Page 62 of Dust Storm

But I was two years removed from the dirty thirty and had felt the rumblings of my libido coming back to life.

Maybe it wasn’t me.

Maybe it was him.

Maybe it was both.

One man calling time of death, and the other resuscitating my craving for intimacy.

But that’s not how this was going to go.

I wasn’t a Hallmark heroine who was banished to a small town and was destined to learn the true meaning of Christmas and the evils of corporate life after being wooed by the local lumberjack.

Four things were for certain:

I loved my job.

I did not like flannel.

I would not apologize for climbing the corporate ladder and stepping on the occasional set of knuckles.

There was no mystical small-town magic when the air around the ranch smelled like livestock.

My phone rang as Christian was shuffling Bree and Gracie out the door.

Video Call from Tripp Meyers.

But instead of my heart skipping a beat the way it had when I thought about Christian in the shower, a boulder of dread sank in my gut.

I waited to answer until the front door shut behind the Griffith clan, since I was bound to the confines of the house WiFi.

With a deep breath, I tapped the accept button and waited.

Tripp’s grainy face filled the screen. I hadn’t seen him since he abandoned me.

Dread was instantly replaced by rage.

“Cassandra,” he said without so much as a hello. “I’m surprised you answered. I expected you to be working.”

My eyebrows winged up. “Is that really the tone you’re taking with me?”

“I’m still your boss. I have to make sure that everyone on my team is doing what’s expected.”

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