I wanted to crawl under the table.
Crew said almost nothing, just ate his food with mechanical precision, his jaw so tight I was surprised his teeth didn’t crack. Every time Brantley touched my arm, I saw Crew’s hand tighten on his fork.
And God help me, it turned me on. The possessiveness, the barely leashed violence, the clear message in every line of his body that said mine.
“So Charlotte,” Brantley said, leaning closer than necessary. His hand sliding up my arm in a way that made my skin crawl. “I was thinking maybe we could grab dinner sometime? I know this great place in Bozeman—”
“She’s busy,” Crew said, his voice cutting across the table like a blade. Low and rough and absolutely final.
Everyone turned to look at him. He was staring at Brantley with an expression that promised violence if Brantley touched me one more time.
“Busy with what?” Brantley asked, his smile faltering.
“Work.” Crew’s eyes never left him. “She runs a sawmill. It’s a full-time job.”
“I’m sure she could make time—”
“She can’t.”
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut. Mr. Henderson was watching the exchange with poorly concealed delight, while Brantley looked like he’d been slapped.
I should have been annoyed at Crew for answering for me. Instead, I wanted to climb into his lap right there at the table, wanted to kiss him until we both forgot where we were, wanted to show Brantley exactly who I belonged to.
“Actually,” I said, standing up and grabbing my coat, “we need to get back. I just got an alert that the storm’s coming in earlier than expected.”
It was a lie—the sky was still clear—but I needed to get out of there before I did something stupid. Like tell Brantley exactly what I thought of his assumption that I was available. Or kiss Crew right there at the table for defending me.
We said our goodbyes—Brantley looking confused and Mr. Henderson looking way too pleased with himself—and headed back to the truck.
The moment we were on the road, the silence was deafening.
We drove for ten minutes before Crew finally spoke.
“Was that the reason you wanted to do the delivery today?” His voice was tight, controlled. “To see him?”
I turned to stare at him. “Who? Mr. Henderson? He’s one of our oldest clients, I told you—”
“Not Henderson. The grandson. Mr. Finance-With-The-Mountain-Views.”
Was that... jealousy in his voice?
“Brantley,” I said, testing the waters. “His name is Brantley.”
Crew’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. “So that is why you came. To see Brantley. I could have made the delivery by myself.”
“No.” I crossed my arms. “Mr. Henderson has been trying to set me up with him for two years. I’ve told him I’m not interested about a hundred times, but he doesn’t listen.”
“He touched your arm. A lot.”
“I noticed.”
“You didn’t seem to mind.”
The accusation in his voice made anger spark in my chest. Anger and something else—heat, need, frustration at days of dancing around this. “Are you serious right now? I minded. I minded a lot. But I couldn’t exactly slap away the hand of my client’s grandson at his own lunch table.”
Crew’s jaw clenched tighter. His breathing had gone rough, harsh. I could see the pulse hammering in his throat. “He wants you.”
“I don’t want him.”
