Page 7 of Riding the Storm
“There’s a batch cooling on the counter. Just pulled it out of the oven a few minutes ago. Ice cream’s in the freezer.”
I fill a bowl, grab a cup of coffee, and head to the dining table. Matty appears a few minutes later with a folder labeledBryce Raintreein hand.
I raise an eyebrow. “You already had a signed contract, didn’t you?”
She smirks. “I was confident.”
“You’re something else.”
“I know.”
She drops the file on the table and goes to the kitchen before returning with her own coffee mug and taking a seat across from me.
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. “So, when am I supposed to meet this cowboy?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she says without looking up.
“Tomorrow?!”
She nods.
I groan. “You could’ve at least pretended to give me time to say no.”
“You did say no. But then you listened to my stellar arguments and changed your mind.”
“Classic.”
“You’ll thank me later,” she quips.
“Or I’ll kill you later. We’ll see how it goes.”
She smirks.
“So, what time tomorrow?” I ask.
“They’re flying in early. His agent will bring him by around ten, and we’ll get him settled in.”
“Settled in?”
She glances up. “Oh, did I forget to mention that he’ll be staying in Carl’s old cabin for the summer?”
Carl is Matty’s ex-fiancé. He used to work here at Wildhaven Storm but took off like the snake he was when things got rough. He regretted the decision and tried to work his way back into her life last year. Too bad for him, Caison Galloway had already made his way to town. The snake never stood a chance. He slithered off again once it was clear Matty’s heart now belonged to Case.
“Yeah, you did.”
And she doesn’t look the least bit sorry.
The flight attendant’s voice is too chipper for this hour of the morning.
“Good morning, folks. Welcome aboard. We’ll be taking off shortly for Jackson Hole—”
I tune her out. I’ve already got my hat pulled low over my eyes, trying to block out the world around me. The hum of the plane’s engines; the taste of the stale, recycled air; the bite of the seat belt cutting across my lap—it all feels like a jail cell. Punishment for a life lived on the edge. One full of overindulgence and wastefulness.
And maybe it is. But it sure has been fun.
My agent, Shawn, is sitting beside me in the aisle seat, laptop open, fingers flying like he’s drafting some exciting and lucrative corporate takeover instead of wrecking my life one sponsorship deal at a time.
“Ry,” he says, glancing up from the screen, “you want coffee? They’re serving before takeoff.”
