Chapter 11 #2
“You’ve given me facts. Data. Stuff I could pull from a county records search.
” She leans forward, and there’s a spark of frustration in her eyes now.
“Old Dave talked to me for three hours. Three. Hours. He told me stories about your father, about mine, about that time you got stuck on the roof. He got emotional talking about our dads—said those two built something most men only dream about.” Her eyes go bright for a second before she blinks it away.
“Miguel showed me the entire cattle operation and explained why he’s turned down better-paying jobs three times.
Even West opened up, and I’m pretty sure he’d rather have a root canal than make small talk. ”
The words land harder than she probably intends. Because she’s right. And the reason I can’t do what they did isn’t something I can explain. Not to her. Not ever.
“Good for them.”
“But you—” She shakes her head. “You’re giving me nothing. No stories, no memories, no sense of what this place actually means to you. Just… walls.”
“You know I’m not much of a talker.”
“That’s a cop-out and you know it.”
It is. She’s right.
And the fact that she won’t let me hide behind it makes me feel cornered in my own damn office.
I shove back from the desk suddenly. “What do you want from me, Daisy?”
“I want you to talk to me like I’m a person, not an inconvenience.
” She’s on her feet now too, notebook forgotten on the chair.
“I’ve been here a week. I’ve talked to everyone on this ranch, and every single one of them gave me more in ten minutes than you have in an hour.
They talked about this place like it means something to them.
You talk about it like you’re reading from a manual. ”
“That’s not—”
“It is. It’s exactly like that.” She takes a step closer, voice rising. “And I don’t understand why. I don’t understand what I did to make you treat me like I’m some stranger you can’t wait to get rid of.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Then what is your problem?”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and demanding.
I should answer. Should give her something—anything—that will end this conversation and get her the hell out of my office. But my mind is blank, every excuse I could offer tangled up with truths I can’t say.
“We’re done here.”
I move toward the door, but she’s faster, stepping into my path to block the exit. The top of her head is level with my chest, so she has to crane her whole neck back to glare at me. Yet she does it with the confidence of a woman who has never once considered that her size might be a disadvantage.
“No. We’re not.”
“Daisy, move.”
“I’m not moving.”
The words land like a challenge. Like a dare.
And my chest catches fire—though whether it’s fury or want, I couldn’t tell even if a gun was pointed at my head.
She’s close enough that I can see the flush creeping up her neck, the way her jaw is set so hard a muscle is jumping beneath the skin.
Close enough that the scent of her shampoo is cutting through the coffee and the leather and the dust of my own office, the same way it did in the barn, the same way it did in the truck, and my body is starting to learn this scent the way it learns weather—instinctively and without permission.
“This isn’t a game.”
“You’re right, it’s not. It’s my job.” She doesn’t budge. Five foot nothing of stubborn, blocking my only exit like she has any chance of stopping me if I really wanted to leave. “And you agreed to this interview. You said Friday. You promised.”
“I answered your questions.”
“You gave me nothing!”
“Then write that.” I can feel my composure cracking, the careful walls I’ve built starting to splinter. “Write that Wyatt Hartley is an uncooperative asshole who wouldn’t give you what you wanted. I don’t care.”
“You do care. I’ve seen it—with your family, with the crew.” She takes a step closer, and now there’s barely a foot between us. “So why am I the only one who gets the stone wall?”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You’re not—”
“I am.” She cuts me off. “You’ve been avoiding me all week.
You can barely look at me.” Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t back down.
“Then yesterday you had plenty to say.” I push down a flinch as her eyes search my face.
“You’ve barely spoken to me all week, and when you do, you throw a private conversation with my friend in my face? ”
The word hits like a fist to the gut. Friend. The one with benefits.
“It’s not my business.” My voice comes out flat. “You’re right.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Drop it, Daisy.”
“No.” She’s close enough now that I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, and my eyes land there before I can stop them, on that small, vulnerable stretch of skin above her collarbone where the blood runs close to the surface.
For one unforgivable second, my brain short-circuits and I think about pressing my mouth to that exact spot just to feel her heart race against my lips.