Late the next afternoon, Luna sat in Jameson’s car, not making a move even though he’d parked in the bank’s lot and cut the engine two minutes ago. “I’m going to need something sweet after this,” she said. “Tell me we’ll get something sweet when we get home.”
“I’ll get you anything you want.”
“But will it be sweet?”
He turned to her, his eyes heated. “I’ve been under the impression that you like spicy, but I can definitely do sweet.”
“Variety is nice.”
He smiled and brushed his lips ever so gently across hers and she couldn’t help but remember that morning when they’d woken up to DZ and his sisters staring at them from their perch on the foot of the bed.
Jameson had sat up, then gently scooped up DZ and set him on the floor. Next he’d reached for Pearl but she’d bared her teeth.
“Don’t worry,” Luna had said. “She isn’t the biter. That’s Mini.”
So he’d scooped Pearl up and . . . she bit him on the hand. Not hard enough to break the skin, but he’d sucked air in between his teeth.
“That wasn’t a bite,” Luna had said. “That was a love tap.”
He’d slid her a look. “Maybe you should show me the difference.”
“I think I’ve shown you plenty.”
Holding the goat against his bare chest with one arm, he ran a finger over her jaw while the air went electric around them. “You can’t sweet-talk this away. You know that, right?”
And she’d known he wasn’t talking about the baby goat.
Now she looked into his eyes and knew the accuracy of his statement.
As if he was remembering the same thing, he kissed her again. Then they walked toward the bank side by side, Jameson looking confident, relaxed, successful, and effortlessly sexy. It made her want to push him into a closet and rumple him up. She wanted to loosen his tie, untuck his shirt, slide her fingers into his hair, pull his head down to hers and—
He glanced over at her, and at whatever was on her face, his eyes warmed with amusement and something else that had the nervous butterflies in her belly giving way to excited butterflies.
Leaning into her, his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “I love the way you wear a pair of jeans, but you look edible in that dress.”
She’d planned to re-wear her visit-the-lawyer outfit, but she’d gotten ketchup on it at the bar that night she’d met Jameson and hadn’t gotten to the dry cleaner. Yep, it’d been a month. Whatever. Her dress from date night with Chef had been accidentally slept on by Sprout, who shedded like it was his job. So she was in her only other dress, a strappy little sundress turned into pseudo business wear by adding a jean jacket and leather boots. She hadn’t been at all sure she’d pulled it off, but the adjective “edible” suggested she’d gotten close.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from her grandma. Jameson looked over at her and she showed him the screen.
Gram: How do I text “bite me” in an emoji?
Luna: To . . . ?
Gram: Your mom. Who else?
Luna: You don’t. Not if you want to ever have any holiday at any family dinner ever again. Now repeat after me, I will not text her.
Gram: I’ll try.
Luna: Try hard.
Jameson smiled and shook his head. “You hit the lotto with her.” He opened the bank door for her.
They were asked to wait. Sitting in the reception area, Luna felt completely out of her element. She didn’t even realize she was bouncing her leg until Jameson gently put a hand on her thigh.
Finally, a man came and got them, escorting them into an office.
“I’m Stan Lawrence,” he said. “I understand you’re interested in a loan to pay off a debt owed to your investors.”
“Yes,” Jameson said. “I’ve brought our financial records to show our longtime good standing with this bank, and—”
“Sit tight,” Stan said, cutting him off. “I’ll need to run this past my manager.”
When he was gone, Luna turned to Jameson. “He didn’t even listen to you.”
“It’s a tactic,” he said, and shrugged like he understood it.
“It’s rude.”
“It’s part of the game.”
“Game?” she asked. “This is a game?”
He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “He’s an underling. He doesn’t have the authority to help us.”
She looked around, her nerves in her throat now. “If they tell us no . . .”
“We’re not making a huge profit, but we chug along just fine. It’s good business for them to say yes.”
“And if they decide it’s not good business?”
He squeezed her hand again. “Your grandfather’s company worked with this bank for years. We have a well-established working relationship. There’s no reason to turn us down. They’ve already invested in the farm with that line of credit Silas procured a decade ago to use as needed. My point is, they should want us to succeed.” He started to say something else, but Banker Dude strolled back in, rubbing a hand over his mouth, like he was uncomfortable.
He sat behind his desk, and without meeting either of them in the eye, he said, “I’m sorry. We can’t help you.”
Luna sucked in a breath and looked at Jameson. Sitting at ease, he didn’t give a thing away, not a single thought, remaining his usual unperturbed, impenetrable self. He kept his eyes on Stan but spoke to Luna. “It’s because they’re owned by a larger bank, a private one that the group of investors run, a fact that should have zero bearing on this. But apparently with Silas gone, they no longer have to play nice.”
Oh this was bad. So bad.
“We’ll use the line of credit then,” Jameson said.
Stan shook his head. “The line of credit is closed.”
“Since when?”
“Since, as you said yourself, Silas is gone. Everything he had with us is now liquidated, and he’s no longer a customer. So unfortunately, we have to go off the farm’s financials. The debt to credit ratio on the farm is just too high.”
Jameson shook his head in disbelief. “Silas worked with this bank for decades, and now that he’s gone you’re choosing to cut the farm off at the knees instead of letting things take their natural course?”
“Honestly, I’d love to help,” Stan said quietly. “But this isn’t my call. It came from above.”
Jameson stood, pulling Luna up with him. “Come on. We’re done here.” He walked Luna back through the bank, his hand warm and reassuring in hers. She was upset, confused, but . . . she wasn’t alone. And in that moment, it meant more than anything she could think of, having him at her side, in the trenches with her. “Jameson—”
“Not here,” he said, and two minutes later they strode out and into the sun that was way too cheery and bright for how she felt. Jameson opened the passenger door of his vehicle for her and then slid behind the wheel, phone in hand. His eyes, when he glanced over at her as she buckled in, were dark and stormy. He was angry, she realized. Really and truly angry. The cool calm was still there, but she bet she could make popcorn from the energy coming off him.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said into the conference call with as many of Silas’s old cronies as he could get on the line, including Brett. “You don’t have to force us to fail by convincing the bank to be on your side. If we’re not a good business, we’ll fail all on our own.” He sounded so logical and in control, and he listened, then said, “I wouldn’t count on us going down for the count.”
Whatever they said to him after that, he shook his head, disconnected the call, and set his phone aside.
“You didn’t expect to be turned down,” she said.
“No. But this isn’t a business decision. There’s something else going on.”
“What does that mean?”
He turned and faced her. “It means they want the farm, no doubt for the land. And they’re going to get it over my dead body.”
She sucked in a breath. “I’m really hoping it doesn’t come to that. I like your body just as it is.” And then her stupid eyes filled.
With a low sound of regret, he pulled her into him. “It’s going to be okay.”
Pressed up against him, his strength became hers. She drew a deep breath and nodded. Jameson didn’t lie. She was going to believe in him. They would be okay.