Six
Cassidy
Backed by a purple sky dotted with pink and orange, fluffy clouds, the Cape Cod-style house looks far nicer than my apartment. A chimney pokes out of the top of the roof, giving me hope of a fireplace.
I haven’t gone inside—haven’t even spoken to Wesley about when I should move. He said whenever, but I’d like to have a clear conversation where I nail down a date before I go showing up to the farm with boxes.
My engine idles in the driveway as I pull up my tank top to check on my new tattoo. I shouldn’t have been working so hard yesterday, but the internet said as long as it’s bandaged, I should be okay, and Ryan did reassure me that I can touch it up.
My fingers trace over the plastic, following the lines around the yellow petals. The decision to add color was easy despite the internet being obsessed with fine-line black and white tattoos. I’ve always liked a bit of color—especially yellow.
I smooth down the clear bandage, making sure it’s firmly attached. My goal for today is to get less sweaty, though I’m not sure that’s possible out here.
Six-fifty flashes on the dashboard, and I dig my phone out of the bag on the floor of my car. I’d been so tired after leaving Lennon’s house yesterday that I hadn’t had time to read through any of the notifications.
I click through junk emails and delete them, ignoring a text confirming a food delivery before finding my way on the dreaded social media.
Most of the notifications are the usual. Ellis and Lennon liked the photo I took on the farm. Gus sent me no less than twenty videos he found hilarious (rightfully so), but one notification that makes my stomach plummet.
Wesley8 liked your photo
“Jesus,” I whisper.
I click on the photo expecting it to be recent. Instead, I find he liked a photo from two years ago. A photo with Chad, no less.
The tattoo on my side itches, and I fight the urge to scratch. Maybe I really did ruin the thing with all of the poop scooping I did. That, or it’s finally healing.
I see myself in the photo—a different version of myself—happy on the boat we took from Chad’s lakehouse. The one thing that’s abundantly clear is that Chad does not look happy.
Maybe he never really was.
I stare at Wesley’s username and fight against snooping. It would be so, so tempting to snoop. It’s difficult to get a read on him, if I’m being honest. His Instagram could be a goldmine of information—really give me the upper hand here.
For the farm, of course.
Exiting out of the app, I glance at the clock and quickly toss the device into the passenger seat.
I drive down the long gravel driveway that passes what will hopefully be my new home, and look out over the fields of horses grazing. At the sight of my car, a few of them trot up to the fence, and I smile. I recognize maybe one, but that will get better with time. It’s only my second day.
Blue leaks through the purple-streaked sky as the clock ticks closer to seven.
When I get out of the car, I change into the boots that finally arrived, wriggling my toes and dreading the thought of breaking them in. I’m sure one full day of work will do just that, but it won’t be without blisters.
Unfortunately, my rain boots now have a hole in them, and I’m a few steps away from being permanently known as the employee with farting shoes.
I’ll take the blisters over looking incompetent and foolish.
Wesley had sent me a text after I left yesterday, saying to start with the dog up at the house.
Nerves twist in my gut at the thought of simply walking into the back door. I was given explicit permission, but it somehow still feels like breaking and entering—like I’m invading space I’m not welcome in.
When I stop the car and get out, I find my way up the hill to the farmhouse. The incline sucks the oxygen out of my lungs, leaving me panting more than I should by the time I climb the porch steps and open up the screen door.
“Hello?” I say, poking my head into a small galley kitchen. Large cabinets, a sink, and a humming refrigerator.
Seems right. It’s definitely a kitchen.
When nobody responds, I turn to the closet door at my right.
It opens with a soft squeak. When I let go, the door continues to swing slowly until it crunches against a bag of dog food.
Aha! Accomplishment fills my chest, and I stand straighter.
It’s the same feeling I get when I finish a crochet project without messing up any stitch counts.
Apparently, I’m very proud of my ability to follow directions.
As expected, the scoop sits inside the opened bag of dog food, and I measure the kibble carefully before walking back into the kitchen. My boot scuffs on the uneven, wooden flooring, and I lose a piece of kibble to the abyss beneath the refrigerator.
The house is old, that’s for sure. Worn wooden cabinets painted a fading white, scuff marks on the doorframes and countertops. It’s all chipped corners and missing paint. Well loved. Well used.
When the kibble drops into the metal bowl, the rapid clicking of nails on hardwood startles me. I jolt upright in time to see a giant German Shepherd come barreling into the small space.
His tongue lolls out of his mouth when he runs up to me, greeting me with a slobbery lick to the hand.
I smile. “Hey,” I say, scratching behind his ear.
When he jumps up to grab the scoop, I move it away from him.
Luckily, he’s friendly—almost too friendly.
I laugh at his second attempt to steal the scoop.
“Hold on,” I say, gently pushing him down before pointing to the bowl on the floor.
“It’s all right there for you. There’s no need to assault me. ”
A shadow passes near the other end of the kitchen, leading deeper into the house. When I turn toward it, I’m greeted by the perkiest boobs I’ve ever seen. Full nipple. A beautiful woman throws a flannel over her shoulders and begins buttoning it as I avert my eyes.
“Oh, God.”
That answers the question of Wes’s relationship status.
My entire body flushes bright red, and I work hard not to make eye contact with either boob.
“Hi!” she says, her tone bright as if she didn’t just flash me at my place of employment.
With her shirt now covering her chest and distressed shorts, she smooths her wild, curly hair down against her scalp.
Her efforts are useless, and I can’t help but think of what activities I ruined that caused such disarray in the woman standing in my boss’s kitchen.
This is so not good.
“You must be the new hire,” she says, her smile widening.
I blink, waiting for her to say more. When she doesn’t, I assume this is some kind of performance. Clearly, Wesley Miller’s girlfriend is asserting dominance over his female employees with her perky boobs.
“Y-yes,” I finally stammer. “I am so sorry.” The apology falls from my lips faster than a meteor shooting towards earth.
“I was told to start with the dog this morning. Mr. Miller said to come on in. I kind of figured he’d be at the barn, and the house would be empty or something.
” I chuckle, my laugh sounding a bit hollow.
“I didn’t mean to barge in like that. If I’d have known, I would have waited. Or texted. I don’t know.”
She cocks her head to the side, the smile never falling from her lips. When she fiddles with one of her many earrings, her brow furrows. “Huh,” she says. “You call him Mr. Miller? What is that? Like a kink thing?”
Every cell in my body misfires, spiraling me into the kind of embarrassment that makes you nauseous. “What? No!” my defense comes out as a squeak, and my face feels hot.
Wes appears behind the woman. He looks put together—not rumpled like the nearly naked girlfriend I walked in on. His baby blue t-shirt stretches across his broad chest. He’s wearing jeans and a cowboy hat today despite his assertion that they do not have cows.
“Cass,” he says, tipping said hat in my direction. He looks between the woman and me, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I see you met my sister,” he continues. “This is Rosemary.”
Sister.
If it’s his sister, then why on earth was she shirtless?
Rosemary jumps up on the counter by the sink, swinging booted feet.
“Thought you were already down at the barn, Wes,” she says before snatching an apple from the basket by the window above the sink.
The relief I feel is palpable. Rosemary takes a huge bite before talking around the apple.
“I’m just staying here for a night or two,” she supplies, looking at me.
“Heard you were moving into the house at the end of the drive.”
“I am,” I answer. “I think. I mean, I like this job, so if I can, I would like to.”
My answer seems robotic and disjointed. Unsurprising, considering the circumstances.
Somehow, the phrase I saw my boss’s sister’s boobs seems to be a horrible summary of this morning’s events. Is this sexual harassment? I never got one of those weird video training things when Wes hired me.
Oh my God. Was I supposed to get training?
I regret deleting all those emails this morning.
“Cass,” Rosemary says my name as if she’s testing it, and I snap out of my thoughts.
“You can call me Roe, by the way. I keep telling Wes to stop using my government name, but he doesn’t listen.
” She takes another bite of her apple. “I think you’ll love the house, and I’m sure Wes will love having the extra hands around here.
While I love this place, it’s not really my thing.
” She gestures to… well… everything. “It doesn’t feel like home anymore. ”
The dog nudges my hand, now finished with his breakfast.
“That’s Mud,” Wesley says, pointing at the dog. “I don’t know if you met him yesterday.”
“I didn’t,” I say, patting Mud on the head. Soft fur tickles my fingers as he leans in, begging for more attention—or food—I’m not sure.
“Well,” Wes starts, “We should get going. Horses won’t feed themselves, and Grady’s out sick.” He moves to the screen door I came in through as Roe hops off the counter.