Titus broke the pause.His hand brushed the small of her back, brief but certain, guiding her forward.Not comfort.Claim.She let her posture loosen for two steps, let the watching eyes take what they wanted.
He opened the door.
Cool air met her face, filtered and sharp, carrying toner, worn carpet, and a citrus-heavy cleaning solution.The interior absorbed sound.Kyla blinked once, letting her eyes adjust.Framed photographs lined the walls.Tellers worked behind glass.A thin potted fern stood near the staircase.Paper and cold coffee settled into the air.
The receptionist stayed focused on her phone.Nails tapped the screen.No greeting.Kyla mapped the room in a glance.Navy chairs.A sagging magazine rack.Old headlines stacked in uneven piles.A clock on the far wall read 9:02, the second hand catching at each tick.Laughter carried from behind a closed office door, too loud for the space.
Her grip tightened.The folder edge pressed into her palm.
This wasn’t New York.No brigade, no noise to disappear inside, no service to command.No menu to win the room before anyone judged her.Today she stood without cover, staking ground beside a man who would never ask outright, but had brought her here anyway.
Her breath came in measured pulls.She forced it steady.The plan stayed clear.Grass-fed beef direct from Brooks Ranch.Supper-club nights in the barn.Numbers clean enough to withstand scrutiny.She’d run them before sunrise, again in the truck, again in her head walking up the sidewalk.No mistakes left to catch.
Titus let the quiet stretch while they stood at the base of the stairs.His hand brushed the railing once.When he met her eyes, she gave him a single nod.He returned it.
They moved together.
Each step up the staircase registered under her feet.Twelve steps.Left turn.Hall runner worn thin.Oil painting of a cattle drive mounted along the wall.Her mind tracked each detail even as her footing threatened to shift inside her shoes.
At the second-floor landing, oak doors lined the hall.McAllister’s name sat on a brass plate.A printer buzzed somewhere down the corridor.Kyla paused, drew a breath through her nose.The folder felt heavier now, a challenge wrapped in paper.Titus’s arm brushed her sleeve, a line of heat she didn’t acknowledge.She squared her shoulders.His trust settled beside her ambition, balanced and volatile.
She pressed her thumb against the doorframe.A murmur inside.Then quiet.She pushed the door open and stepped through.
McAllister looked up when they entered, one eyebrow lifting over a polite smile that never reached his eyes.The office ran warm despite the air conditioning, varnish and cheap furniture polish mixing into a sharp, lemon-edged scent.
Behind him, framed photos showed championship steer ropers and oversized auction checks.Certificates lined the wall in neat rows.A red pen lay centered on a legal pad, aligned with the desk edge.
He stayed seated.His gaze moved from Titus to Kyla and paused at her shoulders, at the cut of her blouse, at the way she carried herself.Titus didn’t move.Arms folded, chin lowered, stance set.A barrier where none existed on paper.
Kyla crossed to the visitors’ table without waiting.She set the portfolio down and kept her palm flat against it, fingers spread.McAllister cleared his throat.“Y’all’re early.”
Titus said nothing.
Kyla unzipped the folder, drew out the first document, and slid it across the desk.“Better to start before the day turns against us, Mr.McAllister.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.“That city habit of yours, Ms.Lee.Folks around here don’t rush a meeting.”
“Folks around here aren’t offering to triple local beef profit inside a year.”She kept her tone level and let the statement sit.
McAllister leaned back, hands steepled.His attention shifted to Titus for a beat, then returned to her.“Let’s see what backs that up.”He gestured to the papers.
Kyla drew a breath through her nose and began.“Brooks grass-fed beef.”She organized the pages into a clean stack, each sheet aligned.“Direct-to-consumer boxes.Quarterly contracts.Supper-club dinners in the barn.Prix fixe menu built around ranch product.Eighty guests per seating.”Her finger tracked the numbers without shaking.“Premium pricing tied to access.Local partnerships already secured.Marketing built off social reach, fair exposure, and preview events.”
She pushed the sheet closer.Titus shifted his stance behind her, feet planted wider now, but he didn’t speak.
McAllister didn’t touch the documents yet.“Risk.”
Kyla met his gaze.“We start lean.Low overhead.Build repeat clientele.Beef drives baseline revenue.Dining builds brand and margin.”
“Market drops.”
“We adjust volume and pricing.”
“Barn burns.”
“Insurance coverage listed in section three.”
“What makes you think folks here want fine dining on ranch land?”
