Once you've got that, it's like untying a knot. You just pick at the parts you can see until you get something solid, and then you get it to come apart. Piece by piece.
Before that, you just have a big ball of nothing, and you have to hope to hell that it turns into something.
"Dinner, then?"
"Sure."
She's been in town just about long enough to know her options. She offers a steakhouse, and he accepts. Which is progress for her. Real progress. Nervous energy surges through her.
She should be happy. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she's got a stomach that's twisting itself in knots and more worrying than it's worth. Why the sudden change of heart?
Is there something wrong? And if there is something wrong—which there almost certainly is—then is it alright to exploit someone's personal problems for her own gain?
The answer is more or less obvious. Whether it's alright or not, she's going to god damn do it. Because this isn't about doing the right thing, it's about doing what will help her business succeed.
The little thought in the back of her mind, the worry that Callahan's in trouble—it's got nothing to do with business. It's got everything to do with her, and her feelings.
Feelings that she shouldn't be having.
So she's going to treat this like a business dinner. She's going to think of it as a business dinner. No doubt, he will too.
She'd told him that's what it was. After all, he wasn't going to come if she said that she wanted to go out socially. She'd come off as weird, too. No doubt about it.
He wouldn't be interested in a woman like her. He probably thought she was a conniving bitch, just out to steal his land.
She didn't want him to think that way about her. She wanted him to look at her as a woman.
Morgan's mind races with possibilities. What is she supposed to wear? What is she supposed to do? What if things get… friendly, like they did last time? What if—
A thousand what-ifs. And above it all, a little voice in her head repeats, over and over. Don't get involved, because he's not for you. It's just a temporary thing.
Don't get too excited and don't get too involved. Because if you do, all you're really going to get is hurt.
Chapter Nineteen
It's been a long time since Philip had any real reason to dress up. Church on Sundays. He'd even worn that stupid shirt for the meeting at the Lowe build site. Should've known that he'd be better suited to wearing the same clothes he wore on the ranch.
The place was there to do hard work. Just like everything that he was used to. So in a sense, he shouldn't have been surprised to find that Morgan Lowe was a worker. She was surrounded by hard-working men all day. How long would it stand if she couldn't pull her weight?
But a dinner—that's a different story. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him that it's just a business meeting. They're meeting to talk about what happens if the deal with Glen falls through.
What if he needs a bunch of money, and he needs it right on the spot—how much can he hope for. That's what they're going to dinner to talk about.
But when a man and a woman go to eat dinner together, well… it's got certain cultural connotations, doesn't it? It's hard not to think of it as a date. It's very hard.
Which is why, in spite of it just being a business meeting, a chance to talk numbers, he's wearing this stupid damn monkey suit. A tie, even.
Callahan feels out of place, dressed like he is. He looks like a damn idiot. He shouldn't even be here, not really. But he is, for reasons he doesn't even want to think about trying to unpack right now. There's plenty of other bigger problems than whether or not he's at a dinner with a woman.
Or why. Or how he feels about it. Or why he feels that way.
Instead, he just takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. No problems. No reason to concern himself with how much he must stand out. As long as he doesn't bring it up, nobody else will say anything.
A familiar voice greets him from the corner as he walks in.
"Mr. Callahan?"
He turns. She looks damn good. The dress must have cost a pretty penny, but it was worth every cent. The neck-line plunges just enough to give a tantalizing glance, the hem of the skirt just high enough to imply that the legs keep going.