Page 10 of The Cowboy's Second Chance Bride

But the more time it took to raise the money, the further down the adoption list I went. And that meant extending the wait time. And I was so ready for a family. Being a party of one sucked.

The car pulled up in front of a stationery store. We were downtown, so the buildings varied in height, and they nestled one upon the next, making it hard to see where one ended and the other started.

“We’re here,” the driver said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

I pointed to the stationery store, wondering if Cal’s office was cloaked by journals and paper goods. “Do I go through there?”

He rolled down the passenger window and leaned across the seat to point. “That door, the black one.”

Off to the side of the stationery store and before the next building was a discreet black metal door with no sign or anything. It blended in so well with the black-and-brown brick of the buildings that I’d written it off as insignificant.

“Ah, got it. Thanks.” I exited the car and only had a moment’s hesitation before opening the heavy black door.

Beyond it was a brightly lit, well-appointed waiting room. I looked back out the door. Now would be the time to bail if I were going to. I met the driver’s eyes. He gave me a quick smile and eased the car from the curb and into traffic.

It was do-or-die time. I turned around and walked in.

Behind a desk, a tall, lithe, dark-skinned woman in her mid-twenties stood and held out her hand. “You must be Ms. Holloway. We are expecting you. I’m Citra Jackson.”

Her grip was gentle yet firm. My daddy had put a lot of stock in a person’s handshake, and I did as well. Citra had a lovely smile and warm eyes. I liked her immediately.

She took my raincoat from me. “I’ll take you up.”

The lobby was modern and simple. Light tones of beige and grays paired with dark blues had a calming effect. Citra led me through another door, this one also made of metal. Behind the door were a few offices. The elevator was next to the stairs. We took it to the third floor.

I was wearing loose, flowy midnight-blue pants with deep pockets—because if pockets could be had, I wanted them—and a gauzy cream-and-blue polka-dot blouse. I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder and stuck my hands in my pockets to hide my nervousness. Calvin D— for Dumbass—Beckett was about to have a no-good, very bad day?

The elevator door slid open, and I looked directly into an office across the hall. I rolled back my shoulders to ease the tension. It would not be cool for him to see me nervous. This was it, the moment I’d often thought about over the ten years we’d been apart, and… well, I still didn’t believe I was actually going to see Cal again.

We entered a dark room. “This is Cal’s office. He’s in a… meeting, but Paul, that’s the PR guy, said to have you wait here. They should be done soon.” Citra hung my coat on a coat-tree in the corner, next to another jacket, one that belonged to a dark-gray suit. Cal’s, I assumed.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” I took a seat on the couch that was perpendicular to Cal’s desk.

Citra nodded once. “If you need anything, press one on the phone there”—she pointed to the desk—“and someone will come running.”

“Thank you.”

Citra left, closing the door behind her. I blew out a slow, steady breath. I was in Cal’s office, and any minute now, he would come in and see me. Ten years of avoiding all things Cal was coming to an end.

My hands began to sweat, and I rubbed them together like I was massaging in lotion. I’d found this to be a better solution than wiping them down my pants. Then I used the time to try to figure out this new Cal.

Nothing about this office felt like Cal or smelled like him either. Not that I really could recall the smell—it was more that I remembered how it made me feel. This space was… sterile. It lacked personality and history. A narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase was tucked between two credenzas. I knew Optium had several large-profile clients, but there were no pictures of them on the bookcase. Instead, I found a handful of copies of hardback books, two different titles. The author was C. D. Beckett.

In my search, I hadn’t found that Cal had written any books. From a PR standpoint, that wasn’t good. From a privacy one, the lack of discovery was excellent.

In college, Cal had been a law student. His dad had expected him to work for the family hotel empire, but Cal had been toying with taking over his grandparents’ cattle ranch instead. Clearly, he’d taken a sharp left turn away from both of those.

I’d been right when I’d looked at his picture on Morgan Barker’s phone. I didn’t know this person. This Cal.

Other books lined the shelves: books on weapons, travel guides to various places, and law books. If I hadn’t had a past with Cal, and had I not seen a picture of him, I’d have had no idea who this office belonged to or what sort of person he was.

This was not the space of the Cal I knew. My Cal had been neat but not without clutter. He never threw away his notes and often would ask me to organize them in binders for him just in case he needed them later.

This office did not belong to a just-in-case-I-might-need-it person. This guy didn’t live in the gray. It was all black and white for him.

From out in the hall, I heard voices. I paused to listen. Two men were coming toward me. I considered going back to the couch but instead went to stand in front of his desk which had me facing the door. Leaning back against it, I crossed my arms.

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