CHAPTER 12
Victoria
I sit at the dining room table. It doesn’t come a minute too soon because my legs feel wobbly. My knees are weak. I don’t think I can stand upright any longer faced with Mr. Alpha.
This is not my normal, totally-in-control self. I’ve spent more than my share of time around models and celebrities, so I’m certain that it’s not his looks that’s made me loopy.
It’s Cal. The whole package.
I’ve already set the table. Cal has poured me a glass of wine and told me to relax while he gets me a plate. So that means I’m just sitting here, uncomfortable, trying to keep my focus on business, not boy booty. Though technically, that ass is all man. A very fine man. A very fine ass.
I take a long swig of wine and stare out the back, going over the Sulfur Springs financials in my head. Anything to keep from looking at him. Those bulked-up arms, chest, and thighs. The hard and flat plane of his stomach.
Another gulp of wine.
Outside, the sun is setting, and it’s glorious.
This exquisitely crafted house overlooks a lake and what seems like an unlimited stretch of earth.
If I wasn’t so nervous about the deal and my proximity to Cal, I could really enjoy being here.
I’m not usually a sit-still kind of person, but I would happily just chill here for hours, just me and the stark beauty of this land.
But it isn’t just me, and this is no time to drop my guard. Cal is on his way to the dining room.
As he places a plate in front of me, my stomach softly rumbles.
The food looks delicious and smells even better.
I’m not a big eater. In fact, I work so much that half the time I forget to eat.
I skip a lot of meals. But this feast looks expertly prepared and beautifully presented.
And I can’t wait to dig in, even if my dining companion is Cal MacLaine.
He places the teak salad bowl and tongs in the center of the table. “This looks delicious. Thanks for chopping all the veggies.”
“Sure.”
He’s right—it does look yummy. But that’s because everything is fresh and crisp, not one of those premade grocery store salads. My housekeeper keeps the refrigerator stocked with a variety of them.
Cal goes back to the kitchen and returns with his own plate, piled high.
“So you’re a rancher and a gourmet chef?”
“I’m a lot of things.” He serves himself some salad and bread. “Gourmet cook isn’t one of them, though I did get this recipe from someone who is. A buddy of mine who’s a chef in Los Angeles. Dig in. I hope it’s edible.”
He says that last bit while glancing away. That “I hope it’s edible” line marks the first time I’ve seen him with anything approaching a lack of self-confidence.
He suddenly looks up at me, concerned. “Are you a vegetarian? I didn’t even ask. I’m not used to having dinner guests, and I can’t remember the last time I made myself a meal that didn’t include a steak. If you don’t want it, I can—”
“Touch my steak I’ll stab your hand.”
A second goes by. Then two. He’s studying me, trying to figure out if I’m joking or just stabby. He laughs. I join him.
“It’s just that, honestly, I’m really hungry, and this looks fabulous.
” I ignore the vegetarian comment. I often encounter people who assume I’m a vegan or vegetarian because I live in Southern California and am a size four.
But my father raised me at steakhouses. For more than a decade, those dinners have provided the only opportunity I have to see him outside of work.
“Well then, dig in,” he says. “If you’re from San Diego and like steak, then chances are you’ve already enjoyed some of Yosemite Ranch’s beef. The finest West Coast steakhouses order from us on a regular basis.”
I cut a piece of steak and slip it into my mouth. Almost immediately, I hear a hum of intense appreciation escape my lips. My eyes close. It’s beyond delicious. It’s by far the best steak I’ve ever tasted. It melts on my tongue.
“That’s right.” Cal notices my enjoyment and grins. “You’re tasting Wagyu that was born, raised, and grass-fed on our land. If you add the best land in America to the best beef in America and then hand-trim and age it onsite, you get the best damn steak to be found anywhere in the world.”
I nod enthusiastically as I swallow another bite.
He locks eyes with mine again. My face grows warm. This is becoming a habit. Each time I get a good look at those shockingly beautiful eyes, I blush.
I lunge for my glass of wine and take a gulp. I pour myself another glass. Anything to break the connection.