CHAPTER 35
Victoria
It’s hard not to touch Cal. I’ve been touching him so much for the past few days that I should have had my fill by now. I haven’t.
I can’t get enough of him. I’m not sure I ever will.
We’re in the jet headed back to Nevada. Cal and I discussed it and agreed to keep what is happening between us on the down-low for the time being. Way, way down low.
As Cal explained to me this morning, his family is as subtle as a sledgehammer, and whatever is blossoming between us needs some light and space before the hammer is dropped.
I readily agreed, but for reasons I decided to keep to myself for now. I don’t know what is going on with the Sulfur Springs deal. I don’t know what motives my father has or why my sense of doom grows with each passing day. I’ve asked Millicent to help me piece it together, and she’s working on it.
As soon as I have a clearer picture, I’ll tell what I know. I’m just not there yet.
Thank goodness Declan doesn’t seem to notice something has changed in the dynamic between Cal and me. If he does notice, he’s polite enough not to comment. Maybe Declan is the brother least likely to lower the hammer on us.
So, we’re not touching. At all. We’ve gone cold turkey since meeting up with Declan at the airport. And I barely know what to do with myself.
It’s not like I haven’t had good sex before, because there have been a few experiences that might fit under that umbrella. But sex with Cal isn’t just good. It’s off-the-charts hot. Wild. Magical. Fun.
I’m learning that Cal—a protector and warrior—doesn’t do things by halves, and he sure hasn’t done me by half, either. His teasing is pure torture. When he unleashes his lust on me, it leaves me ravaged and weak. And always wanting more.
But the interesting thing is that Cal usually prioritizes my pleasure and satisfaction over his own. Chivalry is not dead with Cal. He’s all about letting the lady come first.
But now he’s not touching me and I’m not touching him. He’s sitting up front in the cockpit with Declan, though every few moments he looks back through the open door and grins.
I’ve taken advantage of the opportunity to sneak a few peeks at him while his back is to me. I’m studying his shoulders, his neck, the back of his ears.
I watch his jaw move as he speaks to Declan, and I watch how he throws his head back when his brother makes him laugh. I relax into the creamy leather seat of the private jet and enjoy the show, his every movement, his every gesture.
Mine.
That’s what the little voice in my head whispers. Cal is mine. His shoulders, his neck, the back of his ear. His smile, his hands, his mouth. His laugh and his frown.
All mine.
Our down-low approach was the only thing we discussed, however.
That’s not a bad thing, necessarily. I don’t think that everything in life has to be spelled out.
We’re leaving San Francisco with an unspoken understanding that we’re together.
The details are yet to be defined, but the foundation is there.
And no—this isn’t some sort of romantic fantasy disconnected from reality. I’m not prone to those. This thing with Cal is very real. It’s powerful.
I’m falling in love with him. It’s a first for me. I am sure of that. Nothing has ever felt so right or so easy. No man has ever made me this happy.
If it weren’t for my obligations to my father’s company, everything would be so simple.
It’s a short flight of about ninety minutes. Declan drives us from the airpark in Sweetbriar back to the ranch. He parks in front of Jamie’s house instead of Cal’s, and Phyllis comes out to greet us.
Cal comes to stand at my side. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. He looks straight ahead to avoid making eye contact with me. “I’ve got to help my brothers, but I’ll be back.”
I stifle a smile and look down at my shoes. “Of course,” I say, nonchalantly. “I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”
He mutters something to me in response and then walks off with Declan to the SUV.
I look up from my shoes to see Phyllis staring at me. Maybe Cal and I aren’t so great at the down-low.
“Come on in for some tea,” Phyllis tells me.
As I follow her into the kitchen I glance over my shoulder to watch the SUV pull away. Cal glances out the window and catches me looking. His mouth curls in a slight smile.
“Take a load off,” Phyllis says, gesturing to a chair at the kitchen table.
I offer to help Phyllis, but she waves me off. “The minute I need help to make a pot of tea is the moment I need to be put out to pasture.”
She’s a dancer in her kitchen. An artist. She fills a kettle and lights the ancient gas stove.
It’s not the pioneer wood stove I once imagined, but I wasn’t too far off the mark.
When the burner ignites into a tall flame, she sets the dented copper kettle in place and pulls a blue-and-white bone china tea set from a high cabinet.
It’s comforting watching her. I’ve been waited on by housekeepers and cooks my whole life, but this is different. Phyllis isn’t preparing tea for me because she has to. She’s preparing it for me because she wants to.
It’s very motherly, and kind.
She sets a serving tray on the table with sugar, cream, and cups and saucers.
I reach out to help steady it when things start to clatter.
That’s when I really notice the round oak table.
The wood itself looks antique, with a center pedestal base that extends into four claw feet.
The top is about two inches thick, and the surface is hand-painted.
I trace my fingers along the decorative border of greenery and purple-and-white irises.
Phyllis sees me admiring the table.
“Cal’s mother was the artist around here,” she says, filling the teapot with boiling water before she sits down across from me.
“Stella could ride anything and rope better than most men, but she had a hand for making things pretty too, like this table. Remind me later to show you the pergola at the side of the house. She had Jamie build it, and then she somehow wrangled flowering vines to grow all over it, even the ones that had no earthly place in this part of the world.”
“She was a pianist too.”
“A good one. You must have seen her piano at Cal’s place.”
I nod. Phyllis places a cup and saucer in front of me and pours. It’s black pekoe, hot and fragrant.
“Was Stella your sister?”
Phyllis looks up, surprised. “Oh, heavens no. I was married to Jamie’s late brother, Murray. I was his second wife.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I still miss that grumpy old coot.” She gets up and starts on another chore.
I let my gaze travel around the kitchen, wondering which of the homey touches I see were left by Stella MacLaine. Cal’s mother is everywhere here, especially in the hearts of her family. They’re lucky that they can look around and see that she was here, that she lived. That she loved them.
I have no memory of my mother, aside from a few photos.
I grew up in my father’s penthouse apartment, the one he purchased right after she died.
There was never anything of her there. He said he wanted a fresh start, so he got rid of almost all of her belongings and swept her away from our lives.
Nothing of her remained in my father’s heart, either, as far as I could tell.
Phyllis places a small sandwich plate in front of me. It’s a pile of thinly sliced roast beef between two thick slices of homemade bread. She sets a condiment tray nearby, with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and mustard.
“Wasn’t sure what you like on your sandwich.”
“I…” I look up at her and smile. “I’m not all that hungry.”
Phyllis barks out a laugh. “Honey, you came back from San Francisco like you were rode hard and put away wet.”
“What?” I nearly choke.
“You look tired, honey. I know you had a big meeting, and then that storm hit. I hope Cal didn’t work you too hard.”
I pick up the sandwich and take a giant bite, willing my cheeks not to burn pink. If I’m chewing, I can’t sputter and stammer and say something stupid. Because rode hard and put away wet? I hope to hell that’s nothing more than a down-home ranch expression.
I lift the top slice of bread and slap on a healthy dollop of mayo, then add some lettuce and tomato. Now that I’m eating, I realize I was starving. And this is the most delicious roast beef sandwich I’ve ever had. It’s more of Yosemite Ranch’s hand-trimmed and aged merchandise, no doubt.
“Eat up,” she says sweetly, pointing at my plate.
“Nobody escapes this kitchen without eating something.” Jamie walks in, his voice booming, and takes a seat next to me. “I saw Cal outside. I haven’t seen him that happy since I taught him how to shoot my daddy’s Winchester 1894 when he was eight.”
“Mmm?” The bites are coming fast and furious now, so I have an excuse not to speak. I think they’re teasing me. I think they’re trying to get the scoop on what’s happening with Cal and me.
This must be the aforementioned sledgehammer.
I rise from the table, put my plate in the sink, and mumble out a “Thanks for the snack.” They start giggling before I reach the front door.