Page 47 of Dust Storm

That fucking diamond sparkled in the morning sun.

“You, uh—” I cleared my throat. “You have my number, right?”

She looked at me like I was daft. “We’ve spent nearly every waking moment together since I got here. When have I needed your number?”

I held my palm out and she relented, giving me her phone.

When I gave it back, she looked at the screen. “Really?” Her tone was flat and unamused.

I grinned. “What?”

She turned the screen around. “Daddy Griffith?”

“I figured since you’re so opposed to children and people in general, that’ll lessen the likelihood of you calling.” I stepped off the sidewalk and shut the passenger door. “I put CJ’s number, Nate’s number, and the main house’s landline in there too.”

Cassandra looked down and scrolled through. “Daddy Griffith… Cow Boss … GI Joe… Prison.” She slid it back into her oversized purse. “Very funny.”

“See you in a few hours, Cass,” I called as I walked around to the driver’s side.

“It’s Cassandra,” she said, pivoting on those fuck-me heels to head toward the coffee shop.

I pressed my fist to my mouth to hide my smile. “Stay out of trouble, Princess.”

Her ass had an extra swing in it as she strutted away.

I climbed in the truck and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes.

I just needed a minute.

It usually took me two or three minutes of breathing to let the stress go, but after a mere thirty seconds, I was calm.

Cassandra’s perfume lingered in the cab, dancing over my morning coffee and the ever-present smell of cattle and diesel. It was sweet and sultry. Womanly and strong.

I had risen with the sun since I was a child. Mornings were my favorite time of day. But now, all I wanted was to fall asleep to that scent.

I didn’t have time for that, though. The day was wasting away while I sat and fantasized about a woman who wasn’t mine.

Whispers floated through the bank lobby as I filled out deposit slips.

Muttered comments were made as I perused the boot store.

Chatter ran around the hardware store as I loaded up the bed of my truck with fencing.

Murmurs filled the diner as I sat with George Thompson, negotiating prices for the winter feed I was sourcing from his farm.

All those rumblings were about one person.

Her.

I gave Mr. Thompson a firm handshake and thanked him for driving out here from Maren.

Cassandra hadn’t texted or called, so I assumed she was alive and headed to the gas station.

A familiar truck pulled through the Buc-ee’s lot and parked in a space by the front doors.

I let out a sharp whistle as the numbers on the gas pump ticked higher and higher.

Nate’s head whipped around as he jumped down and slammed the door shut. “Hey,” he hollered as he crossed the parking lot.

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