Chapter Three
“When backed into a corner, always maintain your calm.”
—Blu Johnson, life lesson #65
“He’s a natural on camera.” The cameraman spoke to the producer as they both kept their eyes glued to the small screen set up in front of them. They were reviewing the last segment of the interview they’d just taped with Waylon.
“It’s that laid-back Texas way he has about him,” one of the female crew added in.
Waylon gave the woman a quick wink, and she returned it with a half-lidded I’m-yours-for-the-asking look. And damn, but she had a lot to offer. If Waylon were in the mood for asking.
They were set up just outside the barn as Friday inched its way into late afternoon, the producer having wanted one corner of the building in the backdrop while also capturing a portion of the sweeping views of the ranch, and Waylon had long since grown tired of the process. He’d signed up for it, though, and since the ranch was still a work in progress—meaning no animals needed his attention at that very moment—he wasn’t sure what else he could do but smile, try not to be offended that they’d talked him into tipping his hat back a little too far on his head, and wait for it all to be over.
The cameraman shifted back behind the eyepiece, and the producer once again stepped to his side. “You mentioned wild hogs earlier,” the producer said to Waylon.
“I did mention wild hogs. All ranches in central Texas have them.”
“Tell us about the hogs. What do you do with them?”
Waylon cocked a grin at the question, and he couldn’t help but notice a couple of the other female crew stop what they were doing and watch. He also caught sight of a brown SUV heading up the ranch’s driveway.
“I kill them,” he answered bluntly, and several shocked gasps filled the air.
“Why?” one of the women asked.
“Because if I don’t kill the hogs, then they’ll kill the steer.”
“Ah.” All heads nodded simultaneously. They’d clearly sent a Hollywood team to produce the show.
“And how do you kill them?” the woman with the I’m-all-yours look asked.
Waylon lifted his arms as if holding a rifle, and he mouthed the word “Boom.” Then he gave another cocky grin, this time straight into the lens of the camera. “They’re bloody suckers, too. Nasty creatures.”
The women stood transfixed while the men appeared both disgusted and impressed.
Waylon was playing it up more than was necessary, but since the occasional camera in his face was to be a part of his job, he figured he might as well have fun with it. And wild hogs were a real issue in the Hill Country. “Watching for them is part of our daily routine,” he continued. “We also regularly check fences, make sure the water stations aren’t empty, doctor any animals that need it . . . and we kill hogs when we see them.”
And by we, he meant he. At least for now.
“You make it sound like the Wild West,” another woman said, and Waylon broke into a wide grin.
He tipped his hat at the woman. “What part of Texas isn’t the Wild West, ma’am?”
The brown SUV rolled to a stop at the side of the barn, and Waylon forced himself to have no visible reaction. He’d been watching for that vehicle all week.
“What other areas of ranch management should we know about?” the producer asked. He scribbled notes as he talked. “What other jobs will you be handling in the coming days to help Cal get the place operational?”
“We’ll be heading up to the auction in a couple of weeks, then bringing the stock home.”
Heather got out of her car, but she didn’t look his way as she passed through the open doors of the barn.
“Then . . .” he continued, mentally searching to recapture his train of thought. He turned back to the camera. “There will be branding, finishing the fence in a couple of pastures so we can move the cattle around as needed—”
Heather returned to her car.
“And . . .”
She opened the back of her vehicle and the top half of her disappeared inside. When she stood back up, each arm was curled upward, encircling what appeared to be heavy bundles of spindles balanced on each shoulder.
Waylon gulped. For a small thing, she sure was mighty.
“Mr. Peterson,” someone said off to his right, and Waylon realized he’d quit talking and was not only watching Heather, but he’d turned in her direction as well.
As had several other men in the near vicinity.
He returned to the camera, wondering if he could call a halt to the interview right then and there, then tossed one last glance her way. And he found her eyes on him.
His fingers twitched.
“Mr. Peterson,” the producer said again.
Heather disappeared back into the barn, and Waylon scowled at the man currently ruining his day. He’d been hoping to see Heather all week, and now she was within twenty-five feet of him, and this skinny-jean-wearing hipster wanted to talk to him about cows?
“Aren’t we about finished?” Waylon asked.
One of the women snickered at his obvious need to hurry, while the one with the I’m-all-yours look pursed her lips sourly.
“Just a couple more questions,” the producer answered.
Waylon forced himself to finish the interview without watching for Heather again, but once he was free to go, he strode toward the barn. Heather’s car remained parked at the side, so he assumed she hadn’t come back out. He headed for the second stall on the right, where others had been storing supplies throughout the week, and he found her there, head bent over a yellow piece of paper, pencil poised, checking items off a list.
“You here to sing for Ollie again?”
She didn’t jump in surprise as he’d expected her to, and when she turned—in a manner he thought was a touch too casual—he narrowed his eyes on her. Had she been sticking around waiting on him?
“I’m too busy to sing today, Mr. Peterson.”
Waylon’s interest ratcheted into a new stratosphere. “Mr. Peterson, huh? You called me that the other night, too. I like it.” He propped his shoulder against the side of the open stall door. “Has a bit of a naughty ring to it, don’t you think?”
She shook her head at his blatant flirting and moved deeper into the stall. “You’re a part of the show, I see,” she said from behind a stack of boxes.
“I am. I signed the contract last week.” He leaned his head to the right, but couldn’t make her out between the lumber and the supplies. “Looks like you and I are going to be working together,” he continued.
“I don’t think so. I’m working on the wedding venue. I doubt any ranching will be needed for that.”
“You never know.” He took a step to his left, but still couldn’t manage a direct line of sight. “Cal might decide to incorporate a couple of steer into the ceremony,” he suggested. He shuffled over another foot. “I could be brought in to fence off a tiny pasture in the middle of your venue.”
She poked her head out from behind the boxes, her gaze quickly relocating to his new position, and she shot him a cool stare. “Or maybe he’ll want to bring in a horse who had his balls cut off.”
Waylon blinked at the cheeky words, but she was gone again before laughter found its way up and out of him. “You’ve got a quick wit about you, don’t you?”
“I’ve been known to be witty.”
He grinned. He liked her.
He slipped quietly into the adjacent stall. “So what is it that’s got you so busy today?”
He could see her now, but just the right half of her. She stood unmoving behind the boxes, the list she was supposedly working on tucked haphazardly in her back pocket, and at his question, she dropped her head and thumped her forehead against a box.
“I’m checking inventory,” she replied. She closed her eyes as she spoke, and her words stretched thin. “Before we get started next week.”
“Is that so?” He inched deeper into the space. Looked to him like she was doing absolutely nothing.
Maybe hanging out just to spend time with him?
The idea pleased him like no other, and he stopped moving once he stood directly across from her. He didn’t say anything to alert her of his presence. He just waited.
“That it is.” She licked her lips and tilted her head back to stare at the loft above her. Her top teeth nibbled on her lip. “Got a lot to do,” she continued. “I don’t mean to disturb you. Go on about your business.”
He decided that his business was to stand right there until she realized that he was onto her. She’d definitely hung around to see him today—and she was now too chicken to own up to it.
Not speaking, so as not to give himself away, he just watched. She didn’t do anything for a few seconds. Just nibbled on her lip some more, her gaze still fastened above her, until finally she stooped and dragged over a box about eighteen inches in height. She climbed on top of it, one hand on the stack of boxes still in front of her and the other outstretched as if to keep her balance, and she managed it all without making a sound. Once straightened to her full height, she carefully eased apart two boxes at eye level and peeked through. Then her mouth turned to a frown.
She leaned back and craned her neck to look toward the front of the barn, and Waylon clamped down on his laughter. She was looking for him.
Also, she was insanely cute.
When her shoulders sagged as if dejected that he’d left without saying anything else to her, he could hold out no longer. He rapped a knuckle against one of the bars between them, and that time, she did jump.
She rotated to face him, still perched a foot and a half off the ground, and her eyes flashed hot with annoyance.
“About finished checking off that list?” he asked.
“You—” She bit off her words and jutted her chin out.
“Me what?” He grinned.
She didn’t finish her thought. She just climbed from the box and marched toward the open stall door.
He moved to join her, standing to the side as she came out, and was thrilled when she didn’t immediately leave. Instead, she headed for Ollie. She pulled a carrot from her front pocket, resolutely paying no attention to Waylon as she moved, while he trailed along behind her.
“Not talking to me now?” Waylon asked. Ollie had let out a few sniffs since Waylon had come in, but at Heather’s approach, the sounds changed to low nickers.
“I’m just giving the horses a treat before I leave.”
He studied the back of her head, her hair loose and the ends curling in, then trailed his gaze down over her stiff posture as she continued making her avoidance clear. So he decided to give her a taste of her own medicine. He didn’t say another word as he headed for the feed room. The horses needed to be fed before he left, anyway. He might as well do it now. And when he returned, he saw that his move had paid off.
Heather remained in the barn, only she now looked at him. Something about the twist to her mouth as she watched him, though, had him slowing his steps on the way to Beau’s stall.
“What?” he asked when she remained silent.
“I’m just thinking about something.”
He opened the swing-out feeder door and tipped the bucket. “And what’s that?”
“About the fact that you’re buying a house.”
His shoulders tensed at her words, causing him to spill half of Beau’s feed at his feet. He sighed. “And where did you hear that?”
“While shopping for Jill’s wedding dress.”
“Is that so?” He downplayed the information as he grabbed a broom and swept up the mess. He supposed he should be surprised that he’d managed to keep the house a secret for as long as he had.
After rehanging the broom, he found Heather leaning against Ollie’s stall. She’d bent one knee, her heel resting on the wood panel making up the lower half of the door behind her, and her eyes followed Waylon until he once again disappeared.
When he eventually resurfaced from the feed room, she continued to watch. Her silent scrutiny gave him the urge to turn the tables on her, again. Not that he’d done such a great job of it the first time. But he let her be for now. He liked knowing she was trying to figure him out.
He finished filling Beau’s feeder in silence, and by the time he reached Ollie’s, she’d apparently done enough thinking.
“Very little gets past people’s notice around here, you know?” She gave him a smug look. “Especially for someone so new in town.”
He dumped the bucket’s contents into Ollie’s feeder, and made sure he ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with Heather. Then he turned his head and locked his gaze on hers. “Yet some things obviously do.”
“Like what?” She didn’t look convinced.
“Like the fact that I signed the contract on the house over four weeks ago.” He offered his own smug look. “Yet it’s just now getting out.”
A faint smile touched her lips and she dipped her head in concession. “Touché, Mr. Peterson.”
His blood pumped harder. “There’s that ‘Mr. Peterson’ again.”
Her features didn’t change as she eyed him. Nor did she acknowledge his comment. But something changed inside him as she watched him so carefully, and he found himself at a loss to explain it. He didn’t simply want her naked anymore. He wanted to talk to her. To get to know her.
And though he wouldn’t stop flirting—because seriously, if he could get her clothes off, he’d do it in a heartbeat—his priorities with this woman seemed to be shifting.
She pushed off the stall door, her designer-booted feet crunching the fine gravel as she moved to the other side of the aisle, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He forced himself to release it slowly, though. He didn’t want to sound as needy as Ollie. He also didn’t want her thinking she’d gained the upper hand in whatever game it was they were playing.
She offered Beau his own carrot before reversing position and taking up the same stance she’d held at Ollie’s stall, then she lifted her gaze to his apartment. Waylon could see the wheels turning in her head, and the truth was, if she were to look his way, she’d witness the same going on with him.
Why was he so fascinated by her? Why did he want her to be fascinated by him?
It had been a long time since anyone had looked closely enough to decipher the real man inside the packaging, and even then, it hadn’t been enough. Nikki might have seen him, but she’d never truly understood him.
“So why buy a house?” Heather brought her gaze back to his. There hadn’t been enough light to notice the other night, but her eyes were almost a translucent blue. Like the marble he’d once carried in his pocket every day for a year. “Doesn’t the apartment come with the job?”
“The apartment does come with the job.”
“Then why buy?”
He gave an easy shrug. “Why not?”
She glanced at the small living quarters once more. Beau nipped at the back of her head, and she lifted a hand without looking, another carrot between her fingers. “Seems the job would be easier if you stayed on-site,” she pointed out. “Once the livestock is here, I’d think the days would start early. Maybe run late.”
“You worrying about my sleeping habits or about my ability to get the job done?”
“I’m not worrying about anything.” Her eyes flicked back to his. “I’m just curious.”
He moved a couple of feet closer. “Maybe I’m curious about you, too.”
She didn’t take the bait, and shifted away. But as she peered back at him, he noticed that, unlike most of the women he’d spoken with since moving to Red Oak Falls, it seemed to be true curiosity—as opposed to gossip—that fed her questions.
“It’s simple,” he found himself answering her. “I want a house.”
“But why?”
He opened his mouth to tell her. She’d find out soon enough, anyway.
He couldn’t do it, though. He wasn’t ready to share that part of himself yet. “Why were you singing to my horse the other night?” he asked instead, and at the change in subject, she reared back.
“What does my singing to Ollie have to do with your buying a house?”
“You tell me yours; I’ll tell you mine.”
A hint of a smile touched her lips, and Waylon felt something shift inside him once again. He really liked this girl. “I don’t want to tell you mine,” she murmured. They stood face to face, her flat against Beau’s stall and Waylon wanting desperately to close the distance between them.
“If you won’t tell me why you sang to my horse”—his voice took on a teasing quality—“then tell me why you hung around and waited for me today.”
She didn’t look away. “I didn’t hang around and wait for you today. I was working.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was, too. We start work on the backyard on Monday, and—”
Her words cut off when he reached around behind her. He didn’t touch her, just captured the corner of the paper she’d tucked in her back pocket earlier. Tugging it free of her jeans, he smoothed out the creases—never taking his eyes from hers—then turned the paper so she could see the list she’d been working on.
“I got a glimpse of this earlier,” he told her.
“So?” Her breath forced the word out as he held it up in front of her.
“So . . .” He reached behind her once more, and her chest lifted as she caught her breath. He inhaled the scent of oranges as his fingers closed over the pointed tip of the black pencil, and after he slid it from her pocket, he held it up for her as well. “This is my pencil.”
He knew the throatiness of his voice gave him away. He was insanely turned on, merely from being this close to her. From breathing in the citrusy smell that had to be coming from her hair.
“I have a cupful of them on the desk in my office,” he explained.
Her eyelashes fluttered at his declaration, and this time when she spoke, her words were as unsteady as his. “Are you implying you’re the only one who could use that type of pencil?”
He dropped his gaze to her mouth. It would take no more than the dip of his head to put his lips to hers. “I’m saying”—he cleared his throat when the words barely squeezed out—“that you didn’t use this pencil. That you’d already finished checking your list before you got here today, and that you grabbed this particular pencil off my desk to make it look like you were busy. And I know this”—he waved the pencil back and forth in front of her—“because the check marks on your list were made with ink.”
Heather forgot to breathe.
Damn the man, he wasn’t supposed to have noticed that.
She snatched the paper from him and shoved it back into her pocket, and when she saw laughter in his eyes, she bumped her forearms against his chest to shove him away.
“Scoot back,” she grumbled. “And quit crowding me.”
He scooted back. But he also laughed at her.
“And stop it.” She glared. “How rude.”
“Rude to point out that you were in here waiting for me or rude for laughing?”
She scowled even harder. What a jerk.
And what a moron she was for hanging around to begin with.
She took another step forward and shoved him in the chest again, forcing him to move a couple more feet back. “Just rude,” she told him, and he laughed at her yet again.
“I might be rude, but I still want to know. You going to tell me why you were waiting for me, Heather?”
“I wasn’t waiting for you.” She bumped him again, and before she knew it, she’d backed him all the way across the aisle.
Ollie watched as if curious who’d make the next move, and Heather forced herself not to get all the way up into Waylon’s face. Not to appear as if she wanted to pin him there in front of her. She stood a foot away, breathing hard—mostly in embarrassment—and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I don’t know why all the women in town think you’re all that, anyway,” she complained. “You’re nothing but a coarse, smelly—”
“Smelly?” He looked affronted.
“—jerk of a man,” she continued, without breaking stride, “who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. And yes,” she confirmed, “smelly. You smell like a horse.” Mixed in with sunshine and the earth, she silently added. He smelled like a man should smell. She jabbed a finger in his face. “And no man is a gift to women.”
The bastard laughed at her again. So she slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Stop it,” she growled.
“Then tell me why you waited on me,” he mumbled under her fingertips.
“I didn’t wait on you!”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t!” she yelled again. But she totally had waited on him. And that was not like her. Not the twenty-nine-year-old her. She’d seen him outside when she’d pulled up, intending only to drop off the last of the supplies, and she’d simply been unable to get back in her car and drive away. Not without talking to him first.
But why?
She yanked her hand away from his mouth when she realized she was still holding it there, and took a step back. What was she doing? She wiped her fingers on her jeans as if it would erase the feel of his lips. She didn’t get worked up like this. She was the “calm one” as Jill and Trenton liked to point out. That’s why she’d been the spokesperson for their business for all these years. People liked her. They responded well to her. And she didn’t lose her cool.
But with this man . . .
She forced herself to calm down, and took another step away from him. This man—whom she didn’t even know—might be trying to drive her insane, but she didn’t have to voluntarily tag along for the ride. He stood watching her now, wearing a similar expression to that of the ball-less horse standing directly behind him, and though she was fairly certain her current demeanor did imply that she’d returned to calm . . . she still wanted to scream. At both of them.
Waylon for being so frustrating and Ollie for growing on her so fast that she thought it was cute that he and his owner wore the same expressions.
“For the record,” Waylon said after the silence had stretched on several seconds too long, “I’m glad you waited. I wanted to see you again.”
The humor disappeared from his eyes, and the gentle way he made the statement had her chest deflating. What was going on with them?
She shook her head. “There’s no reason you should want to see me again.” Just as there was no reason she should have hung around and waited for him. “You don’t even know me.”
“We could change that.”
“I don’t want to change it.”
“Are you sure?”
His eyes were an odd shade of brown. Lighter than most brown eyes she’d ever seen, yet solid enough a color that she didn’t think they could be called hazel.
She looked him over as she stood there, taking in his plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the worn jeans covering strong thighs and ending at dusty boots. He was 100 percent cowboy. He stood feet shoulder-width apart and rocked back on his heels, and he wore his hat pulled low on his head. The man exuded buckets of confidence by doing nothing more than simply standing. Yet at the same time, something about him said “uncertainty” to her.
She replayed their last few words, trying to figure out where the uncertainty might be coming from, and decided that she wasn’t even certain of anything at the moment. Why she’d waited there for him. Why she was so drawn to him.
Whether she wanted to get to know him better or not.
She hated that he had the reputation he did.
“How old are you anyway?” When she finally spoke, he looked as startled by her question as she’d probably seemed when he’d asked why she’d sung to his horse.
“Why do you want to know?” he returned.
“Because I do.” Because he was young. She just hadn’t heard how young.
But if she knew for a fact that he was too young for her, then maybe she could stop this nonsense.
She thought about some of the things she had heard over the last few weeks. He’d apparently been in ranching only for the last couple of years, and immediately before that had lived in Vegas. He was originally from San Antonio. And in years past, he’d been inclined to orchestrate regional poker tournaments.
Those tournaments had drawn in several guys from Red Oak Falls, more than one of whom insisted that Waylon had been a little “too good” at cleaning them out of their money.
“Why do you want to know how old I am, Heather?”
His question pulled her out of her thoughts. “Can’t a person just wonder these things?”
“Sure they can.” His feet went into motion the second he finished speaking, and this time he backed her across the aisle. His long strides made it so she had to quickly scurry backward to keep from being stepped on, and once he had her pinned against Beau’s stall—standing far closer to her than she’d been to him—he looked her straight in the eyes. “But often there’s a reason for it. Are you trying to figure out if I’m old enough for you?” His voice was deep and seemed to vibrate through her body. “Because trust me, I am.”
She didn’t want to trust him.
And then it occurred to her what he’d just implied. She propped both hands on her hips and shot him an incredulous look. “Did you just call me old?”
“Not too old for me.” He waggled his brows at her. “I like my women mature.”
She huffed out a breath in disgust. “You don’t even know how old I am.”
“You’ll be thirty in December.”
That had her pausing. How did he know that?
How did he know anything about her?
“I’ve heard things about you, too,” he said, as if she’d asked the question out loud.
“What have you heard?” Who would be talking about her? “And from who?”
“Just from Cal.” Waylon’s voice softened, his eyes following suit. “He mentioned how the three of you came to be friends,” he said gently. “And during our conversation, it came up that you were six months younger than Jill.” He shrugged, looking vaguely repentant. “Jill’s birthday is in June. They got engaged three days after.”
Did the man have an eidetic memory or something? “What else did he tell you?”
“Pretty much just your age.”
His gaze flickered away, and she assumed he was holding something back. But whether Cal had shared her story or not, it was easy enough to find out. Her parents had burned to death in a barn fire that had been started by an electrical short. They’d died trying to save the horses—and likely each other—and Heather had been placed at Bluebonnet Farms shortly thereafter.
“And you just happened to remember my age out of the conversation?” She didn’t push for what he wasn’t telling her, because she didn’t like talking about her parents’ deaths.
“I just happened to remember your age,” he repeated.
“Then how old is Trenton?”
She didn’t know why she asked, other than to turn the conversation away from her. As if he instinctively understood her intent, he produced an instant sultry look. “Trenton is twenty-seven. But as I said, I like my women older.”
“I’m not your woman.”
“You’re not yet.”
She laughed under her breath at his audacity, and the tension of the previous moment snapped. “You have got to quit laying it on so thick,” she mumbled. “You’re as bad as Big Red.”
“Who’s Big Red?”
Crap. She hadn’t meant to say that.
But also . . . was that a hint of jealousy that flickered over Waylon’s face?
Interesting.
“No one that you need to worry about.” She wasn’t about to share anything about Len, because the last thing she needed was for Waylon to figure out that she had a thing for redheaded men. And if he ever happened to meet Len? Well, she was sure the other man would take great pleasure in working that into the conversation.
She let her gaze trail over Waylon’s trim beard before inching back up to the dark copper peeking out beneath his hat. He really was a fine specimen of redheaded man.
“I feel like you’re lying to me again,” he accused. “Just like you lied about waiting for me in the barn. But that’s okay.” He lowered his chin and shot her an unwavering stare. “I’m excellent at figuring out secrets.”
Heather laughed again. Because the man was not only hot as hell, but he had a ton of little-boy cuteness going for him as well. “Big Red is no secret,” she assured him. “Trust me. He’s nobody. He was a cameraman for Texas Dream Home, that’s all. And a ridiculous flirt.”
“Ah. So you like men who flirt?”
“I don’t . . .” She blew out a breath. “Len is just a friend, okay? He’s big and brash—”
“And smelly?” Waylon offered, and Heather burst out laughing.
“No. Len isn’t smelly.”
Waylon made a face. “I’m quite certain that I’m not, either.”
She didn’t give him the response she knew he sought. Instead, she simply shrugged her shoulders in a “whatever” kind of way, and Waylon narrowed his eyes.
“I’m not,” he insisted.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Peterson.” She fired off a grin that she knew highlighted her dimples the best, and though she was also aware she probably shouldn’t taunt the man, the female inside of her patted herself on the back when his eyes heated to a combustible level.
“You’re fun, Heather Lindsay. And I do like fun.”
“I . . .”
He captured her hand in his, and instead of moving in closer as she’d expected, he tugged her closer to him. “I also like flirting.” He glanced at her mouth. “Specifically, with you. I like that as much as I like it when you smile at me the way you just did.”
Heather only blinked at him. Because she had no idea what to say to that. The man was excellent at turning the mood in the room.
He glanced at his watch, and regret filled his face. “But I am going to stop flirting with you for today. I’m afraid I’ve—”
“Already got a hot date?” Heather asked. It was Friday afternoon, after all. The beginning of the weekend.
His brown eyes studied her, and there was no apology in them at all. “The hottest.”
Humiliation had her tugging at her hand, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he reeled her in even closer, then he put his mouth to her ear. “But I’ll see you again next week.”
Goose bumps lit down her body.
“We’ll pick up right where we’re leaving off. Me getting to know you, you getting to know me.” He leaned back and peered down at her. “Me flirting with you, you flirting with me.”
“I’m not flirting with you.”
“Yes, you are.” His thumb slid over her knuckles. “And I like that, too. A lot.”
His phone rang before he could taunt her any further, the sound breaking whatever sorcery he’d been casting. Without hesitation, he lifted his cell to check the display, and then his features morphed into something Heather had yet to see from him. Anger.
He released her, his eyes going instantly dark, and answered the call as he turned and took the stairs to his apartment three at a time.
After his door closed behind him, Heather remained where he’d left her, shocked at his abrupt departure. She also found herself concerned over who was on the other end of that call. Because that had not been the look of a man anxious to talk.