Page 40 of Braving the Storm
I shake my head, trying to figure out the best course of action to get him off my back. I’m far too embarrassed about the reasons why I ran to Crimson Ridge, and I’d rather eat a frog than tell my uncle anything about the reasons why my asshole ex is trying to harass me over the phone.
“Briar.” His jaw flexes.
“It’s just Crispin being her usual self.” I figure a fragmented truth will be better than nothing. He knows exactly the type of person my sister is, and while I feel uncomfortable lying to him, at least it’s partly true.
I’ve allowed myself to be treated so badly by all of them for so long, it’s humiliating. And I can’t bear the thought of him thinking less of me.
“You want me to sort her out for you?”
God. I find myself staring at him open-mouthed. Just like that, without question, this man would be prepared to willingly tangle with the source of pure misery herself, would be willing to go into battle against the human equivalent of a toxic, twelve-headed hydra… on my behalf.
“Uh, no. It’s fine. She and I had a disagreement before I left. Don’t really feel like taking her calls just yet.” Which is a very polite way to summarize the fact my own sister told me I should count myself lucky a man like Antoine would tolerate me, and that it was perfectly normal for him to get his dick wet somewhere else.
Jesus. I’ll gladly never have to see that woman’s face again as long as I live.
“She always was a piece of work,” he mutters, then strides ahead in the direction of the paint aisle. As I trundle after his broad shoulders, I feel like I can somewhat breathe again.
By the timewe finished getting everything required for some ranch fix-up job my uncle is going to be working on—something about an old rodeo friend with a new dude ranch venture he’s preparing to open for business—we’re both starved.
The prospect of neither of us having to cook tonight is what lures us to a bar, I’m assuming, must be the only place in Crimson Ridge to get a drink or a meal after dark.
A cowboy joint, aptly named The Loaded Hog, is lit up with a warm glow and a country bar feel when we get inside. There are booths along one wall, a lengthy wooden bar, and leaners scattered around a space that looks like it becomes the dance floor when the place gets busy.
I feel a tad self-conscious in jeans, a cropped sweater, and boots. Not that I don’t like how I look, but I’ve had it drummed into me for so long that my appearance had to beperfectat all times. God forbid I potentially bring the Lane or Montgomery family names into disrepute if I was ‘papped’ in public portraying anything less than a perfectly curated appearance. Before coming to these mountains, I would never have been allowed to wear something so casual out for dinner, but then again, glancing around, this is far more the style of everyone else in here tonight.
Plus, I love the hell out of these jeans. They work magic for my ass, so I’m quietly pleased to have more opportunities to wear them around Crimson Ridge.
“Oh hey, Storm.”
I’ve barely slid into the booth when a sultry voice appears at the end of our table, arriving within seconds as if by magic. The waitress, who just performed a miracle and formed out of thin air, is fixated on the man seated across from me and cocks her head to one side while loudly chomping gum. Eyes bouncing across every muscle in his body, she practically drools all over our table.
This girl is pretty, damn her. Glossy chestnut hair tied in a ponytail. Blue-eyed. A walking showcase for whatever flawless skincare regime she abides by. To top it all off, she’s got the kind of effortlessly perfect makeup worthy of a centerfold spread. She’s a walking, talking, perfect country princess package.
My hackles are up within half a second.
“Briar, this is, uhh—” He readjusts himself in the booth and scowls at the menu already on the table.
“Luce…” She flashes me eyes that have unmistakable thinly veiled daggers where her pupils should be. “Cute sweater, Briar.”
Her eyes take in my appearance and then bounce back up witha half-hearted, fake-ass smile. Those eyeballs of hers nearly roll straight out of her head as she drawls over my name. This bitch doesn’t think my sweater is cute at all. Her claws are unsheathed and ready to shred me for daring to sit in the same booth as Stôrmand Lane.
God, could she cock a leg and piss all over the place more?
“You want to order?” The man across from me doesn’t seem to be taking any notice of this girl, who probably is younger than me, and while that should make me feel better… somehow it doesn’t.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll have the grilled chicken.”
“You want the usual, Storm?”
Yeah, the message is loud and clear. Our waitress is pretty much ready to pop her shirt buttons to prove there’s some sort of history between the two of them.
I busy myself pouring some water from the carafe already on the table.
“Just a burger will do, thanks.”
“You want to order anything to drink with your meal, Storm?”
“Briar?” He deflects the question.
