Page 39 of Tame Me Daddy

His hand moved then, covering mine with warm, calloused fingers that squeezed gently before returning to the wheel as we approached a curve in the road.

The drive to Cedar Creek took about thirty minutes, the landscape shifting from the wide-open ranch land to more densely populated areas. The town itself wasn't large—a small Texas community that probably hadn't changed dramatically in decades—but the main street glowed with warm lights from restaurants and small businesses that gave it a welcoming feel.

Grant parked in front of a building constructed of aged red brick with a sign that read "The Branding Iron" in stylized Western lettering. Through the windows, I glimpsed the warm glow of ambient lighting and couples seated at tables covered with crisp white cloths.

"Best steaks in three counties," Grant said as he helped me from the truck, his hand lingering at the small of my back as we approached the entrance. “They buy from us, so we know the quality is first-rate.”

Inside, the restaurant breathed old Texas charm—warm wood paneling, tasteful Western artwork, and the savory aroma of grilled meat. Not pretentious, but clearly a cut above the kind of places I usually frequented.

"Grant Warwick!" The greeting came from a stocky man in his sixties who approached with a genuine smile. "Twice in one month—we're honored. Although, you’ve got someone with you this time . . ."

"Evening, Joe," Grant replied, shaking the man's hand. "Table for two tonight."

Joe's eyes flickered to me, curious but not intrusive. "Of course. Got your usual corner spot ready. I’ll get an extra chair."

The thought of Grant in here alone made me a little sad.

As the owner led us through the restaurant, I noticed several diners nodding in recognition at Grant. He returned their greetings with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his social standing, neither arrogant nor overly familiar.

Our table was in a quiet corner, partially screened by a decorative wooden partition that offered a measure of privacy while still allowing us to see the rest of the dining room. Grant held my chair for me before taking his own seat across the small table.

"Perks of living in a small town for generations," Grant explained as Joe left us with menus and a promise to send over their best wine. "Everyone knows everyone."

"Is that hard sometimes?" I asked, genuinely curious. Having spent most of my life trying to blend into anonymity, the idea of being known—really known—by an entire community seemed terrifying. "Having no privacy, no anonymity?"

"It can be," Grant admitted. He studied the wine list with careful attention, but I could tell he was considering his words. "The Warwick name comes with expectations. People look to us—to me—as a sort of institution around here. My grandfather employed half the town at one point."

"Sounds like a lot of pressure."

He nodded, then glanced up at me. "But there's value in being known, in having roots somewhere. In belonging to a place and having it belong to you in return."

The waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine that Grant approved after the customary tasting ritual. After our glasseswere filled and our orders taken—ribeye for Grant, sirloin for me—we settled into a more intimate conversation.

"So what about you?" Grant asked. "Before Warwick Ranch—did you ever feel like you belonged somewhere?"

I swirled the wine in my glass, watching the deep red liquid cling to the sides. It was good wine, complex in a way that matched the man across from me. "Not really," I admitted. "I never really fit anywhere. Always felt I was playing a part, hiding pieces of myself. Even at home."

Grant's eyes never left my face, his attention complete in a way few people ever offered.

"My family had . . . expectations," I continued, choosing my words carefully. "About who I should be, how I should act. When I couldn't—wouldn't—be that person anymore, things fell apart."

"And now?" he asked, his voice gentle but probing.

"Now I'm learning I don't have to choose between different parts of myself. They can all exist together," I replied with a newfound calm. I smiled, though I knew the expression held complexity. "The ranch hand who can move a herd of cattle. The woman who enjoys feeling pretty sometimes. The person who . . ." I hesitated, then pushed forward. "The person who craves what we explore behind your office door."

Grant reached across the table and took my hand, his thumb gently tracing circles on my palm.

Our steaks arrived, perfectly cooked and accompanied by seasonal vegetables from local farms. As we ate, the conversation shifted to Grant's past. He shared memories of growing up on the ranch—the weight of being a Warwick, the expectations placed on him from childhood.

"My father was a good man, but hard," Grant explained. "Ranch life was all he knew, all he wanted me to know. When I left for college in Austin, he took it as a personal rejection."

"You left?" I asked, surprised. Grant seemed so much a part of the ranch, it was difficult to imagine him anywhere else.

"For four years. Got a business degree. Thought I wanted something different, something mine rather than inherited." A shadow crossed his face. "But the ranch kept calling me back. My father had a heart attack my senior year, and I returned to help run things. Found I didn't want to leave again."

I hesitated, then ventured into more personal territory. "What about . . . personal relationships? Has there been anyone serious?" I immediately regretted the prying question. "Sorry, that's none of my business."

"Itisyour business," he replied, his directness catching me off guard. "There was someone serious once. Emily. We were engaged briefly about eight years ago."

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