Mr. Price just takes his drink and downs the whole thing, making a sound of approval as he puts his glass down.
The waitress’s body language becomes stiff. “Did you like it, Mr. Price?”
“Tastes like piss,” he says in a genial voice. “But I don’t have much of a cultured palate.”
She giggles like he’s said something utterly charming instead of insulting the wine. I give mine a quick sniff and swirl and then taste it. God, it’s strong. But I nod and thank her as if it tastes just fine and she refills Mr. Price’s glass and then sets the bottle down.
“Now, where was I?” he asks, picking up the bottle of wine. He pours a bit more into his glass, since the waitress only gave him a taste, and then pours even more into my glass. “That’s better. Anyhow, I’m not exactly a cultured man.”
I give him a half smile.
“But you wanna know why I’m coming to you, don’t you?”
“The thought has crossed my mind about a hundred times in the last hour.”
“Then I should get all of the introductory shit out of the way, right? Tell you all about me since you didn’t Google it and trusted me?” There’s a gleam in his eye, and the way he strokes his beard? He seems mighty pleased at that thought. Like me trusting him was a pleasant surprise he can’t quite get over.
“Grew up dirt poor. Dad was a roughneck, and my mother was . . . well, not rightly sure what she was. Most days she worked in a grocery store. Least she did until she up and left.” He shrugs. “Then I had a revolving door of stepmothers and stepbrothers.”
This sounds . . . awful. And awfully close to my own terrible story. Thing is, I’m not sure if he’s telling me this to try and slap me with my own past or if there’s somewhere he’s going with it . . . so I remain silent, sipping my wine.
“When I looked old enough to be eighteen, a buddy of mine got a job out on a rig out in West Texas. Roughnecking. Got me a job out there, too, and I became a worm. Dad didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice.”
“A worm?” I ask. I shouldn’t interrupt, but I’m curious. “What does that mean?”
“It means the new guy on the rig. Low man on the totem pole. You get all the shitty jobs and you got to learn them, fast.” He grins and drums his fingers on the table, and as he does, I notice he’s missing one. “Sometimes you don’t learn ’em fast enough.”
The smile he’s giving me is charming, but I still want to know how I factor in to all this.
He shrugs. “I’m getting to the point, trust me. Anyhow, I did that for a while and the driller took me under his wing. Wanted to teach me the biz. It’s good money if you can work fast, smart, and hard. And money was something I needed. He taught me dowsing, too.”
“Dowsing?” I don’t know any of this.
“You know.” He picks up his butter knife and mine, and then waves them back and forth. “You use metal rods to find the oil. Anyhow, I got real good at it. Had bosses at other rigs paying me to come dowse on their land for a nice fee. Saved that money up and bought some nice hunting land for me and my brothers. I got drunk and did a little dowsing on my new property, and the rods practically jumped out of my hands. So I got a buddy of mine—” He pauses, strokes his beard, and then shakes his head. “—Ex-buddy Bates to sell me an old outdated rig. I paid through the nose for it, had it put on my land, fixed it up, had my brothers help me drill, and then boom.” He spreads his hands. “Spindletop two point oh.”
I give him a blank but polite look. “Is that good?”
His brows go up. “You ain’t heard of Spindletop?”
“No?”
“Biggest oil strike in the US. Hundred thousand barrels a day.”
“That’s . . . good, right? It sounds good.” I grimace and reach for my wine again. “I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about oil, Mr. Price.”
“Boone,” he says in a low, husky voice. “Call me Boone.”
“Not until you tell me why I’m here and you’re stalking me,” I say primly, but on the inside my stomach is fluttering. When he stares at me like that, it makes my entire body prickle with awareness.
“I’m gettin’ to that. Drink that fancy-ass wine and lemme think.”
I chuckle and take another sip of the wine. It’s heady as heck and I’m feeling a little tingly, so this probably isn’t the best idea, but it’s also helping me relax and not get up and leave. Which is probably a bad idea and I probably should leave.
But . . . billionaire.
Wants to buy a house.
From me.
Eye-fucking me, sure. But money.
And if I’m totally honest, I’m fascinated by him and his brash, uncouth nature. The way he makes no apologies about who and what he is and throws money around to get what he wants. Like, tonight at this restaurant? He rented out the entire thing in the hopes that he could get me to go out with him? And he hasn’t even so much as glanced at the waitress, who is hovering even now, as if she’d like to interrupt and shove her phone number under his nose.
So I drink my wine and wait for more of this story.
“Spindletop,” he says. “Hundred thousand barrels a day. You know how much a barrel of oil sells for right now?” When I shake my head, he continues. “’Bout a hundred bucks a barrel. And my well was gushing out a hundred and twenty thousand barrels a day.”
I do a bit of math in my head . . . and then choke on my wine. Twelve . . . million dollars a day?
He nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous. I went from being some dirt-ass-poor roughneck to a millionaire in the space of a day. Billionaire in less than a year. Cut my brothers in and they’re all billionaires, too. ’Cept I don’t know how to be a billionaire, really. All I know is how to be a roughneck. And even though I’m running with the bosses now, they don’t respect me. They laugh at me and don’t take me seriously because to them, I’m a dumbass with money.” He stabs the table with one finger. “So I’m going to up my game.”
“Up your game?”
He nods. “Starting with a big fuckin’ house.”
The realtor in me thrills to hear that. “Mr. Price—”
“Boone,” he corrects.
“Boone,” I echo, and his name feels like a scandal on my tongue. “If you want a big house, I will sell you the biggest house I can find in all of Texas.”
He grins real slow, and my heart flutters again. “That’s real good.”
“But you should also know that I have only been practicing real estate for about a year, and if I’m being honest, I’m not in your league.” Maybe it’s the wine that leads me toward self-sabotage, but I feel guilty. He needs to know I’m not some real estate savant before he trusts me with a million-dollar home.
Wait. He wanted forty rooms. This might be millions of dollars of home. That would be thousands and thousands of dollars of commission for me, even with my lousy half a percent.
This would get me to the next threshold of commissions with Three Jacks.
This would pay for Wynonna’s college and a few more suits for work. A car with a bumper. Lots of things. Oh god, I’m getting excited and all he’s done is mention a house briefly.
“You’re the one that I want, Ivy.”
The way he says that makes it seem like a double entendre. Heck, that comment is so loaded it might as well be a quadruple entendre.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re honest, for one.” His smile crooks under that mess of beard. “And because you’re classy. You’d sell me a classy house.”
“And you want classy? Something to make everyone eat their words, I’m guessing?” At his slow nod, I can’t help but point out, “But any realtor could do that for you, Boone.”
“Yes, but I want this one.” He points at my face on the paper between us. “I wanted her the moment I saw her.”
It gives me goosebumps. I stare at his finger on my face, then look up at him. “Why?”
The possessive look he shoots me feels like a rocket under my skin. “Because I want everything, Ivy. I want the big fucking house and the classy woman.”
And I realize he’s talking about me.
Chapter Four
Boone
Her face is expressive. I can see the exact moment she realizes I just declared my intentions. Hell, I did more than that. I fucking planted a stake on that hill and stood on it, beating my chest. There should be no doubt anymore what I mean when I say I want her.
And meeting her? Interacting with her? Hearing her laughter? Seeing the tiny smiles that curve her mouth when she’s pleased and the blushes when she’s embarrassed? Watching her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear? Watching her lips touch the rim of her glass? It’s all making me so fucking rock hard I can’t even think straight.
I want her. This is dog-on-a-bone Boone talking, maybe, but I’ve decided.
Her cheeks are bright with color, her mouth rosy from the wine. Her lips are parted and she stares at me, shocked by my blunt words. Maybe I ain’t the biggest prize in the land, looks-wise, but I’ve got enough money to make her happy, and I’m willing to throw it in her direction if that’s what it takes to get her in my bed.
“Mr. Price,” she begins.
“Boone,” I correct. Mostly because I’m bound and determined to get her to call me by my first name. It’s fucking sexy as hell when she says it.
“Boone,” she says, and it’s throaty and caressing and feels like a stroke on my dick. Damn. “You could have anyone, I’m sure.” She glances over at our waitress, then back at me. “I’m flattered, but I’m really not sure I’m the woman you truly want.”
“Oh, I’m completely sure I want you.” Hell, just sitting across from her in the restaurant is making me itch to touch her.