No White Knight

Just like Felicity is right now.

If she keeps this up, I’m about to be short a friend.

After another snicker, she clears her throat. “Okay. Seriously, it looks like he’s waiting. Aren’t you at least going to talk to him? Be a little civil?”

I steal another peek over my shoulder, holding my breath, making a wish.

Nope, not granted.

He’s still watching me.

I can almost feel his gaze, and I want to kill him for it.

As our eyes meet, he arches a brow, then gestures to the chair next to him with a questioning tilt of his head.

I narrow my eyes.

Then pointedly turn back to Felicity and slide off my stool.

“I’m out,” I say. “Thanks for the drink, but I’ve got work to do and a gaggle of kids coming in for lessons this afternoon.”

Felicity eyes me. “It’s not like you to run away.”

“I’m not running away,” I seethe. “I’m just…prioritizing.”

I grab my bag and head out to my battered truck, taking the back door so I don’t have to walk by Holt and that insufferable penetrating stare that just won’t let go.

But I ain’t gonna get off that easy.

I step out into the morning light, bright enough to make me blink and squint with a little shiver as I slip from air conditioning into brewing summer heat, and it happens.

A tall, imposing frame blocks my path.

I’m so keyed up over Holt I’m ready to start calling him every bad name in the book.

Until it dawns on me it ain’t him.

Holt was all dirty and delicious. This other man standing in front of me is crisp and so clean it’s like he’s an ad for mouthwash or something.

I recognize him in a heartbeat.

Reid flipping Cherish.

The bank financier who was here even before Declan and Sierra, trying to be reasonable about talking me into selling my home and giving up everything.

He adjusts his glasses with a low sound, almost apologetic, then clears his throat.

“Ms. Potter,” he says formally.

And then he bows.

This dickhead actually bows to me right here in the parking lot of The Nest like he’s inviting me to dance cotillion. Not like he’s trying to help the tax man muscle me out of my ranch.

“Don’t you ‘Ms. Potter’ me,” I snap. “And look me in the eye when you try to sell me on your crap.”

“My apologies,” he clips out a bit stiffly but with no other response.

That’s the thing about Cherish. He doesn’t get angry, doesn’t bark back, just straightens and pushes his glasses up his nose like some kind of robot.

Yeah. I think I’d rather be arguing with Holt.

At least I know I can piss him off.

“Out of my way,” I bite off.

“I will be in just a moment. I was simply hoping we could arrange a meeting soon,” he says smoothly.

“For what? So you can try to change my mind again?”

An almost pained expression crosses his face. He looks like some kind of English Lord stuffed into a modern suit, transplanted to the Montana wilds, and left real uncomfy with it.

Good.

I want this particular weasel uncomfy.

“You understand, Ms. Potter, that legally you don’t have many options,” he says. “Unless you’re able to procure the funds to pay your back property taxes and all associated penalties and fees, you have a little less than forty-five days before your property is seized as an asset. You won’t get it back. And you’ll only lose an extensive court battle trying.”

Ever felt two emotions hit so extreme at the exact same time that you feel like a ping-pong ball bouncing between them?

That’s me right now.

On one hand, I’m almost sick enough to stagger, to pass out, with how faint I feel at hearing that countdown.

Up until now it’d been a distant one day, leaving me hope for some kind of Hail Mary pass.

On the other hand…

I’m white-hot with rage and already gearing up to smack him, my hand clenched into a fist as I stride forward, already drawing back to get the best momentum.

Perfect timing for a second oversized body to throw itself in my path.

I stumble back, barely reining in my fist, as Holt damn Silverton steps between me and Reid Cherish.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand.

Meanwhile, Reid says flatly, “Excuse me, sir, but this is a private discussion and—”

“Nothing private about you harassing a lady in public,” Holt growls, and there’s a different flavor to his voice.

I blink in surprise.

It’s almost like anger dampens his polished New York City crap and brings out the country boy underneath, just a little bit of twang and a little bit of holler.

“You’re gonna want to fuck right off and leave Libby alone,” he says.

“I didn’t give you permission to use my name,” I snarl. “And don’t you call me a lady. I don’t need your help. I can tell Mr. Cherish here to fuck off just fine all on my own.”