At dawn, I wake to an empty bed. I smile when I think of how a crimson-haired beauty came to life in my arms, under my tongue, on my hand last night. My dick stiffens when I think about the things I might’ve done to her this morning had she stayed. I don’t sleep with drunk women, but I’d damn sure sleep with a hung over redhead if given the chance.

I let my imagination run wild for a few minutes. I almost wish I’d gotten her number. Almost. The fact that I’m thinking about her this morning is unusual for me. She’s the kind of distraction that I needed last night, not today, so she’s best left in the past. As a pleasant memory.

A very pleasant memory.

I fling back the covers and head for the shower. If I can’t have Haley, I’ll settle for breakfast instead. At least one of my hungers can be satisfied this morning.

An hour later, I’m carrying my bag to the truck when my cell rings. I bite back a sigh when I see my father’s number on the screen. I only hesitate for a few seconds before I hit the ignore button. Going into business with my father seemed like a pretty good idea at one point in my life, but the older he gets, the less willing he is to compromise on anything. Even when he’s wrong. It’s like since he can’t fight aging, he’s fighting harder and harder to control the things he can, so he tries to control me. Unfortunately, the older I get, the less I tolerate his heavy hand. And since he won’t listen, I’ve resorted to doing what I feel is best. Period. I’m sure that’s why he’s calling. He doesn’t like what I’ve done. I’m not in the mood to discuss it with him at the moment, though. Probably won’t be for a while. There’s nothing he can do to change the situation until I decide to change it, so he can just wait.

My hand is on the door handle when my phone rings again. I hiss under my breath. I’m about to answer just to tell him I’m not discussing it with him when I see it’s a different number. That of John Brandt, the owner of the Circle B Ranch and the man I’m currently working with.

“Good morning, John.”

“Nixon.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Are you still in the city?”

“I’m about to pull out now.”

“Would you mind waiting around for another half an hour or so and giving my daughter a ride home?”

“Your daughter? Which one?”

“Piper.”

“Piper? I thought she was in Colorado.”

“She was. She’s coming home for a visit.”

“A visit, huh? You told me that Piper hadn’t set foot on the ranch in the last decade.”

“She hasn’t.”

“So why now?”

“She called and I…I wanted to see her.”

“John,” I say warningly.

“She deserves to hear it from me.”

I grit my teeth. “Is she going to be a problem?”

“No. She won’t be a problem.”

“I hope not.” I force my jaw to relax. John knows how this works. It’ll be his responsibility to handle it if something comes up with his daughter. With any of them.

“She won’t.”

“Where do I pick her up?”

“She’s at the Hilton, too.”

“Okay. What room?”

“I’ll text her and have her come down to you.”

“Just have her meet me at the restaurant then. I could use another cup of coffee.”

“Thirty minutes at the restaurant. Thanks, son.”

Son. It’s just an expression older people use when referring to the younger generations, but it gives me a little pang of affection when John says it. If any other man did it, it would piss me off, but somehow, it feels right, almost fatherly for him to call me what my own dad used to. Before he started feeling threatened by my brother and me. My father is a brilliant, vibrant man, but two years ago, when he turned sixty, he had a stroke. It changed him. I guess made him feel fragile, or maybe just mortal. I don’t know exactly. I only know that now he won’t listen to reason. It has to be his way or the highway, whether his way is right or not. “No problem, John.”

We hang up, and I toss my bag in the truck so I can go back inside and wait for Piper. I’ve only heard stories about John’s oldest daughter. Evidently, she was a wild little thing when she was young. The few family pictures that dot the console in John’s office show what probably would have been a pretty girl if not for her heavy makeup and multicolor hair. Since she’s been absent for the last ten years, images from her childhood are the only ones around.

John and his other daughters are closed-mouthed about why she left and why she never visits, but some of the ranch hands who have been with the family for more than a decade hinted at a bad breakup with a local that sent her running. I don’t give a damn about her or her story, just as long as her appearance on the scene doesn’t cause problems with the transition. I’d have handled it differently if I were John, and I’d have told him so if he’d asked, but he didn’t, so now I’m stuck with whatever fallout might come of it.

I stare down into the black abyss of my coffee, wishing it had a thick swirl of whiskey in it. That might be the only thing that stands a chance of improving my mood. That or some tequila.

A filthy little fantasy flickers through my mind. That train of thought elevates my mood within seconds. I take a sip of coffee and imagine that it has the bite of tequila, and that it comes with a side of untamed red hair, lips that make me groan, and a body that could keep me occupied for days. Before I know it, I’m smiling.

Movement to the left teases my eye, but it’s the flash of deep red that catches it. I look over in time to see Haley walk into the restaurant and take a seat at the table nearest the lobby and front door. I watch her for a few seconds, debating whether to go talk to her. We left things at a good place last night, even though I’d have loved to revisit it this morning and start the day off from an even better place. It’s too late for that now, though, so it’s probably better to leave well enough alone.

She checks her watch, glances around the lobby, then settles back against the cushioned seat to flip through something on her phone. I turn back to my coffee, checking my own watch, but within a minute or two find my eyes back on the beauty by the door. A waiter approaches her, likely to take her order, but she shakes her head and smiles, declining. Why come here and not order anything? She must be waiting on someone.

That piques my curiosity. Makes me wonder about her life, her job, where she lives, her lovers. Whoever claims the position of the latter is one lucky bastard. Without meaning to, I rub my fingers together at the memory of her slick, tight little body.

Damn.

She looks up, glances around again, checks her watch for the second time. Her foot taps a few times, and she drops her attention to her phone again, this time with purpose. I watch her choose a number and hold the phone to her ear. I watch her lips move as she speaks, watch her brow pucker as she thinks. That’s when she swivels all the way around in her seat, scanning the entire restaurant with her smoky green eyes. They click to a stop on me and widen. I nod and can’t help smiling when her cheeks go up in flames. Damn, I love that she blushes. It tells me what she’s thinking. Maybe not specifically, but specifically enough for me to know her thoughts involve me. And very likely what happened between us last night.

I hold her gaze as she rattles off something into her phone, ends the call, and gets up from the table. She starts across the restaurant toward me. I lean back and take her in as she comes—the slim thighs, the perky breasts, the chin held high. She’s like a gorgeous mare that I’d take great pleasure in breaking, in making her whimper and moan and beg.

Jesus.

I run a hand through my hair and resituate in my seat. I can’t keep thinking shit like that. At least not until we’re alone.

She stops in front of me, her expression almost confrontational, which puzzles me. “What’s your last name?”

Of all the things I anticipated she might say, that was nowhere on the list. “Holt. Yours?”

“Well, until four months ago, it was Simmons, but I took my maiden name back after my divorce.”

“And that is?”

“Brandt. I’m Haley Brandt. Haley Piper Brandt.”