Page 71 of Riding the Storm
“Wow, Chuck,” he says softly. “You clean up nice.”
“Thanks.” I force a shrug. “You don’t look too bad yourself, cowboy.”
The restaurant’s at the top of the hotel. It’s upscale and rustic—dark walls, low lighting, polished oak tables. The Dry Canyon folks have rented out a private section. A host leads us to a long table, where a handful of men in sports coats and women in designer dresses are seated.
Bryce shakes hands with an older man whose silver hair and crisp suit scream money. “Charli, this is Micah Ottinger,” Bryce says. “Owner of Dry Canyon Distilling.”
Micah smiles warmly, eyes twinkling. “Bryce, you’ve never mentioned this lovely creature before. Where have you been hiding her?”
“Charli is helping me with my rehab,” Bryce says.
I give him a quizzical look, but he gives me a slight shrug.
I extend a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ottinger.”
“Ah,” he says with a wink. “You’re a lucky man to have such beautiful assistance, Bryce. And please, Charli, call me Micah.”
Bryce doesn’t correct him—I’m no assistant, and I shoot him a glare, which he ignores completely.
“Come on. Let’s introduce you to the rest of the team.”
Micah leads us around the table, introducing Bryce to the keymembers of the company—from the CEO to the marketing manager. Then he shows us to our places, seated beside him and his wife. The table’s filled with whiskey bottles—including Bull Rope, the newest label—and crystal glasses that never stay empty long. The speeches start after appetizers. Micah and a few execs toast to the new partnership, talking about heritage and pride and how Bryce Raintree embodies the spirit of the brand. Talking about him like he’s a product, not a real person.
Bryce listens politely, but I see the twitch of his jaw—the same one he gets when people approach and fawn all over him in public like they did that night at The Soused Cow. It’s subtle, and he hides it well behind his practiced smile, but it’s there. When he catches me watching, he tips his glass toward mine and clinks them together.
Dinner’s incredible—jumbo shrimp and fire-roasted fillets, garlic mashed potatoes, and steamed asparagus with hollandaise. The whiskey goes down smooth, like liquid caramel, and before long, the table’s full of laughter. Micah tells a story about how his father built his first distillery in the old barn behind his grandparents’ farm, and Bryce counters with a tale from his grandfather’s rodeo days. He was quite the bull rider in the ’60s and Bryce’s mentor when he was just a boy, riding sheep in his hometown rodeo’s mutton busting event.
By the time dessert rolls around, I’ve almost forgotten why I was mad at him as I cling to every word.
Almost.
Back in the elevator, Bryce carries a to-go bag with the desserts we never touched and a full bottle of Bull Rope. We ride to our floor in silence. When the door opens, the hallway’s quiet, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. My boots click against the tiled floor, my dress swishing with every step.
Inside the room, I drop my clutch on the console table in front of the television and exhale as I kick off my boots. “Well, that went better than expected.”
He sets the bag down on the desk and grins. “Told you you’d have fun.”
“I didn’t say fun. I said better than expected.”
He unscrews the bottle cap and pours two drinks into plastic cups from the bathroom. “Close enough.”
I take mine and bring it to my lips. Warmth slides through me, chasing away the chill of the air-conditioning.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he says after a moment. His tone is softer, genuine. “It was actually nice not to have to attend that alone.”
I shrug. “You and Matty didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“You could have said no.” He leans against the wall, eyes tracing me. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”
Something flickers in my chest—want—which is impossible to ignore. I set my cup down. “You’re full of sweet talk tonight, aren’t you?”
He steps closer. “Just truth.”
The air between us thickens.
“I’m going to change,” I say. I grab a T-shirt and sleep shorts from my bag and head to the bathroom, needing distance. But once I’m inside, the zipper on my dress catches. “Damn thing,” I mutter, reaching behind me and tugging with all my might.
“Bryce,” I call out in frustration as I step back into the room. “Would you, uh, mind?”
