I stare at him suspiciously. “You’re here for syrup?”
He shrugs, his smirk widening. “Maybe I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Personally it’s easier to go to the grocery store and buy it. Apparently, there’s a lot more to it.”
“Apparently,” I confirm. “And what else are you planning to do here?”
“Stuff,” he responds.
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “You’re terrible at answering questions, you know that?”
“And you’re not very good at minding your own business,” he fires back smoothly, though there’s a teasing note in his tone.
My lips twitch, and I hate that I’m fighting a smile. “Touché.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that doesn’t feel entirely awkward. He studies me, and for a second, I wonder what he sees—a woman with a half-empty latte and an inheritance she has no idea how to keep.
He stands as the barista calls a name I can’t make out, retrieving his coffee with an easy grace. When he returns, he sits, eyes locking onto mine. “Galeana, right?” His voice is warm, deep, and entirely too confident.
I blink, caught off guard. “How do you know that?”
His grin widens, and he takes a sip of his coffee before answering. “Small town. People talk.”
“Great,” I mutter, swirling the foam in my latte with my spoon. “Whatever you heard is probably not true.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. Most of what I’ve heard has been good.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. “And who are you, exactly?”
“Erick Stinson,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m in town for business. Consulting, mostly.”
“Consulting,” I repeat, shaking his hand. His grip is firm but not overpowering, and his skin is warm against mine. “For what?”
“Whatever pays,” he says with a wink, his tone teasing.
I can’t help but laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing a fraction. “Sounds like a solid business model.”
“It works,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And it means I get to meet interesting people. Like you.”
I raise an eyebrow, but before I can respond, the bell over the door jingles, and the mood shifts instantly.
I don’t have to look to know who it is.
The air practically crackles with his presence, and when I glance toward the entrance, my stomach twists.
Ledger Timberbridge.
He’s standing in the doorway, scanning the room, and the moment his eyes land on me, his expression darkens. He’s in jeans and a leather jacket, his hair slightly messy, his jaw set like he’s just walked out of a storm.
Erick notices the shift immediately. His shoulders stiffen, and his gaze flickers between me and Ledger, like he’s suddenly caught in the middle of a standoff he wants no part of.
He clears his throat, the sound awkward and deliberate. “Well, I should probably get going,” he says, standing and smoothing his blazer with quick, practiced movements. His smile is polite but strained, like he’s already halfway out the door in his head. “It was nice meeting you, Galeana. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah,” I say, my tone flat, because what the hell is happening?
Ledger strides over like he owns the place, all confidence and purpose, his gaze locking on mine. I brace myself. By the time he reaches the table, the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Galeana,” he greets, his voice low and threaded with something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Challenge? Both, probably.
Asshole.
