Good morning.I type, then add,How about you come on over here and help me plot out how to unravel a government office?
Clearly the memory of the kiss is winning.
His response comes back fast:Got to get chores done first. How many cups of coffee are you into this morning, Sweetheart?
Sweetheart. So cheesy, yet I'm grinning at my phone like an idiot.A Monday morning requires three cups minimum. I’m more dangerous when I’m caffeinated.
Wyatt:Dangerous looks good on you. What's the battle plan?
Most guys want me softer, quieter, less of whatever makes them feel inadequate, but Wyatt seems to like my edges.
Me:Come find out.
I hit send, then immediately want to throw my phone across the room. This is exactly the kind of complication I swore I'd avoid—getting tangled up with a cowboy who rides bulls for fun and thinks "safe" is a four-letter word. A man who shows up in random posts with women but acts like it was nothing. Do I want to be involved with a man like that?
Yet, he's been nothing but good to me, not just saying all the right things, but making sure I ate three proper meals on Sunday and checking my head injury. I want to believe there’s more to him than what you see on social media, butI’m not sure—even if Brook swears he’s a good guy. Good guys break hearts all of the time.
And who says I have to give him my heart?
The sound of tires on gravel snaps me back to reality. Sarah's early, and I'm sitting here daydreaming about her son.
Professional. I need to be professional.
Sarah pushes through the screen door, carrying a white bakery box. "Good morning. I brought ammunition."
There's something different about her energy today. Like she's shed diplomatic politeness and revealed the steel underneath.
"You've been busy," she observes, settling across from me like a co-conspirator ready to plot.
"I work better with a plan."
"Good. Because after Eleanor Whitmore’s little visit, we're going to war."
My coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips. From what Wyatt’s told me, where the Whitmore’s go, Ford follows. My throat has gone dry, but I set my cup down, needing to clarify the situation. "The Whitmores came here?"
"Eleanor and Ford rolled up here in her Mercedes, all sweet smiles and veiled threats." Sarah's smile turns predatory. "They made us an offer for our eastern section of land, with a helpful reminder about how expensive environmental lawsuits can be."
The casual way she drops Ford’s name freezes me, like stepping into mountain shade at dawn. My father. Here.
That’s a lot to take in. I can’t believe he drove right past my front door, and I had no idea. You’d think I would have known—somehow. Like the part of me that came from him would have noticed.
"They threatened you," I say, and something fierce flares in my chest. Not professional outrage—personal anger.
Sarah opens the bakery box to reveal perfect cinnamon rolls. "They tried. But we don't scare easily. And now we have reinforcements." The way she says 'we' makes me think that I belong here.
I’m the reinforcements. I open my mouth to tell her that I could also be a liability, but she asks, "Tell me your read on the situation," Sarah says, motioning to my piles of information. "What did you see that I might have missed?"
This woman didn't hire a consultant. She recruited a general. I can be that for her, no matter whom I’m related to. I stuff my confession aside and move on.
"The angle bothers me," I say. "Someone's been building a case against Stonegate specifically and identifying your pressure points."
"Eleanor Whitmore doesn't make moves unless she's already three steps ahead." Sarah slaps her hand on the table.
"If it was the Whitmores, they’re good. I don’t have any direct links to them. The other thing to consider is how deep does this go? Are they opportunistic vultures or did they orchestrate the whole thing?"
Sarah reaches for her purse and pulls out a thick folder. "I was hoping you'd ask that question. Because I might have some answers."
Environmental impact studies. Congressional correspondence. Internal memos that make my heart race with glee over the paper trail this allows me to trace. I sort through them. “Sarah, where did you get these?"