Chapter 13 Dirty Animals （Lena） #3
The scary thing is that it doesn’t scare me. My brain isn’t racing with worries or doubts as I hold hands with him while we enter his private garage to pick up his sleek white custom Range Rover.
No driver today.
Just us.
I’ll admit, it’s kinda cute.
So is the way he opens the door for me and helps me up into the passenger seat.
“I love that you know how to treat a lady,” I say as I duck inside.
“I’d better. The helping hand is part of the experience after I ruined you last night.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. Mostly because it’s true, and he’s such a cocky prick. But Brady knows that I know he has the package to back up his talk.
I’m trying so hard not to look like the dumb girl with fluttery eyelashes watching her first crush as he climbs in behind the wheel.
His sleeves are rolled up, and he’s sporting that Apple Watch with the opulent gold wristband, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it did before.
His money isn’t everything. He’s a good man, and good people are entitled to a few luxuries. It’s a gorgeous watch too.
As queasy as I feel over the gaping difference in assets sometimes, I can’t imagine him using his money in a controlling way.
Unlike some people I could mention. Brady isn’t another demon in a skin suit possessed by pure greed.
He looks at me as he pulls out of the underground garage into the sunlight. “You’re staring, Lena. Everything okay?”
“I just . . . I like you this way.” I reach over and rub my knuckles across the scruff on his chin.
He smirks. “You haven’t seen me any other way. Watch out.”
“I internet stalked you, though. You were clean shaven back when you were busy breaking hearts.”
“Mm, yeah. Guilty.” He rubs his chin, his brow creasing when I mention his past.
“I prefer this look. Huge glow-up.”
“I was planning on keeping the beard.” He runs a hand over his jaw like he’s considering how it would feel to not have it there. I don’t think it’s just the lack of facial hair that might bother him.
“You could always grow it longer, Viking boy,” I tease. “I had a huge lady boner for Jason Momoa when I was in high school. Only reason why I could speak fluent nerd with the Stargate geeks.”
“Loved that show. You had me sold before that, Sass.” He grins.
“I’m not about to crawl through portals to other galaxies, but I think I’d take dealing with aliens over my mother’s shit if I walk in straight out of medieval Norway.
Don’t think she’d appreciate it if I tell her I’m living out the Scandinavian side of the family tree. ”
I smile.
“So, who’s hotter now? Do I have a shot against Momoa?”
“As long as you keep the beard, it’s a maybe,” I tease.
“You’re blushing, Sass.”
“No.” I scowl at him. “It’s a warm morning, dude. That’s it.”
“Liar.” He reaches over and pinches my chin, so effortlessly affectionate it makes my heart sputter. “I like turning you red, woman. Get used to it.”
“Fair, I guess, when you’re good at that.” I look pointedly at his lap, where I can see the outline of a hard-on stirring.
His laugh bellows out, loud and unrestrained, the way I’ve only heard it when we’re alone. None of his many social media clips ever show him laughing like this—free and unfiltered.
It’s a shame.
In my opinion, this is his best look, even if I don’t mind his darker face one bit when he turns growly and protective.
But as he cracks his window for fresh air as we hit the highway, I’m all butterflies.
This is Brady Pruitt at his finest.
Easy laughs. Wind in his hair. Dressed down with that smile crinkling his eyes.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Finsted’s Farm. It’s a longtime supplier, goes way back with the family company over fifty years.
All organic too. Happy place, you’ll see.
” He nods. “They’re my go-to for help with sourcing ingredients for my dog food pilot program.
They churn out quality and they really care, you know?
Reasonable costs, about as fair as you can get.
From a business perspective, it’s ideal, if we can just get the damn formula right. ”
The frustrated look in his eye almost makes me laugh.
I toy with the ends of my hair, reading between the lines. Brady likes them because they care, but for his family, it sounds like it’s all business.
So many lines drawn in the invisible sand between them.
Us and them.
Him and them.
We’re quiet for most of the drive, which takes us over an hour north into the Skagit Valley.
Finsted’s Farm is a quaint little name for a rustic place dripping charm, not far south of Anacortes and just far enough away that when we pull up in the yard, there’s no hint of anything but green country in the air.
I breathe deeply and smile.
A dirt track leads to the farmhouse, forking off toward what look like several big milking sheds. Chickens wander in random paths through the large yard with patches of mud, a huge green space that fades into the vast fields beyond.
The goats bleating in a corral just past the whitewashed wooden house are too cute for life.
Just like he did before we set off, Brady circles to my side of the vehicle and opens the door for me. I give him just enough time to get out of the way before I’m bolting over to the goats for a closer look.
By the time I reach their fence, I’m laughing my dumb head off.
They’re munching away on grass and brush. One looks at me with his beady gold eyes like he can’t believe I’d dare interrupt his mealtime.
This place feels so peaceful.
I see what Brady means by happy place. It’s a good farm, old-school looking, not one of those mass factory farms where misery opens a line to hell just to keep modern civilization running.
A fearless chicken walks up to investigate my shoe. It cocks its head and pecks once before deciding there’s better food elsewhere.
Brady stands by my side, hands in his pockets. For a long moment, we just enjoy the scenery, taking in the pretty mountains in the distance, shrouded in wispy clouds.
A rough-looking grey-and-white farm cat slinks past, watching us cautiously. I kneel down and wag my fingers, whispering encouragements that make Brady laugh.
“You’ll want to watch out for George,” a voice says from behind us. “He’ll chew your fingers up if you dare show him any affection. He’s a mean old tomcat but the best we’ve got for chasing rats.”
We turn to see a middle-aged woman in rubber boots and mud-specked jeans, beaming at Brady at she chews gum.
Guess no one’s immune to his charm.
They hug, and she immediately turns to me.
“Wendy Finsted,” she says, holding out a callused hand. “Guess you must be the famous fiancée? Hell of a pleasure to meet the gal who could lock down this troublemaker.”
“Famous? Oh no, I—”
“Don’t play it modest, lady. The whole state knows by now. Half the women at the diner won’t shut up about it this week.” She laughs and pulls me into a hug. She smells faintly like straw and horse and mud, but it’s not unpleasant. “Glad to finally meet you!”
I wonder what Brady thinks now, watching someone who’s clearly important to him meeting me like we’re really engaged.
There are far more people we’re fooling than his parents, in the end.
Does it make his stomach feel as unsettled as mine?
“You guys here for the horses first?” she asks cheerfully, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. “They’re right this way.”
“Um—” I glance at Brady, but he just smiles and nods. There’s something pure about the way he looks out here. Despite all the money and class he’s been raised with, it’s like he belongs to the great outdoors and the mud.
“Sure, let’s say hello,” he says. “You ridden a horse before, Lena?”
“Oh man. Not for years, but . . . I can give it a go.”
“That’s the spirit! I’ll bring you our best,” Wendy says cheerfully. “You two wait here while I bring ’em around. Maybe you can get a few shots in for your socials, Brady?” She winks. “Every trip’s business with him.”
I have no idea how he’s managed to make friends with these folks, but when she leaves, I lean in and whisper, “Does everyone just love you?”
“Everyone but my old man. With Wendy, I don’t mind. We go way back.”
I have to repress a laugh, smothering it in my cuff.
“It’s a nice place. The air alone out here is heaven.” I lean against the fence, careful not to leave my fingers too close to a goat watching me warily.
“I love visiting.”
“I bet.” I nudge his side. “Especially if they let you ride around whenever you like.”
He smiles, catching my hand and folding it in his.
“Wendy offers riding lessons here. Whenever she puts me on a horse and I post about it, she always sees a bump in bookings.”
“Mm, that’s cool.” I remember seeing the pictures now.
Which means that I also know he looks ridiculously good on a horse. This man is wasted behind a desk, and I’m so glad his ventures keep him out in the world.
“So, really, she’s getting more out of the relationship than you.”
“No. They can grow organic produce and raise grass-fed beef at prices no one else in western Washington can touch. For us, that means cheaper ingredients, less shipping, and hopefully an answer to my cost-control problem.”
I chew my lip, looking at him. This is the most detail I’ve heard about his new company.
Of course, I know what he’s trying to do is difficult. But it’s different hearing how hard it’s been, how much thought must go into a project that sounds deceptively easy.
“Do you think you’re making progress?” I ask quietly.
“Hope so. Last taste trials didn’t go so well with the dogs. Too much barley. Let’s just say they weren’t impressed.” He looks behind me and waves as he sees Wendy leading two horses into the yard.
Horses aren’t my specialty. I think Pawsome Hearts has only ever had two visits in the time I’ve worked there, and both from riders passing through and needing a quick checkup before getting back on the road. But from what I can tell, these guys look like good specimens.
Tall, muscular, healthy, they follow along as gentle as lambs after Wendy.
“Here you are,” she says. “All saddled up and ready to ride.”
I eye the horse she’s offering me. It snorts gently.
“This one’s Silver. We love her to bits, and she’s very docile,” she says as I take the reins. The horse’s coat is silver grey and beautiful, true to her name.
That bodes well.
“Storm, nice to see you again,” Brady says, delighted. He presses a kiss to the horse’s soft nose and swings up into the saddle.
It’s almost obscene how good he is at this—the way he leaps up like a born cowboy. This is far from his first rodeo, I’m sure.
I wish I was that lucky.
I think I was seven the last time I was on a horse.
Wendy takes the reins and puts a hand on my back to steady me as I try to climb up as deftly as Brady.
It does not go well.
Just when I think I’m almost there, my foot slips, skidding out from under me as I try to find my balance. My other foot in the stirrup immediately jerks free.
Even Wendy’s flailing can’t save me from falling on my ass.
Right in the big puddle of mud just off to the side, a couple feet away.
And this is good old-fashioned muck, spraying my face and sticking to my side like thick paint.
Brady jumps down to help me up, asking if I’m hurt.
I shake my head.
When I stand up, I’m a sputtering mess of apologies, still trying to sort up from down.
I’m so out of it I barely notice the gate down the gravel road swinging open and a fancy black car pulling in beside Brady’s a few seconds later.
“Damn, Lena, you’re lucky the mud broke your fall. You could’ve gotten banged up pretty good.”
“Lucky, yeah. I’ve had worse. At least it’s not projectile puppy vomit.”
But the smile fades from his face as he lifts me to my feet, and I don’t think it’s just my little accident. He’s looking past me at the vehicle pulling up.
I recognize that face.
That face last showed up right before Nancy Loomer barged into his condo. My blood heats.
Holy hell, if it’s her again, following us all the way out here, I swear I’m not above giving her a nice big mud ball to the face.
Brady doesn’t seem guarded, though. He just flashes me a strained smile as the back door of the car opens and out steps an elegant foot clad in a black heel.
Then comes the rest of one of the most glamorous women I’ve seen in real life. She’s wearing oversize shades and burgundy lipstick deep enough to highlight her face.
Everything about her seems designed to impress.
But as she stares at me, one hand moving to the arm of her sunglasses so she can lift them to her dyed dirty-blond hair, I have the weirdest knot in my belly.
Brady’s hand presses lightly against the small of my back.
Oh no, what is this?
The world starts spinning, even before he speaks.
“Mom,” Brady says as she approaches. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”
“I can see that,” she says, the curl of a smile touching the corner of her mouth.
“Lena, this is my mother, Kerrigan Pruitt.” He sends me what I think might be a warning glance. “Mom, meet Lena. My fiancée.”