Page 3 of Preacher

His eyebrows drew together. “What face?”

“The one that suggests somebody’s about to disappear into the desert.”

His mouth twitched again, but it didn’t soften his eyes. “You know what this place is worth?”

“I’ve had it valued, and yes, this offer is higher. It’s high enough to make selling the obvious decision.”

His jaw tightened, and I sighed. “Preacher, I’ve spent a month going through Dad’s numbers. Two trucks need major work, we lost a regional contract before he died, another customer is sixty days behind paying, and payroll eats what little cash flow there is. I can pour money into a freight company I don’t know how to run, or I can take a strong offer from somebody who does want it. This isn’t complicated.”

“It is if they don’t want the company.”

I paused, trying to follow his point. “What does that mean?”

His gaze went past me toward the warehouse outside. “Means I want to know what they actually want before you sell.”

“It’s a freight business. I’m going to make a wild guess and say freight.”

“Property. Yard. Storage. Trucks. Existing routes.”

“Yes. Those things are generally included in a freight business.”

He looked back at me. “Give me two days to find out who’s behind the offer.”

I laughed once because he sounded absurdly certain. “Are you serious?”

His stare narrowed. “Two days, Holly.”

“And then I decide, Preacher.”

I suddenly remembered how much space he could take up without moving. Dad used to call him the most polite dangerous man in New Mexico, which unfortunately didn’t make him any less sexy to me. He stepped closer until the space between us felt noticeably smaller. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“There it is. The part where you explain Salvation to me because I left.”

“I’m just saying things have changed.”

“So have I.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second, shifting the air in the office. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I noticed.”

Heat climbed my neck, and I hated that he could still do that to me. Before I could answer, tires crunched over gravel outside and a dark SUV stopped beside Preacher’s bike.

He turned toward the window. “You expecting somebody?”

“No.”

A man in a pale dress shirt got out carrying a slim leather case, expensive sunglasses and shoes that were going to hate the freight yard.

Preacher went very still beside me. “Is that the broker?”

“No idea. I’ve only spoken to him by phone.”

The man entered after a quick knock and gave me a polished smile. “Ms. Curtis. I was hoping I’d catch you.”

“You could’ve called first.”

“I was just passing through.”

Preacher made a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.