Chapter 9 Pane
Pane
“Yes,” she murmurs. “I say yes.”
Rowe leans in to me. I lean in to her, too, and it feels like the world has disappeared, like we’re the only two people who exist.
Heat fills her eyes before she blinks and shakes her head, making it vanish. Then she slumps back onto the chair.
“You can help me,” she confirms icily. “But there will be rules.”
Rules. Good. I like rules. Rules keep people in their place. Rules separate the wheat from the chaff. Rules remind me that I’m not here to get lost in her eyes or her luscious scent. I’m here to win.
And I’m also not here to discuss my personal life. The fact that I almost told a stranger who I want to be better than, is ridiculous.
Keep your thoughts in check, Pane.
I drum my fingers on the table. “Agreed. We need rules. Tell me everything you’ve got.”
“Well . . .” She scans the room as if there’s a sheet of bylaws taped to the fridge. After a moment she says smugly, “You have to run all ideas past me first.”
Sunbeam, who’s all of five two, studies me like I’m the big bad wolf, like she can protect a village of piggies all by herself when trouble comes.
She’s disconcerting. Everything about her has me in knots. What is wrong with me? I’ve only just met the woman, but she’s different . . . sassy, determined, and she doesn’t give a flip about who I am.
And let’s not forget that she’s also broke.
If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s that the Maddox family does not need a fortune hunter in our family—and what else would a broke woman on the verge of losing everything be, but a desperate digger of wealth?
I repeat her first rule. “I have to run all ideas past you? Deal.” Rowe blinks as if she’s surprised I gave in so quickly. “I’m not here to make your life miserable. We have to work together for this venture to be a success.”
She shoots a look to Cristina, who shrugs. “Don’t ask me. This is your whole thing. I’ll clean up the kitchen. While I do that, why don’t y’all talk somewhere else so that I don’t distract you.”
Rowe narrows and un-narrows her eyes, sharing a silent conversation with the woman who is clearly her best friend.
Cristina waves her off. “I’ll be right here.”
In case I try to murder Rowe, no doubt. Somehow I manage to not roll my eyes. If I wanted her murdered, I would obviously pay someone to do it. It’s not like I’d get my own hands dirty.
But I would never kill anyone, just to be clear.
Sunbeam exhales an exasperated sigh. “Let’s talk outside.”
I follow her through the kitchen—which, for some reason, is infested with ceramic roosters and living swine.
We step past a pile of piggycorns smooshed together on a dog bed. “They’re not going to lick my feet?”
Rowe glances over her shoulder, brow lifted delicately. “Normally, they would. Your feet must smell bad.”
I bite down the chuckle that rumbles in the back of my throat. Tit for tat, this one.
The back porch is small, decorated with a grill and a table for two. Rowe crosses to the railing, faces me, and folds her arms, which I’m quickly learning is her fighting stance.
I, on the other hand, lean against the tall balustrade, eyeing her with curiosity. What happened to this farm girl for her to be so on edge?
I mean, besides the whole foreclosure thing?
Don’t get personal, Pane. This is a job. This is my future. That’s what I have to focus on.
But why do I suddenly care?
I don’t care, just to be clear. I’m only curious.
She shoots a quick glance out toward the farm, and I follow her gaze. At night, the place is stunning. The moon bathes the grass in a silvery light, grass that unfurls to a fenced pasture that gleams almost ethereally.
Wait. It doesn’t almost gleam. It does gleam.
As I watch, a breeze washes over the grass, and as the blades bend, the earth beneath glows as if it just became activated.
I’ve never seen anything quite like it. For as many places as I’ve traveled—all over the world—this swatch of land is magical.
“It’s the ley lines,” she says, yanking me from my thoughts.
I drag my gaze from the pasture back to her. She’s not looking at me. Instead, she stares into the night.
“Sorry?” I ask.
“The ley lines. They’re rivers of power that exist in the land.
That’s why Mystic Meadows is—or was—magical.
At least here it still is, somewhat.” She tips her head back and forth as if chewing on a thought.
“But anyway, you can see the power on the farm because this is where the ley lines are.” She nods toward the meadow. “The land glows.”
“It sure does,” I reply, enchanted.
For as beautiful as the land is farther out, the stuff closest to the house is scrubby, as if the magic doesn’t quite reach it, like there’s an artery blockage stopping the power from seeping through.
“I also get final say in all things,” she murmurs, still looking away.
“Good. I was beginning to think you didn’t have any more rules.”
Her gaze snaps on me. “Oh, I have more rules.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Absolutely not, Sunbeam.” On hearing her nickname, she physically bristles, her back going ramrod straight. “All I’m saying is that based on our encounters so far, I have no doubt you’ve got a list of rules inside that complicated head of yours.”
She frowns. “I’m not complicated—and yes, I do.”
Okay, sure. Not complicated.
She shifts her weight and returns her gaze to the land, giving me a perfect view of her profile. She leans over the railing, and moonlight splashes on her skin, making her glow just like the rest of the earth.
Whatever magic hangs in the air, it’s shrouded her, and I don’t think she has any idea that it’s happening.
She looks like an angel.
Of death.
For me.
Keep thinking that way, Pane. You’ve got sixty days to win an empire. Not sixty days to lose your heart.
“You get final say,” I repeat. “So even if I have an idea that I know will make you money—”
“You won’t do it unless I give my approval.”
“No.”
She balks. “What?”
I give a single hard shake of my head. “You need me a lot more than I need you. I can find another business to save. You can’t find anyone else to salvage this farm, or else you already would’ve done it.”
“You are so—”
“Arrogant? Yes, I know. I’ve heard it all before, and it’s true.” She glowers, and I roll my eyes. “You don’t get final say, but I will ask for your opinion. How is that?”
She scoffs. “Are you always like this?”
“Yes, I am. Now. Any more rules on your exhaustive list?”
“It’s not exhaustive . . . And yes, there’s one more.”
“Only one?”
“I’m not as uptight as you seem to think.”
“That remains to be seen.”
She smirks. “You’re not sleeping in the house.”
“I didn’t even ask if I could stay here.”
She tips her head back and laughs. “You’re a billionaire short on cash. Where else are you going to stay?”
Good point. “Where will I sleep, then? The barn?”
God, not the barn.
“I’m not that terrible.” She shoots me a look so scalding that it could burn the hair right off my head. “My mom’s she shed. She uses it to make candles. There’s a bed in there, and it’s temperature controlled.”
I frown. “Are you also going to lock me in at night?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Her mouth curves lusciously when she says it. So I look away.
I lean my shoulder against one of the porch’s posts, and her gaze lingers on my arm before darting back to the landscape.
“So to recap, your rules are”—I tick them off on my fingers one at a time—“I have to run everything past you, you get not-quite final say in all decisions, and I have to sleep in a she shed.”
“It’s more like a shamper, but yeah, that’s right.”
“Done.”
She balks. “Really?”
“Did you actually think that a few rules would make me say no?”
She eyes my shirt, which is rolled up to the elbows. “To be fair, I thought the shamper might break you.”
“Hardly.” She extends her hand to shake on the deal, but I stop her with, “I have a few rules of my own.”
Her shoulders tighten. “You have rules?”
“If you get them, then so do I.”
“It’s my house, so it makes sense that I would have them.”
“And I’ll be doing a lot of work so that in two months you can sail off into the sunset of financial freedom. At the very least, I’ll have a road map and a staff for you.”
“A staff?”
“You can’t do this alone. You’ll need people. I’ll get them.”
“I can do things on my own.”
My gaze scours the wrecked farm before landing deliberately back on her. “Of course you can do it alone.”
She hears the sarcasm in my voice, but the only hint that it gets under her skin is when she folds her arms. “Fine. Tell me your rules.”
I lift my finger. “Rule number one—should we write these down?”
“Are there a lot of them?”
“No.”
She taps her temple. “Pretty sure I can remember, even if I do own overalls.”
I tear my eyes away from her smirking mouth. “Okay. Even if you don’t like an idea of mine, we’re still going to try it.”
“But what if—”
“What if, what? It makes you a million dollars?”
She scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Fine. What else?”
“Next rule”—I hold up two fingers—“no piggycorns in the house.”
Her jaw falls. “What? You’re not sleeping in here. What does it matter?”
“I will be working in the home, and those are farm animals. They are not cats or dogs. Or even chinchillas. They are swine, and this is a business. We don’t know how we’ll be using the house yet, and it might come into play.” I create an X with my forearms. “No swine inside.”
She makes a little whimper in the back of her throat. “But what about—”
“No,” I say sharply. “None of them. Not even your favorite. They stay outside while I’m here. In two months, you can do whatever you want. But absolutely no piggycorns inside for the next sixty days. Got it?”
She tips her face to the sky. Moonlight bounces off her features, making her brown hair a silvery gold. “Fine. No piggycorns in the house. You better be all that you’re cracked up to be,” she mutters.
I prowl over, and her eyes flare in surprise as I drop my mouth to her ear. “You have no idea how amazing I am.”
Rowe stiffens, and the air between us electrifies to a crackle. Then she leaps back and scoots away, putting a good five feet between us.
She swallows and her throat bobs. “Any more rules?”
“Just one.”
“And that is?”
I tap my knuckles on the railing. “I’m here to help this farm. Unless I’m doing so because there’s a need, I will, under no circumstances, be asked to feed an animal or perform farm chores.”
“God forbid you do an honest man’s work,” she snarls. “Don’t worry. I’m more than capable of taking care of this farm, and myself.”
“Good. Because I’m not trying to take care of you. I’m trying to take care of me.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Wonderful!” She throws up her arms. “Is that it? Is there anything else you’d like to say, Your Highness, before I show you to your penthouse suite?”
I pause. “By that you mean the shamper, right?”
“Yeah, the shamper.”
I straighten and stretch my shoulders back. “Nope. That’ll be all. Show me to my bed, and tomorrow we’ll get to work.”
“This is the shamper?”
For the second time since I’ve met her, Rowe is genuinely smiling. I glance away in disgust and focus on the posters lining the small camper, my new living quarters.
Every inch of wall space is covered in pinups featuring ’80s pop artists. Some of the posters are sun bleached, but many of them look brand new, like Rowe’s mom kept them rolled up and hidden away for years before deciding that her candle-making haven would house them.
It’s a study in the feminization of men. Every man wears makeup, yet they all look masculine. There’s Duran Duran, the Thompson Twins, Culture Club, Adam Ant—and so many more.
The only reason I know their names is because they’re printed at the bottom of each poster.
Even the ceiling is covered.
“Home sweet home,” she says brightly. “If there’s anything you need, let me know. There’s a bathroom that’s hooked up to its own septic. The water works.” She points to a window unit. “There’s the heat and air. You should be good to go.”
“One more thing.”
She rolls her eyes. “What?”
“Don’t tell anyone who I am. Word will spread anyway, but I’d rather it do so in a trickle instead of a deluge. If my mother finds out and thinks that it gives me an unfair advantage, it will ruin our chances of saving this farm.”
“You mean winning your company.”
“That, too.”
She mimes locking up her lips and tossing the key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I nod in thanks.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Without another word she exits, and the next thing I hear is the door clicking.
Son of a—
I try the knob, but it’s locked.
“Okay, so I decided to lock you in,” she yells from the other side, “in case you’re a murderer. Don’t worry, I’ll let you out early enough.”
“What time?” I demand.
“Hmm. I’ll have it unlocked by six.”
“Five thirty—and I take my coffee black.”
“Maybe I’ll be here by then, and maybe I won’t. Good night!”
The sound of her sassy mouth lights my insides on fire. When I’m bringing in money hand over fist for this place, we’ll see how much backtalk she gives.
I drop my suitcase on the floor and survey my new home. “Well, guys, I guess it’s just the fifty of us.”
The camper is small, and there’s not much to explore, but I do have clothes to put away.
The first cabinet I open is filled with smelly candle things that immediately make my allergies flare.
After a head-pounding sneezing fit, I forego putting anything away, strip down to my briefs, and collapse onto the bed.
The mattress feels like I’m being punched in the back by a thousand fists. This is going to be a long night.
Just as I’m about to snap off the light, my new phone rings. I recognize the number. It’s from my mother’s house. “Hello?”
“Pane,” Natalie whimpers. “You’re not here. When are you coming home?”
I sigh. “It might be a while, kiddo.”
“But what about my bedtime book?”
I pinch the corners of my eyes. “I’ll have to grab a new one for you tomorrow. I don’t have anything tonight.”
“But how will I sleep?”
“What about a story? One that I make up.”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice makes me grin. “You’ll like it.”
“I’d better.”
Time to put my money where my mouth is. It takes about half a second before I’m spitting out, “Once upon a time, there was a princess named . . . Sunbeam, and she smelled like wildflowers.”
I pause to gauge whether she likes the beginning, and when she prods me with, “Go on,” I continue.
“And this princess was the biggest pain in the neck you’ve ever met. In fact, it was her nickname—Princess Pain-in-the-Neck.”
The earth underneath me rumbles as if it doesn’t like me calling Rowe a pain in the neck. Too bad. It’ll just have to get used to it.
Through the phone’s speaker, Natalie giggles. “Tell me more about this princess.”