponytail.
She’s walking toward a vehicle near the far row, a slim burgundy blazer hugging her shoulders and a messenger bag slung across her body.
Even from this distance, I can see the bounce in her step.
I call out, “Miss Storm.”
She turns.
And the smile that spreads across her face could power the entire damn hotel.
“Yes?”
I pick up my pace as I make my way toward her.
“Hi,” I say as I stop by her side.
“Hi yourself,” she says.
“I’ve been meaning to check with you. How is everything going? Are you enjoying it here?”
She presses a hand to her chest like she’s trying to contain the excitement bubbling out of her. “I just had the most amazing meeting.”
“With Jaxon Moss?”
Her eyes go wide. “Yes. How did you—”
“I ran into him as he was leaving,” I say.
“And?”
“And he told me your one o’clock meeting lasted three and a half hours.”
She winces slightly. “Oh gosh, I hope that wasn’t a bad thing.”
“No. He was quite pleased. Apparently, you charmed him into signing another five-year contract.”
Her smile widens. “I sure did.”
Her excitement is infectious. The kind that makes you want to laugh even if you don’t know why.
“That’s incredible,” I say. “Good work.”
“Thank you.”
She bounces on her toes. “I had all these ideas, and I was so nervous he’d think they were ridiculous, but he loved them, and we started brainstorming, and then we just kept talking and—”
Her words start tumbling out faster and faster as we walk together through the parking lot.
She’s practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Which is refreshing.
“And then we got to the part about the ranch tours, and I told him about Wildhaven Storm, and he said that would be perfect for the heritage panel and—”
She stops abruptly.
Right beside an old blue truck.
I glance down at it.
Then back at her.
“Is this yours?”
Her smile turns proud. “It sure is.”
She pats the hood affectionately. “Meet Blue Bessie.”
I blink. “Blue Bessie?”
“She’s a 1952 Chevrolet 3100.”
I step closer, taking it in.
The paint is a faded dusty blue—the kind of color that must have been bright once, but has softened under decades of Wyoming sun.
The surface isn’t perfect.
There are faint scratches and a few rusty and sun-bleached patches. A little dullness along the edges.
But somehow, that only makes it better.
The body is all rounded curves and thick steel, built back when trucks were meant to work instead of look pretty.
The front fenders swell out like broad shoulders, framing a wide chrome grille with horizontal bars that catch the light. The hood slopes forward, the old Chevrolet script badge still mounted along the side like a small piece of history. Whitewall tires hug the pavement beneath dark steel wheels.
I reach out, brushing my fingers across the cool metal of the hood.
It feels sturdy.
Reliable.
Like something built to last generations.
“She’s a beauty,” I admit.
Harleigh beams. “I know.”
She leans against the driver’s door. “I fell in love with her when I was little.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“My grandfather used to sit me in his lap while he worked around the ranch and let me steer. And my sister Matty taught me how to drive in it.”
I can picture it instantly.
Little Harleigh with pigtails and dusty boots, gripping a giant steering wheel while an old rancher laughs beside her.
“She looks like she’s carried a lot of miles,” I say.
“Oh, she has.”
The cab is small and rounded, curved glass reflecting the cottonwood trees overhead. Through the window, I can see a worn, cracked leather bench seat. Behind the cab, the pickup bed stretches, and I imagine it full of hay bales.
For a moment, I’m not standing in a luxury resort parking lot. I’m back at the Silver Spur Ranch with my grandfather. Driving fence lines. Checking cattle. Living a life that felt simpler than the one I run now.
“It’s not what I’d expect a recent college grad girl to be driving,” I say.
Harleigh laughs. “I’m not your normal girl.”
She shrugs out of her blazer.
And suddenly, my attention shifts.
Underneath it, she’s wearing a body-hugging dress that fits her like it was designed specifically to torture men with weak self-control.
She bends slightly to toss the blazer through the open driver’s window.
My gaze drops.
The curve of her hips.
The length of her legs.
The way the dress hugs every inch of her waist and thighs.
I jerk my eyes back up.
Geezus. I shouldn’t be noticing that.
She straightens, brushing her hands together.
“Anyway,” she continues, completely oblivious to the mental war happening in my head, “she’s a tank, but Bessie here is like family.”
I nod slowly. “I can tell.”
The silence stretches for a second.
Then I clear my throat. “Well … congratulations again on the contract.”
Her smile softens. “Thank you.”
She reaches for the door handle. “I guess I’d better head home before they send out a search party.”
“Have a good night,” I say.
She opens the door and climbs into the cab.
The engine roars to life with a deep, throaty rumble, and country music explodes from the speakers.
I step back as she waves.
“See you tomorrow, boss!”
Boss.
The word coming from her lips does something strange to my chest.
She pulls the elastic out of her hair, and suddenly, long, loose curls tumble down around her shoulders.
The wind catches them immediately. She shifts into gear and backs out of the parking space.
And as she drives past me, singing at the top of her lungs to whatever song is blasting through the speakers, those curls fly wildly around her face.
Her smile is wide and completely unfiltered.
Joy.
Pure, unapologetic joy.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand, I can’t look away.