by Tommy Twist
The week had been a long one. No doubt about that. And as she wanted, well, whatever the hell it was that she wanted, one thought kept occurring to her.
Bubbling up out of her chest. Nothing she could to stop it, in spite of her best efforts. She didn't know how it would go in either case. She'd fucked up badly enough the first time she'd had dinner with him.
She'd been afraid to talk to Phil Callahan since the night that they got too intimate for any business relationship. But now, she was too tired for business, and the fact was, she'd promised to get the property in far too public a way to back off now.
She takes a deep breath and gets the phone out, dials a number. Callahan's number.
To her surprise he answers. "Yes?"
"Hello, um." She shouldn't have called. Stupid. "This is Morgan Lowe. This is Mr. Callahan, yes?"
"Speaking. What can I do for you, Miss Lowe?"
"I just thought—" I just thought I'd like to go out with you for a bit. Get some drinks. Maybe go back to your place. Or mine. Doesn't matter. "—Maybe we could, I don't know. Get some dinner. Maybe we could talk about your property."
He lets out a long breath. "Alright. Sure. I'm not saying I'm selling, but fine. We'll talk about it."
He lets out a breath again. He's not happy about it, but he's considering it, which is a big change from before. Whatever happened, Morgan's gut tells her that he needs the money.
She should be happier. She should be practically god damned ecstatic. A single crack in the armor means that she's seventy-five percent of the way there. The hardest part is getting them to admit that they might sell.
Once you've got that, it's like untying a knot. You just pick at the parts you can see until you get something solid, and then you get it to come apart. Piece by piece.
Before that, you just have a big ball of nothing, and you have to hope to hell that it turns into something.
"Dinner, then?"
"Sure."
She's been in town just about long enough to know her options. She offers a steakhouse, and he accepts. Which is progress for her. Real progress. Nervous energy surges through her.
She should be happy. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she's got a stomach that's twisting itself in knots and more worrying than it's worth. Why the sudden change of heart?
Is there something wrong? And if there is something wrong—which there almost certainly is—then is it alright to exploit someone's personal problems for her own gain?
The answer is more or less obvious. Whether it's alright or not, she's going to god damn do it. Because this isn't about doing the right thing, it's about doing what will help her business succeed.
The little thought in the back of her mind, the worry that Callahan's in trouble—it's got nothing to do with business. It's got everything to do with her, and her feelings.
Feelings that she shouldn't be having.
So she's going to treat this like a business dinner. She's going to think of it as a business dinner. No doubt, he will too.
She'd told him that's what it was. After all, he wasn't going to come if she said that she wanted to go out socially. She'd come off as weird, too. No doubt about it.
He wouldn't be interested in a woman like her. He probably thought she was a conniving bitch, just out to steal his land.
She didn't want him to think that way about her. She wanted him to look at her as a woman.
Morgan's mind races with possibilities. What is she supposed to wear? What is she supposed to do? What if things get… friendly, like they did last time? What if—
A thousand what-ifs. And above it all, a little voice in her head repeats, over and over. Don't get involved, because he's not for you. It's just a temporary thing.
Don't get too excited and don't get too involved. Because if you do, all you're really going to get is hurt.
Chapter Nineteen
It's been a long time since Philip had any real reason to dress up. Church on Sundays. He'd even worn that stupid shirt for the meeting at the Lowe build site. Should've known that he'd be better suited to wearing the same clothes he wore on the ranch.
The place was there to do hard work. Just like everything that he was used to. So in a sense, he shouldn't have been surprised to find that Morgan Lowe was a worker. She was surrounded by hard-working men all day. How long would it stand if she couldn't pull her weight?
But a dinner—that's a different story. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him that it's just a business meeting. They're meeting to talk about what happens if the deal with Glen falls through.
What if he needs a bunch of money, and he needs it right on the spot—how much can he hope for. That's what they're going to dinner to talk about.
But when a man and a woman go to eat dinner together, well… it's got certain cultural connotations, doesn't it? It's hard not to think of it as a date. It's very hard.
Which is why, in spite of it just being a business meeting, a chance to talk numbers, he's wearing this stupid damn monkey suit. A tie, even.
Callahan feels out of place, dressed like he is. He looks like a damn idiot. He shouldn't even be here, not really. But he is, for reasons he doesn't even want to think about trying to unpack right now. There's plenty of other bigger problems than whether or not he's at a dinner with a woman.
Or why. Or how he feels about it. Or why he feels that way.
Instead, he just takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. No problems. No reason to concern himself with how much he must stand out. As long as he doesn't bring it up, nobody else will say anything.
A familiar voice greets him from the corner as he walks in.
"Mr. Callahan?"
He turns. She looks damn good. The dress must have cost a pretty penny, but it was worth every cent. The neck-line plunges just enough to give a tantalizing glance, the hem of the skirt just high enough to imply that the legs keep going.
It's conservative enough to be taken out to a business dinner in a pinch, but fancy enough—and, Callahan thinks to himself, sexy enough—to serve as evening wear. In his gray suit and his best tie, an embarrassingly plain blue-on-blue, he looks like an idiot next to her.
"You look good," she says. Her eyes linger on the clothes for a minute, looking him up and down. A little fire inside Callahan lights. That a woman could be looking at him so intently seems impossible. He's past that age.
"I should be the one saying that. You look incredible, Miss Lowe."
"Please. Morgan."
"Well, my point stands—Morgan."
"Thank you." She smiles and a little tinge of red reaches her cheeks. She looks good when she smiles. Even better than when she scowls, and that expression alone would have brought stronger men than Philip Callahan to her knees.
"You talk to the lady at the front?"
"Ten minutes," she says. She flips her wrist over to check a watch face. "As of five minutes ago. So who knows."
He settles in beside her. How long are they supposed to make small talk, before they get down to business? He'd rather just keep talking to her. Keep her in his mind as a woman, not as a potential future business partner. Not as the woman who's planning on buying up his land at the first opportunity, and skipping town the next moment after that.
But if that's the reality of the situation—and, whether he likes it or not, it is—then at some point they're going to have to get down to business.
She's the expert, though, and she doesn't start talking about business just yet.
Phil smiles and settles into the seat, waiting for the meeting to start. Waiting to be called to their table. The table that they'll share, just the two of them. He shouldn't be letting himself get any ideas. It's far too late for that now, though.
The ideas are already there, and he's already having them.
It's a little bit late to start worrying now about whether or not he's going to be able to stop them. Especially when, every time he closes his eyes, all he can think about is what she'd look li
ke if she wasn't wearing those clothes.
Especially when the last time they'd sat down to eat like this, he'd had every chance in the world to find out.
Chapter Twenty
Morgan knows what she's done, and what she's done specifically is drink more than what might have been altogether wise. The bigger part of her really doesn't mind, because it makes this next part quite a bit easier.
Her lips are sensitive. In fact, her entire body aches. And yet, something calls out to her, some need that she can't begin to name. Something between desire and something else entirely.
"Aren't you going to ask me back to the ranch?"
Phil Callahan's face is a little worried, about what she doesn't know. But she knows that she sees, underneath the worry, the arousal in his eyes. She knows that he wants her, and she definitely wants him.
He probably thinks that she's drunk. That she's gotten off-task. But she hasn't. Not really. And she might be drunk, but… not that drunk, really.
No, she knows exactly what she's doing. She's just not sure how she's supposed to go about the next part.
His mouth opens to answer her. He licks his lips. "Are you saying you'd like me to?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Morgan purrs. She leans into him, pressing her body against his. Letting him know exactly how she plans on all of this going. She can feel him getting the message from the hardness at his hip.
His lips open again. He's unsure. Which is completely understandable. After all, she's hardly any more sure than he is. But there's an electricity coursing through the both of them, one that won't be denied.
Not by her, and if the other night was any indicator, not likely by him, either. He closes his eyes. "You can follow me."
She presses her lips into his neck and tastes his salty skin, feels the stubble pressing back into her lips. "You won't regret it."
His body is stiff, with doubt and arousal. Then he steps up into that big truck of his and she goes back to get her own car.
He goes slow at first. Time enough for her to catch up. And then the chase begins. It's not close, and it was never going to be. His car begins to rumble and accelerate away.
She's caught him within a quarter-mile, the sports car's engine screaming with a peculiar fury at the thought that a truck was going to beat it in a race. Once she'd settled into the front, the engine quieted down, obviously satisfied that it wasn't badly beaten.
Her skin is too sensitive, her desire just a little bit too strong. The pressure, the need, is already building up inside her even as she pulls the hand brake and opens her car door. And the only thing that can fix it, she knows, is to have someone release that pressure.
Someone big and strong and everything she wants. Philip Callahan. She's practically pulling him down out of the cab of the truck only seconds after he pulls up behind her. She doesn't have the patience to wait to get inside.
It's dark already out here, and warm enough to keep from getting a chill, so the jacket that had impressed so well on him gets shoved off his shoulders, his shirt unbuttoned as she fights to get all the clothes off that she can before either one of them have a chance to think.
His lips taste her neck, his teeth biting in just enough to draw a gasp. Her breasts fill his hands, the soft pressure enough to send her hyper-sensitive nipples wild, her skin tightening and nipples hardening and someone becoming even more sensitive.
He groans into her throat as her hand finds the hardness inside his jeans, his hips pressing mindlessly into her palm in an animal effort to find whatever pleasure that his body can take.
The strap of her dress gets shifted off her shoulder and he pulls out a plump breast, pulling the tight nub of her nipple between his teeth. The pressure of arousal inside her, already too much to bear, continues to grow until it's all that she can think about, consuming all her thoughts and her entire world.
And then, as suddenly as she realizes her need, and as incapable as she is of fighting it, he stops. His breaths come hard and ragged, and she leans in to take his lips back. His hand presses into her chest and holds her back.
"No," he says. She stops.
"What's wrong?"
He looks down at her. She can see the arousal still in his eyes. She can see the way that his eyes linger on her bare breast, the way that he toys with the idea of picking right back up where they left off.
And then, very carefully, he pulls the strap of her dress back up, slips the fabric back into place.
"I'm sorry. We shouldn't have done this."
Her teeth grind together. "What's wrong?"
"All of this. We shouldn't have done any of it."
Her body wants to scream. Her mind wants to scream. And more than that, her pride isn't exactly enjoying it, either.
"So, what, then?"
"Nothing. You should go."
She takes a step back. "Yeah, I guess I should."
"Are you alright to drive?"
"I'm fine," she says. She never wanted anyone's pity. Pity makes her sick. But worse than that is pity from him. Pity right as she's being told that she can't be trusted to make her own decisions.
She stalks off to her car. The door slides open easily, and she lowers herself into the seat.
"Morgan, I—"
"I get it. Don't worry about it. I understand completely."
And the truth is that she does understand. There's no part of her that doesn't get why he's pulling back. But that doesn't change how she feels, and it doesn't change how badly the need had effected her.
She was an idiot for putting herself in this position. An idiot. But at least she was an honest idiot, right? That's what counted.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, maybe. In a couple of days." Her voice sounds hard. She sounds like she's being a bitch, and if she could stop it, then she would. But she can't.
"Okay. Drive safe."
She will. Or she won't. "Sure."
The car growls softly as she drives it away. It seems so easy when she's doing it. When the car moves, it moves on its own. It doesn't back off at the last second. It doesn't leave her in a frustrated mess in the middle of god damned Wyoming.
But he's made his decision, and she's going to respect it. Regardless of whether or not she likes it.
Chapter Twenty-One
It's not like they were going to get another chance to screw around trying to ride that horse, and the more saddle-broken the Black was, the better for the final sale.
And since Philip Callahan was in no mood to do any real work today, they might as well be allowed to have their fun. James was up on the horse this time. The Black tried to kick him off for a minute, but the attempts were getting fewer and shorter by the minute. Soon, no doubt, it wouldn't fight them so much as ignore them to start off.
Callahan leaned up against the fence and watched. Too old to be doing that kind of crazy shit—if he got knocked off the way they kept getting knocked around, he'd have a broken rib in no time flat.
James gets the stallion running. His hair whips back in the wind. The look on his face is sheer enjoyment. That's how it is, though, when you're riding a horse that's fast as lightning.
He does a couple quick, easy laps around the yard, then draws the horse up back near the stables and hops off.
Randy's turn again. He scrambles up, a little taller than his brothers and his legs a little longer, so he sits higher in the saddle. The black jogs a little sideways. Maybe if he can just, slip the saddle a little, it'll come right off.
But it doesn't. Of course it doesn't. If he wasn't a horse, and built with a horse's mind, there wouldn't have been any question.
The youngest gets the horse going. Faster. He carries his weight low, but with his hips raised off the saddle, to cushion. Apparently, now that it's not a rodeo every lunch hour, it's time to move from rodeo star to professional jockey. Though, who ever heard of a six-one jockey—that much he apparently wasn't thinking too hard about.
Not that Callahan would blame him. You want to
have fun, you have fun. Doesn't matter if you're in a position to seriously make an attempt at doing it professionally, after all.
If you had to be a pro at something to do it, well… Callahan would probably still be working this ranch, to be honest. Those boys, though, they'd be doing something else entirely. Took them almost a year to be real good at what they were doing.
They followed orders, from what he could see, almost as well as Morgan did. She was a fiery woman, and she had real trouble with authority. Then again, when you're the boss, it's easy to ignore trouble with authority. She is the authority, and anyone questioning her is the one with an authority problem.
Like that kid, whatever his name was. Brad or something. Problem with authority. He seemed for all the world to think that he was in charge of the place. Well, the minute that the trucks say 'Brad or Whatever' on the side of 'em, he can be in charge.
Until then, he can do his job. Which is exactly the lesson that the brothers had learned. Not that Callahan made learning easy on them.
It's easy to work for someone who's a hard-ass. Philip's father had been that way, before he passed. Ranching was a hard life, and he'd been a man who didn't want to shield anyone—least of all his son—from that.
No, he'd come right out and tell you, and if you couldn't cut it, he'd tell you that, too. Which made him a hard man to have as a father, but he was an easy man to work for.
You never got confused about where the line was between the work and his personal feelings. In his case, because there was nothing but the work. You don't joke around, you don't laugh with the guy. You get to work, and he gets to work, and in the end you get a lot done.
And then, twenty years later, you bury him in the ground with not much to say about the man except for the good work he did, and that he left behind a solid ranch.
Phil wasn't that kind of boss, though maybe he should have been. After all, the boys weren't his sons. Someone else's, though he'd never met their father and likely never would. They weren't in that kind of position, after all.