11. Hailey
Hailey
I pack a few essentials so I’m ready to leave early Monday morning, before Dean can change his mind.
Luckily, almost everything I value fits in my rucksack, which I haven't even fully unpacked yet anyway.
It takes no time to toss in pants, a couple of tops, my hoodie, underwear, toothbrush, hairbrush, and deodorant, and zip it up.
At the crack of dawn, I head over to my neighbors' house.
I knock on the door and steel myself for whatever I'm about to face.
It's not likely to be an entirely friendly welcome, I know that much.
Lennon's made it no secret he's not a fan, and even though Dean has agreed to teach me, it's clear he doesn't like me either.
He only agreed because he's convinced I'll fail and then he can get his hands on my land.
He's wrong, but I don't hold it against him.
He doesn't know how tenacious I can be. I've never given up on something I want—and I'm not about to start now.
The door opens and it's Lennon standing there. Even as my breath quickens, I notice the scowl on his face, the open disapproval in his eyes.
Yup. He definitely doesn't want me here.
I give him a sweet smile, anyway, refusing to let his bad mood get to me. "Hiya, You're Lennon, right? We were never properly introduced. Nice to see you again and my name's Hailey if you don't already know. Also, I don't know if Dean told you about our deal?—"
"He did," he cuts me off.
Good. At least I don't have to be the one to break it to him.
"Guess we're going to be living together, then, aren't we? That will be nice!"
His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. I frown. Is that a denial?
He grunts and starts to say something—but a small voice behind him interrupts.
"Daddy? Who's that?"
Hearing his daughter's voice softens his features into something more human. He responds, "No one, honey."
I lean sideways to spot her and say, "Hello, sweetie."
"Princess Ice Cream." A grin splits the little cutie pie's face, and I grin back. Of course she'd nickname me that.
"Yes, it's Princess Ice Cream."
I walk past Lennon, ignoring what his musky, tobacco-and-leather scent does to my body—the way my nerves skitter at the heat he throws off. I squat in front of the little girl, hiking my bag higher on my shoulder.
"Princess Ice Cream is going to be staying with you for a while. That'll be fun, right?"
She thinks for a second, then nods frantically and beams. I smile back just as brightly, throwing her dad an arched look.
There. Let's see him try to get rid of me now.
I figure that's what he was about to tell me at the doorway—before his daughter interrupted us.
He scowls at me, then says to his daughter, "Have you finished your breakfast, darling?"
"Uh-huh."
"Even the eggs?"
She wrinkles her nose but nods anyway, sticking her hands behind her back and scuffing her little shoes. Not a very good liar.
Her father cracks a smile. "Don't fib, honey. We both know you didn't eat the eggs."
"They're yucky."
"I know, baby, but they're necessary if you want to grow big and strong."
"I don't wanna be big and strong. I wanna be little so you can always pick me up."
To demonstrate, she sticks her hands in the air, and his face warms all over. It's like looking at a completely different man than the one who met me at the door—this man is full of affection for his daughter.
"I'll always be able to pick you up," he says, walking past me to hoist her onto his hip. "Even if you're as big and strong as the Hulk himself."
"Who's that?"
"You don't know the Incredible Hulk?" He tuts. "Looks like we have some more movies we need to watch."
"Yay!"
They disappear through a door beside the staircase—probably the kitchen, judging by the mouthwatering scent of bacon and eggs.
When they're gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. Despite the frosty welcome, it looks like Lennon's not getting rid of me yet.
Good.
"Well, if it isn't our newest housemate."
I hear a voice from the top of the staircase, partly hidden by a half wall. Footsteps echo as a pair of familiar, silver-tipped cowboy boots clink down the wooden steps.
Reed pauses halfway down, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the banister.
Even though I've already told myself—repeatedly—that Reed and I can't hook up again, especially now that we'll be living together, my stomach still does flip-flops at the sight of him.
He looks so good. Smells good too: freshly showered, hair still damp and curling against his forehead. A hint of spicy, slightly oriental cologne wafts from him, sending my nerves haywire.
Add to that the easy sensuality of his jeans riding low on his hips, the casual weight of his firearm at his side—and that devil-may-care grin, with a glint in his eyes that promises all sorts of wickedness.
Yes, please.
I shake off the thought and manage a semi-polite smile.
"How's it going?"
"Great—especially since Dean told me you're going to be working with us," he says, descending the rest of the stairs, "and living with us. You know where you're going to sleep yet? Because my bed's way too big for me on my lonesome own."
I step back as a new voice joins in from the kitchen doorway.
"She's going to be in the guest cabin."
Dean emerges, looking mouthwatering in Levis and dark blue plaid. He's wearing an apron over his clothes, which, funnily enough, only adds to his appeal. Strong and masculine, but not afraid to show a more nurturing side.
God, all three men are devastating. It's a wonder they haven't been snatched up already.
Then again, their terrible attitudes might have a lot to do with it.
And honestly, how do I know they haven't been? There's nothing to say they're not dating... or even permanently attached.
I don't like that thought, so I shove it aside.
Reed frowns. "You sure that's a good idea for her to stay out there?"
"Damn right I'm sure. She's hardly going to fit in with the others in the main bunkhouse, even if there are a couple of girls there already. If we put her in the guest cabin she'll have her own bedroom and bathroom, and she can eat with us."
"We have space here, in the main house. Why doesn't she stay here? Because of Lennon?"
"Because I said so. I'm also going to remind you that she's here to be our trainee and not your plaything. Understood?"
Reed's annoyance shows in the way he clenches his jaw, but he bites his tongue, winking at me before he heads to the front door. "See you later, 'Princess Ice Cream'."
"Bye." I smile at his cheeky use of the name Grace has given me that he must have overheard as he came down the stairs.
After the door shuts behind him, I face Dean once more.
"So," I say, trying to cover the awkward silence. "What's the order of business today?"
"You had breakfast?"
I nod. "I had some leftover breakfast bars I bought at the grocery store."
He raises an eyebrow. I shrug. "I'm not much of a breakfast person."
"You are today."
Dean heads toward the kitchen, leaving me no choice but to follow.
It's a ranch-style kitchen, with an open feel to it—pine wood cupboards and drawers, wooden worktops, earth-toned floor tiles, and an honest-to-God solid fuel range. Bacon sizzles in a pan on the hot plate, on the warming plate sits a steaming coffee jug.
Lennon sits at the head of a very solid old oak kitchen table that looks like it might have come off the Ark and was probably secondhand then.
He has Grace in his lap. She swings her legs rhythmically and smiles happily at me when I walk in.
He's making airplanes with a spoonful of eggs, and she giggles as her eyes track the movement.
When he brings it to her mouth, she clamps her lips shut, claps her hands, and says, "Again! Again!"
"That's the thirtieth time," he says, smiling despite the frustration in his voice.
But when he glances up and sees me watching him, every trace of humor vanishes.
Damn. What did I ever do to deserve this hostility?
As far as I know, all we had was a giant misunderstanding and overreaction—on his part.
If anything, I should be the one who's pissed off.
Instead, he acts like I kicked his puppy or something.
Whatever. I'm not here for his approval. I'm here to do a job—and I'm going to do it.
"Sit," Dean orders.
His bossy tone rankles, but I figure it's not a smart move to defy my new boss on my first day, so I bite my tongue and sit.
He pulls a plate from the cabinet above the sink and dumps the bacon onto it. Then he cracks a few eggs into the pan, opens the oven to pull out whatever he is baking, and stirs a pot of beans simmering on the stove.
A few minutes later, he sets a plate down in front of me—bacon, cornbread, scrambled eggs, and beans, piled high. I stare at it and exclaim, "There's no way I'm finishing all that."
"You have to," he says. "You're going to be working hard today, and you might not have time for lunch. You'll need all the fuel you can get."
He pours himself a coffee from the jug, then passes it across to me along with the milk.
I take his word for it, pouring myself a cup before picking up my fork.
"So…what's my first assignment today, boss?"
"You're going to muck out the horse stalls, disinfect them, and spread fresh hay," he says. "The manure gets wheelbarrowed to the composting area. There are ten stalls total in the main stable, and you need to be finished by six p.m., before the horses come back. Think you can handle that?"
I can see it in his eyes—he's expecting me to balk.
I can't deny the idea of cleaning horseshit makes my stomach churn a little... but I'm not giving him the satisfaction.
I do some quick math:
It's nine in the morning now, so that gives me exactly nine hours. That's less than an hour per stall.
If I work hard, I can probably do one in about forty-five minutes.
Ten stalls would take 450 minutes—seven and a half hours.
I've got nine hours.
It'll be hard work... but it's doable. Even leaves a little time for breaks.
I shovel some bacon into my mouth, grin up at him, and say, "Sure, boss. No problem."
"I want more milk, Daddy," Grace says, pointing to her glass.
The milk happens to be closest to me, so I pick it up and hand it to Lennon.
"Here you go."
He takes it without a 'thank you' and without making eye contact—without even acknowledging my presence, indeed.
I narrow my eyes.
Okay, asshole. Now you're really pissing me off.
Here's the one saving grace about shoveling horse shit for hours: after the first hour, you stop smelling it. Truly.
The first time I walked in here with Dean, the smell was so overpowering I thought I might pass out. It only got worse as he showed me the ropes, and I had to fight to hide my reaction so he couldn't give me a smug, 'I told you so' look.
I don't know what these horses have been eating, but their stench is criminal.
Still, I tough it out. I focus on shoveling, cleaning, disinfecting—not thinking.
By the third hour, the routine actually becomes... soothing.
Dean said he'll introduce me to the other hands this evening and we'll discuss how to make use of the remainder of my time here.
So, when I hear the stable door creak open, I straighten, ready to introduce myself.
But it's not one of the hands. It's a familiar figure, turning the corner with a wide, cocky grin then standing right there in the stable entrance, leaning against a hitching post.
"Oh. It's only you," I say, and turn back to my sweeping.
"Ouch," he says, but he doesn't sound in the least offended. "I came to see if you needed any help."
"No, I got it."
"You sure about that?"
Even though I keep my back to him, I hear his footsteps as he walks up the center aisle—closer, closer—until I can feel his body heat at my back. A knot rises in my throat. I caution myself not to turn around. Temptation throbs in my stomach.
"You know you're doing that wrong."
"Doing what wrong?" To my knowledge, I've followed Dean's directions to a T.
He doesn't answer. Instead, I feel his breath against my neck, and goosebumps break out over my skin as he inhales. Oh God.
"I smell like horse manure," I blurt.
"No, you don't," he murmurs. "You smell divine."
I sigh, swallow, and finally turn around. "Reed?—"
He doesn't let me finish. Instead, he brushes his lips lightly over mine. Desire pounds loudly throughout my body, pulsating between my legs. Images of us together flash through my mind. I try again. "Reed, please..."
"Tell me to stop," he says, his kiss feather-soft, no more than a breath against my lips. His arm sneaks around my waist, pulling me gently closer.
"Tell me to stop, and I will."
I open my mouth... but the words get trapped in my throat. I taste his grin as he kisses me for real—and the broom clatters from my hands to the floor.