Chapter Twelve
This is a bad idea.
I don’t know what possessed me to invite her to dinner. The words just came out before I thought better of it.
The hostess at the podium recognizes me immediately.
Her smile brightens. “Good evening, Mr. Garrison.”
“Evening, Layne.”
Her eyes flick to Harleigh beside me, curiosity flashing for a split second before professionalism takes over.
“A table for two this evening?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
She grabs two menus. “Right this way.”
She leads us through the dining room. The restaurant is busy, but not chaotic—couples leaning across candlelit tables, businessmen nursing bourbon and talking shop, the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain.
Warm light spills from wrought iron chandeliers overhead, casting a romantic glow across dark wood beams and stone walls. The place has the kind of atmosphere that makes people automatically lower their voices—a blend of elegance and old Wyoming ruggedness.
We pass the bar, where a few guests laugh over cocktails, before Layne stops at a table near the windows overlooking the mountains, the moonlit peaks barely visible against the dark horizon.
She pulls out Harleigh’s chair first.
“Thank you,” Harleigh says brightly as she sits.
I take the seat across from her, and Layne hands us menus as she recites the night’s specials.
“Your server will be right with you,” she says before disappearing back toward the front.
Leaving us alone.
Harleigh looks around with appreciation before breaking the silence. “This place is beautiful.”
“Glad you think so,” I say.
She flips open her menu.
“No, really,” she continues, scanning the options. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a restaurant quite so fancy.”
I lean back slightly in my chair. “Really?”
She shrugs. “The closest is probably The Buckhorn Steak House in downtown Wildhaven, but that’s only been a handful of times. I’m more a pizza-and-beer kinda gal.”
Her response makes me pause. She’s definitely showing her age.
Our server appears a second later to take our drink orders.
Harleigh orders a glass of Cabernet.
I stick with bourbon.
“What, no beer?” I ask once the server leaves to fetch our beverages.
She shrugs. “I figured I’d go with something sophisticated to match the atmosphere. Besides, my sisters and I have a tradition where we wind down the week with wine on the back porch on Friday nights. So, I can appreciate a glass of red wine.”
“Is that right?”
“And an occasional shot of tequila,” she adds.
“Spoken like a twenty-one-year-old.”
She raises a brow. “How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
“Thirty-three.”
She fakes a shudder. “Ew, ancient. You’re practically rusting before my eyes,” she teases.
“Watch it now.”
Once the drinks arrive and we order—rib eye for me, filet for her—the conversation settles into something easy. Which surprises me.
I’d expect dinner with a brand-new employee to feel … awkward. Formal.
But it doesn’t.
Harleigh leans her elbows lightly on the table, chin resting in her hands as she talks.
“So, Mr. Garrison, I know your family has owned the Belicourt since it was built, but how long have you been running the show?”
“Porter.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re off the clock, so you can call me Porter. And I took over the position from my father nine years ago.”
“Wow.”
He lifts a brow. “Wow?”
“It just seems crazy to me that you’re old enough to already be nearly a decade into your career.”
“Is that another dig at my age?” I ask.
“No, it’s genuine amazement. Besides, you seem so agile for an old man,” she says cheekily as she takes a sip from her glass.
“Thank you.”
She smiles.
“I guess I’m lucky. My name came with a built-in career path.”
She nods enthusiastically. “My family ranch is kind of the same way.”
“Wildhaven Storm, correct?”
Her eyes brighten. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“I do have access to our employee files.”
“Oh, of course you do,” she says.
“Tell me about the ranch.”
“It’s gorgeous. Eleven thousand acres on the edge of Wildhaven. Pastures as far as the eye can see. It has been in our family forever. My great-great-grandfather started it with, like, twelve cattle and a stubborn mule.”
I chuckle.
“And now it’s a thriving horse ranch,” she continues proudly. “And thanks to my sisters, the home of a new state-of-the-art rodeo school that will have its grand opening next month.”
“That is impressive.”
“I know. It’s an exciting time.”
“Do all your siblings work on the ranch?”
She nods. “Yeah, I have three older sisters. Matty is the oldest, and she runs the ranch with my daddy. Then there’s Charli; she trains horses, just like our mom used to do. Shelby is a former barrel racing champion, and now she trains riders.”
“And you never had any interest in working at the ranch?”
“Oh, I do work there. I’m basically an unpaid ranch hand anytime they need me.”
“Is that right?”
She nods. “Yep. Grandma calls it working for our supper. She and Grandpa live on the ranch too. They moved in to help when our mother passed. My aunt, uncle, and our cousins work and live on the land too.”
“Must have been nice, growing up in such a large family.”
“It was. Although the ranch house has been awfully quiet since I got home from school. Matty is married now. She and her husband built a house a few miles down the road. Charli moved into a cabin behind the house with her beau, Bryce Raintree. And then Shelby spends most nights at the neighboring ranch with her man and his daughter.”
“You sound unhappy about the changes.”
“Oh, no. I’m thrilled for all of them. I just miss having my sisters sleeping down the hall from me.”
I nod slowly. “Makes sense,” I say. “Did you say Bryce Raintree? As in pro bull rider Bryce Raintree?”
“The very one. Charli was working with him during his recovery after he was trampled during an event a couple of years ago, and they fell in love. He’s actually the ranch’s partner in the rodeo school.”
“Extraordinary. That name ought to attract a lot of business,” I remark.
“That’s the hope.” There’s warmth in her voice when she says it.
“It all sounds exciting.”
“Yep. But the best thing that’s happened since I got home is the birth of my baby nephew, AJ.” Her whole face lights up when she says his name. “Matty literally went into labor the day I returned to Wildhaven. Cutest baby in the entire world.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Oh, no,” she says brightly. “I have pictures.”
She immediately reaches in her bag for her phone, and within seconds, she’s sliding it across the table toward me.
A chubby-cheeked baby stares up from the screen.
I can’t help laughing.
“Okay, yeah. That’s a pretty cute kid.”
“Right?” She beams.
Our server brings a basket of bread and butter and places it between us.
Harleigh graces him with a warm smile as she thanks him.
Then she picks up the conversation again. “What about you? Any nieces or nephews?”
“Nope. I’m an only child.”
“Ever been married?”
I shake my head.
“Hmmm, still a bachelor? At your age?” she quips as she cuts open a pumpernickel roll and slathers it with butter. Then she pauses. “Kids?”
“Not that I’m aware of. No.”
She pops a huge bite into her mouth and moans. “Oh my God, this is so good.”
She flags down the server and asks for another glass of wine.
“You said your grandparents moved in after your mother passed?” I lead the conversation back to her because I hate talking about myself and my privileged life.
Her expression softens slightly. “Yeah, she died suddenly when I was six. An aneurysm.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs lightly, though there’s a shadow in her eyes. “It was a long time ago.”
Quiet settles between us.
Then she smiles again, brave and determined. “But my sister Matty basically raised me after that.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Honestly? I was so young that I didn’t know the difference. Not really.”
I nod.
Tragedy like that … it binds people in ways nothing else can.
Our meals arrive.
The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl.
We start eating. And the conversation keeps flowing.
Ranch stories. College stories. Conference planning ideas.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize something unsettling.
I’m enjoying myself.
More than I should.
Because the truth is … I shouldn’t be here with her. Talking about personal things.
Getting distracted by the way candlelight catches in the silky strands of her hair.
My brain keeps reminding me of the line I shouldn’t cross.
She’s young. And she works for me.
This should be professional. Strictly professional.
But every time she laughs … or leans forward excitedly to explain something … or pushes her hair behind her ear …
That line starts to blur.
I take a sip of bourbon.
Focus.
“So,” I say, shifting the conversation, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“That tattoo.”
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “What tattoo?”
“The one above your collarbone.”
Her eyes widen.
Way to keep things professional.
“How did you …”
“I saw a little of it. Your first day.”
She looks confused.
“The white sweater,” I remind her.
Understanding dawns.
“Oh. Right.” She laughs softly. “I didn’t realize it was visible until it was too late.”
“Just the edge. I couldn’t really make it out.”
She studies me curiously. There’s a brief pause in conversation. Then something mischievous sparks in her eyes.
“Well …”
She reaches for the buttons of her blouse.
My brain short-circuits.
“Harleigh—”
But she’s already unbuttoning the top three.
Then she slips her right arm out of the sleeve. The fabric falls away from her shoulder. And suddenly, the tattoo is fully visible.
Black ink curls across her skin in elegant script, running from the top of her shoulder toward her throat.
My mouth goes dry as I read the words.
She’s not just a fire.
She’s wildfire.
Geezus.
The curve of the lettering follows the line of her collarbone perfectly.
My eyes track it before I can stop myself.
She watches me read it.
Unapologetic.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “It’s, um … yeah.”
She grins. Then she slides her arm back into the sleeve and begins buttoning her blouse again, like she didn’t just completely derail my ability to think.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“I was born premature. On April Fools’ Day. Making me an Aries. The fire sign. My mom used to joke that I came into the world like a wildfire.” She taps her shoulder, where the tattoo sits beneath the fabric. “She started calling me Wildfire.”
I study her. That’s definitely not the answer I was expecting. I figured it was some silly quote she’d picked out of a binder in a tattoo parlor.
“It fits you,” I say, my voice sounding hoarse.
She blushes slightly.
Which surprises me. Because Harleigh Storm doesn’t seem like the type to blush easily.
“What about you? Any hidden ink?”
“I have a few.”
“Really? Where?”
For a beat, the air between us feels … charged.
This conversation has taken a wrong turn, so I try to steer it back on track.
“Um, maybe we should get back to business.”
She picks up her wineglass, and she leans back in her chair, studying me.
“Okay,” she says after a few beats. “Let’s talk about The Lady in Red.”
And just like that, the mood changes.
My spine straightens instinctively.
“She’s a ghost story,” I say, emphasizing the word story.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
“There’s nothing interesting about it.”
She tilts her head. “Sure there is. It brings interest to the hotel.”
“Not the kind I want.”
Her brows knit slightly.
“But think about it,” she says, excitement building. “If people already believe the Belicourt is haunted—”
“Harleigh.”
“We could lean into that. Ghost tours, themed events, historical storytelling—”
“Harleigh.”
She pauses.
I meet her eyes.
“I don’t want my hotel turning into a circus.”
“It wouldn’t be a circus.”
“It definitely would be,” I snap.
Her enthusiasm falters slightly.
“But there’s real interest in it,” she insists. “I found hundreds of reviews from people who want to visit after reading the story in a book.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
She frowns. “How?”
“I don’t want ghost hunters wandering the halls at night.”
“But—”
“Internet sleuths digging through hotel history.”
“Don’t you think—”
“Guests getting annoyed because someone’s banging around outside their suite at midnight, looking for paranormal activity.”
Her mouth closes.
The excitement fades from her expression.
“I just thought—”
“I know what you thought,” I say firmly. And then soften my tone slightly.
“But this hotel sells peace. Luxury. Relaxation. Not haunted hallways. Not conspiracy theories. It courts adults and families, not amateur ghost hunters.”
“Understood,” she says flatly.
“Good. I don’t want you bringing it up again.”
The words land heavier than I intended.
Harleigh sits very still as she eyes me curiously.
Then she nods.
“Okay, Mr. Garrison.”
The conversation falls silent.
And for the first time tonight … she’s looking at me like I’m her boss.
Perfect.