Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Blair
I wanted to scream.
This was not going to end well, not with me in close contact with this entitled asshole who hated me for something that was not my fault. I knew he resented me for my money, my status with the Portman Group, and the deals I’d broken with Warrick.
I’d expected to ignore this man for the next three weeks while I oversaw this plant; I’d prepared for the usual stone-cold nod in the morning over coffee and the terse hellos at dinner.
Now, we had to work together.
I couldn’t be more unwilling—but I was a professional and had to maintain Portman’s image. The company was nothing but adaptable, and so I had to be that as well.
Dallas was a wild card. Half the time, I didn’t know if he wanted to shoot me…or kiss me senselessly.
“What time are we leaving?” Dallas asked.
“The contractor is going to be there at two,” Warrick said, sliding a thick pile toward me. “These are the schematics, the list of equipment we’re sourcing, and everything else that will come with the plant. The contractors will be out there explaining it all, but you have to do the checks and balances and ensure they do what we need them to do.”
“I understand,” I told him.
It was daytime, but I suddenly needed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a glass. I stomped my way back to my room to change into proper clothes that would survive a messy construction field, and once again, I had to rely on Connie’s boots.
I may have to buy them from her if it comes to it.
Ten minutes later, I was down in the lobby, waiting for Mr. Hothead to join me. I tossed a look over my shoulder, unsure if I had time to pour a cup of coffee to take with me, but if not, surely there was someplace in this town I could get one.
“Ready to go?” Dallas said behind me, close enough that I was tempted to spin on my heel and give him a roundhouse kick.
“Yes,” I said.
He’d changed his shirt to a dark gray button-down, but that was about it. The day was slightly overcast, which I hoped would keep the heat away while not dousing me with buckets of icy rainwater.
“How fast does winter come in Montana?” I asked.
“It’s already here,” he said. “It’s November, and it spans all the way to March. It sometimes drops to below fifty to below thirty, and we have feet of snow. I’m wondering when it’s gonna go Polar.”
“I’m not used to icy winters,” I admitted as I jumped into the passenger seat of a Ford truck .
“Clearly,” he grunted as he started the truck. “Those tan lines don’t say you like the cold.”
“That’s right,” I replied. “I’d prefer a spa day over anything; all the works: a cut, blowout, manicure, pedicure, and a thorough wax.”
“Is that before or after you sell ice to an Eskimo?” he asked as we hit a street heading in the opposite direction from the town.
I humored him. “That’s after the deal is signed.”
“Of course,” he said. “I am sorry for the poor sucker who signs over his soul to the Devil.”
“What is your job in California?” I asked.
“With the company I was in, I had three,” he replied. “I did accounts when they needed it, did economic analysis when needed, and stepped in as a business manager at times. I was on the verge of leveling up when the company folded. They were an arm of the Drayton Corp.”
I nodded. “The same one your brother’s fiancée took down….” I bit my lip. “… Are you mad about it?”
His fingers white-knuckled the wheel. “Does it matter?”
“It kind of does,” I said. “If I knew my own family had axed the career I’d been working on for over a decade, then again, I wouldn’t put it past my uncle. He’s a misogynistic snake.”
“At least you know who your enemy is,” he said. “I didn’t even know I had one.”
“Seriously?” I asked. “I mean, you looked after the books; how could you not have seen any differences or noticed if they were cooked?”
“Our company was a hedge fund setup,” he said. “We didn’t get money from the HQ; we only used the Drayton name to have leverage and gain rich clientele. Aside from that, we were autonomous. ”
“Ah,” I understood. “It makes sense now. Maybe the company can rebound if they don’t have direct dealings with HQ, you know, rebranding and all that.”
His jaw worked. “We’ll see.”
We’d reached the outskirts of town, where, according to the document that had passed from Hunter Portman’s desk, which outlined a plot of land, fifty acres, I suppose, where the 275 square foot plant was to be built.
From the schematics, the plant would not even take up half an acre. Still, the rest was to be used for sustainable development, making an independent solar power plant to keep the place going and also to serve for waste treatment. There was even a part about extending the plant—which was why the extra acres were needed—but there were also plans to create a tanner and leather facility, but I wasn’t sure when that would come in.
We came to a stretch of land freshly cut down, the stretch spanning as far as the eye could see. The road into the land was flat and made of pressed dirt, showing tractor tires, truck treads, and whatnot.
The truck came to the active construction site, and I saw the dug-out foundation, the steelwork going up, and sheds chock full of materials. Men and women wearing hard hats and neon vests roamed the site, checking off boxes while other workers organized the materials.
“I’ll be damned,” a strange voice had us pivoting to the left, and a tall, gray-haired man, came forward. “Dallas Donovan. Warrick told me you were around these parts, but I hadn’t dared to believe him. I was wrong, and I am so glad I am dead wrong. How are you, son?”
I shot a look at Dallas, wondering how he’d react to this. He stuck out his hand, though, and shook the man’s hand. “Mayor Treeve. I’m glad to be back; a bit overdue, isn’t it? ”
“Very,” the mayor replied. “Welcome home.”
He then shifted his attention to me. “You must be Miss Cullen from Portman’s Corp. Warrick told me about you, too. Do you want a walk-around?”
“Please,” Dallas replied. “I’d love to see what is going on.”
Two hours later, after crisscrossing the construction grounds and seeing where the plant was going to be, the slaughter-hall, the chilling hall, and the deboning room, we had a good handle on where things were going to be, and we checked off the boxes in accordance with the schematic.
“That’s all of it,” the mayor said. “You can come back anytime.”
“About that,” Dallas said. “Warrick is going away for a while, and he has put me in charge of this project for the time being. I’ll be here more often than not.”
“ We will be here,” I inserted, stressing the ‘we’.
His brows lifted, his gaze shifting between Dallas and me. “Oh, well, no problem on my part, since I might not be overseeing it as often as I would like either.”
“That is not a problem,” Dallas replied. “As long as I have your office’s number, and I do, I will send over the reports as soon as I get them.”
“Well, we’re all set then,” Mayor Treeve said. “Oh, did Warrick appraise you of the Secret Santa setup? We’re holding the shindig at Millie’s Diner. Why not drop by there for a spell after you leave here? I am sure they would love to see you.”
Dallas didn’t like that— I knew he didn’t. In under sixteen hours, I was a master at deciphering Dallas’ expressions. The man did not hide his emotions as well as he thought he was doing.
“I’ll do that,” he said.
“Good man,” Mayor Treeve clapped Dallas’ shoulder and shook my hand again. “I look forward to working with you.”
“Me too,” I replied. “May I say, I haven’t seen much of your town yet, but from the little I have seen, it’s very idyllic and quaint.”
I sweared, his chest puffed out. “Why, thank you. I do my best, as does everyone in this town.”
“I see,” I nodded. “Where is the best place to get a fancy cup of coffee?”
“Riverbend Café,” Mayor Treeve said proudly. “I can guarantee you will have the best coffee there, bar none. As a matter of fact, tell Sam I’ll pick up the tab. It’s my treat.”
Dallas and I shared a look before he replied, “We appreciate that. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now, I’ll be taking off.” Mayor Treeve nodded to his car. “I’ll see you around.”
Lifting a hand, Dallas replied, “Same here.”
With the mayor gone, I turned to him, “Coffee after the diner. I am so hungry, I feel like I could eat a horse.”
He snorted. “We don’t do that around here. Beef, yes, horses, no.”
“I want to punch you,” I told him flatly. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” Dallas replied as we strode off to his truck and he pulled out my door for me. “But I don’t care. As a matter of fact, I’ll even let you take the first shot.”
Halfway down the road to the town, I asked, “You don’t really want to go to the diner, do you?”
“No,” Dallas said .
“Because…?”
He shot me a look, then faced the road again. “Ms. Smarty-pants hasn’t deduced that yet?”
Drumming my fingers on my lap, I said, “I have some ideas, but I would like you to spell it out for me.”
“With the way I left this place, I feel like I will be repeating myself a million times,” he said gruffly. “I’ve hurt a lot of people, not only my brother, and I know a lot of people aren’t going to be happy to see me.”
I bit back my words, knowing they would immediately snap the tentative peace we had between us.
He had prejudged the town as already condemning him.
He had not forgiven himself for leaving.
I wondered if he blamed himself for Warrick’s accident.
“Oh,” was all I could only utter. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
Dallas gave me another look, his gray eyes steely like the sky before a storm. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“I’m always smart, and I’ve got a great ass,” I said cockily.
A laugh burst from him, low, rough, and smoky. “Smartass.”
We hit Main Street, the heart of the town, and instantly, my head snapped to the windows. It was not even Christmas yet; hell, Thanksgiving had just passed, but the place looked like a Winter Wonderland— without the snow.
The square’s lampposts and storefronts were draped with twinkling red and green Christmas lights, and I could only imagine how warm the glow would look on the soon-to-be snow-covered sidewalks.
“By the time it gets to the week before Christmas, there is going to be a massive tree there,” he said, clearly referring to the square. “All the kids come out, they get a bunch of ladders, and they decorate it with homemade ornaments.”
I looked in the rearview mirror on my side, “This really is a small town. If we did this in Atlanta, there would be scaffolds and harnesses and a line of laws to make sure the city didn't get sued if one kid got a scrape on their face.”
“Those kids need to get out and touch some grass,” he said as we pulled into the diner’s parking lot.
The lights with the diner’s name were blinking above the door. We stepped in, and I felt thrown back into the sixties; the place actually had checkered tile and red vinyl booths. The air in the place automatically had me salivating; I smelled spices, buttermilk chicken, cheesy mac and cheese, and downright country cooking.
“I know this isn’t your scene,” Dallas said, “But it’s good.”
I breathed deep again; I could almost smell the chicken and dumplings. Then, there would be fried okra and a hash brown casserole, and I hoped to get some extra cornbread. Cocking a brow, I asked, “What do you think we eat in the South?”
“The souls of the damned?” He asked flatly.
“No,” I said. “Too salty.”
A lady, an African American with neatly combed gray hair, came over with a pad in hand. “Do I dare believe my eyes,” she said. “Is that you, Dallas?”
He slid out of his chair and hugged her, his lanky size dwarfing the lady comically. He even had to crouch a little to do it, his knees bending at a weird angle, which reminded me of a ballerina doing a plié.
I barely smothered a laugh. He looked at me.
“Miss Betty,” he said. “It’s me all right.”
She pulled away and tapped his cheek like an old aunt would do to their favorite nephew or niece. “Bless my heart. I am so happy to see you, Dallas. I remember when you’d come in here every Thursday evening after football practice, ready to tear down the sign outside, throw some hot sauce on it, and go to town.”
I swallowed my laugh wrong and spluttered into my fist.
Dallas was not happy.
“Sit your butt down and tell me what you want,” Miss Betty said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He did exactly as she’d said and looked at the menu. “Before you ask, there is no filet mignon or whatever fancy schmancy thing you eat at some five-star gig.”
I ignored him, “Miss Betty, is it? I’d like some chicken and dumplings, fried green tomatoes, fried okra, and some extra cornbread. Sweet tea if you have it.”
“Oh, sweet girl,” Miss Betty smiled widely as she jotted the order down. “Music to my ears. And for you, Dallas?”
“Do you still have that buttermilk fried chicken with a side of mashed potatoes and onion rings?” he asked.
“We do,” she said.
“I’ll take it,” he said. “And Mayor Treeve said he’ll pick up the tab.”
“All righty, coming right up,” she said and moved off.
Dallas gave me an eye, “What was so amusing a while ago?”
I shook my head. “You won’t like it when I tell you.”
Bracing both forearms on the table, he leaned in with those sharp, cutting eyes. “Try me.”