“Dinner, huh?”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

Her cheeks were pink. It was really a very becoming color on her. Met honestly hadn’t known what would happen when he showed up at Daphne’s office after hours. He hadn’t necessarily expected to see her there. Then he’d come across her secretary down in the lobby, and she had sent him on up. Now Met was just damn glad he’d been there when she apparently needed assistance.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Daphne sounded embarrassed. Why? It wasn’t like she had anything to be ashamed of.

“It’s dinner.” Met waved to Cody.

The grizzled old man waving back was the namesake of the restaurant. His parents had owned it before him, and there had probably been a dozen or more Codys over the years. The steakhouse sat on the outskirts of Denver’s city limits and was a favorite of ranchers and other cowboy types.

They were shown to a table near the back of the restaurant. The scent of sizzling steak filled the big low-ceilinged room. The restaurant itself—including the building—was historic. It had been around pretty much as long as the Hernandez family had been running cattle on the Colorado front range.

The place was all dark wood and mirrors. The ambiance was old world and elegant without being presumptuous. Customers wore mostly jeans and boots, and the servers were running around in short jean skirts and chambray tops. Tables were thick slabs of wood scarred with the decades’ worth of traffic and plenty of skirmishes and fights that had come before.

“I’ve never been here,” Daphne observed. She was looking around and taking it all in. “This is certainly full of character.”

It was odd. He’d heard plenty of people say similar things about all sorts of topics in the past. Generally those comments sounded trite or sarcastic. Daphne actually sounded genuine. It was refreshing.

“The bar is incredible.” She was leaning forward to better see the very old scrollwork on the bar itself. “Look at that thing! I bet it’s actually real mahogany. Do you know how rare that is anymore?”

He couldn’t help it. Met chuckled to himself as he enjoyed the fact that she was enjoying being here. She looked at him as though he were mocking her. Immediately sobering his expression, Met gave a very slow nod of agreement and wondered who had spent so much time and effort making this woman try to doubt herself.

“I think it’s great that you’re appreciating this place,” he explained. “That’s the only reason I’m laughing. I’ve never known a woman who could actually sit here and enjoy herself without complaining about the poor lighting or the smell or something equally ridiculous.”

“But that’s all part of the character,” she argued.

He grinned. “Sweetheart, you’re preaching to the choir. I’m just saying that you’re unusual. That’s all.”

“Well, I appreciate you bringing me here.” She folded her hands on the table. “But this is definitely my treat. I know you didn’t expect to have to take me to dinner just because you came back to my office. Which, by the way, why were you there?”

“I’m not really sure.” In fact, Met could not have said why he went back. “I just felt like I wanted to see you again.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” She fiddled with the roll of silverware in front of her. “Justin is a difficult man to manage.”

“Are the two of you dating?”

“We did, once upon a time.” The waitress appeared suddenly with a couple of beers and a basket of fries.

The waitress winked at Met, but he only nodded his thanks and turned his attention back to Daphne. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Continue?”

“Justin asked me out not long after I was hired at the firm.” She picked up her beer and took a very long drink. “I had no idea what he was really like. I was extremely naive and very flattered that this older man would look twice at me. I didn’t have a lot of luck in that department growing up.”

“I can’t imagine that.” He snorted. Men were sometimes the most boneheaded creatures he could think of. They consistently made idiotic decisions regarding the women they dated and what the word attractive meant.

“Well, I appreciate you words,” she said with a smile. “But it’s true all the same. So, I dated Justin, and he very slowly sucked the life out of me.”

“He was abusive.” Met did not need confirmation of this. He could see it in her eyes. That woman was afraid of Justin the same way he had seen countless other women be afraid of those blowhards and cowards that beat them on the weekends because they were too weak and too drunk not to.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Daphne told him quietly. “Can we please talk about something else? I was reading a ton online earlier today about rodeo stock. Let’s talk about that.”

“You want to talk livestock?” Met thought his eyebrows might actually launch right off his face. “That’s a first.”

“Is it true that bulls and broncs only work an average of three minutes a year?” she asked with an eagerness that showed she had actually been researching this stuff for real. How interesting. That was most definitely an unexpected and pleasant turn of events.

“In eight-second increments,” Met quipped. “Think about it. Bulls and broncs are only out there for however long it takes for the cowboy to hit the dirt. A full ride is eight seconds. Most don’t last but a few.”

“Incredible.” Her expression and voice were absolutely mystified.

Met took a long swig of his beer and tried to decide what about this woman made her so very attractive. She was built like an athlete. There was actual muscle on her arms and legs. She was wearing an outfit that was snug, but it did not show him a bunch of bony angles and knobs that made her look like a victim of malnutrition. She was fit, and she was pretty in the girl-next-door kind of way that Met had always favored. A few freckles on the bridge of her nose. A healthy tan from being outside. The woman was a bombshell and didn’t have a clue.

She eagerly leaned in closer across the table. “So, what about all the accusations that rodeo stock is abused and that rodeo as a sport is just animal cruelty?”

“That’s bull,” Met snorted. “And that’s not a pun either. What those people fail to realize is that a cowboy wants a horse or a bull to be healthy. Only a healthy, happy, athletic animal is going to give you a good ride. We don’t get points from a judge for an animal that won’t buck. If they’re hurt, they don’t move right. The rhythm goes to shit and you never get a good score.” Met could think of a few horses and bulls over the years that had really been bad to draw. Most of them had been bred on the Flying W. “Stock contractors won’t buy bulls and broncs that come from a bloodline or a ranch that produces habitually injured or weak animals.”

“I suppose I never thought about how much work goes into the breeding part of it.” She rested her chin in her hand. Her dark eyes were gleaming with interest, and she looked so pretty that he wanted to kiss her.

Met cleared his throat to try and re-center himself in the moment. This wasn’t the time for romantic nonsense. “My brothers Cal and Laredo could tell you just about everything or anything you wanted to know about our stock bloodlines. They crossbreed livestock like some people do those fancy roses that turn out all kind of colors.”

“Roses?” She drew back, laughing. “I wouldn’t have expected that comparison from you.”

“Why not?” He winked just because he knew the ladies thought it was cute when he did. “I like a good rose bred without thorns just like the next guy.”

“So, everyone talks about this stock contract thing.” She twirled her hand in the air. “What does it mean exactly?”

“So, ranches and farms breed livestock. Stock contractors buy that livestock and then rent it out to rodeos,” Met said slowly. “Some of the ranches and farms are big enough operations that they serve as their own stock contractor. Usually that just means they can provide a certain quantity of a certain quality. You get me?”

“Yeah.” She sat up as the waitress brought their steaks and baked potatoes. The food smelled mouthwatering, and for just a moment, Met completely forgot what they were talking about. Then Daphne picked up her knife and pointed it at him. “You’re just saying that a really big ranch breeding quality livestock has the ability to breed a lot of it and have it on hand.”

“Exactly.” It was nice to have a conversation with a woman who could talk about something other than who was screwing whom and the new purse she had just purchased. Met cut a bite of meat and put it in his mouth to savor the taste. Finally he remembered he was talking. “So, this stock contract thing is just centered around the regional rodeos in this area. Basically Colorado and some of Southern Wyoming with a few events in Northern New Mexico. A rodeo is a huge event. They take a lot of planning. Some local counties and cities do their own. A lot of them hire a service.”

“Oh my God.” She put her hands over her mouth and giggled until he thought she might faint. “It’s like party planning for rodeos!”

Met grunted. That sounded a bit tame, but if it got his point across, he would go with it. “I suppose you could call it that.”

“So, then, your family’s company wants to get the stock contract offered by the party planner who handles all the rodeos in this region.”

“Exactly.” Hmm. Apparently he needed to remember this party planning analogy for later use. That had been the easiest explanation he’d ever had to give.

“Damn, that’s a lot of money,” she murmured. “It has to be. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Does this include all those pro events you used to go to?”

Met’s brain stutter stepped for a moment. It had not occurred to him that she might do some kind of Internet search on him and come up with probably more than he had wanted to tell her about himself. That kind of sucked. It was a strange feeling to know that the general public always thought they knew more than they really did about any given situation or event.

“No.” Met finally managed to answer her question. “It doesn’t include the pro events. Those are done by vote.”

“Huh?”

He cut another delicious bite of steak and put it in his mouth. “That’s something else those animal rights people don’t want you to realize. Bulls and broncs get stats too. They’re successful when nobody can ride them. Everyone wants to have that one bull or bronc in their rodeo that can throw any cowboy. Those animals are superstars. They carry a price tag of like ten to twenty grand, more for a really great one, and their names get put in a pool. Then there’s a voting system where the big guys in charge of the pro events try to use the statistics to put together a lineup of bucking stock that will make their event really attractive to competitors.”

He could actually see the wheels turning inside her head. She was devouring her steak and potato as though she hadn’t eaten in days. The expression on her face was all pleasure and interest, and right now, Met felt like the most interesting man on the planet. He had never had a conversation with a woman like this before in his life. Not even Jesse talked with him like this. He never wanted this night to end. He wanted to order another dozen steaks and just keep them coming so that they never had to leave the restaurant.

“It’s like making a roster of athletes,” Daphne breathed. She looked so intrigued that the thought of kissing her crossed his mind once again. “It’s a batting order. Right? Like you don’t want a bunch of bulls that nobody can ride, but you mix in some that always win with a few that are super athletic and give a great ride. Then there are some lower end ones that are easy to ride but harder to get a good score off of. Oh my God! I had no idea there was so much thought that went into this stuff!” Her dark eyes sparkled. “Do people actually realize this?”

“Not usually,” Met admitted. “They pretty much think we load up all the cows on the ranch and just take them to the show.”

“Stock contracting,” she mused. “So, you’re talking bulls, broncs, steers, and calves for roping, and God knows what else.”

“Yep.”

“The Hernandez Land & Cattle Company is a little bigger than I first imagined.” She finished off the last bite of her steak with relish. “And I think I might have just eaten one of those critters. I won’t lie. That’s kind of a weird thought.”

Met started laughing and could not stop. He finally gasped and managed to finish off his beer. He wanted to call for another one, but he was very aware of her aversion to the idea of him being drunk. Unfortunately, his shoulder was starting to hurt, and sitting at this table was making his hip kick up a fuss that would end with him barely being able to walk out of here after dinner was done.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was soft, and her words held such a note of caring that he wasn’t sure what to make of them. “Your expression just changed. A lot.”

“I’m hurting.” Why not tell her? Maybe she’d tell him to order another beer.

But she didn’t. She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips instead. “Have you tried any physical therapy or exercises for your injuries?”

Like nobody had ever mentioned that to him before. Gee. Just when he thought the woman was pretty smart and practical minded, she had to go and say something idiotic like that. How depressing.

“I’m sorry.” She reached over and gently touched his forearm. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

He could not stop staring at the place where her hand was touching his skin. The electricity flowing through his body seemed to chase away everything else he was feeling in that moment. There was nothing but bliss left behind, and he did not want it to stop. Ever. If he could just keep her hands on him, Met was pretty sure that he’d never need another drop of alcohol in his life.