Chapter 11
“You’re funding schools, too?” I ask incredulously as Charlie gives us a tour, bouncing from room to room, exclaiming each one is his favorite. They serve low-income elementary students here and educate approximately one hundred children.
The building and classrooms are nothing special, even though they feel special. There are small rooms with a variety of desks, chairs, and school supplies. Each schoolroom is decorated according to the teacher's personality and features various art projects created by the students.
Owen smiles but doesn’t respond as Charlie tugs on my hand and pulls me through large double doors that lead outside, behind the school.
I almost gasp, taking in the scene before me.
The kids are spread out among rows and rows of food crops, berry bushes, fruit trees, and beautiful, flowering plants.
Some of them sow seeds while others water, though most of them chase each other between the vegetation or steal ripe berries from bushes.
I’m not surprised this is how he spends his money—funding schools makes sense based on what Owen’s trying to do with his charity.
I can’t wrap my head around this man. On paper, he’s a murderer. In reality, it’s much more complicated.
“Something wrong, Miss Riley?” I’m pulled from my stupor by Owen’s deep voice far too close to my ear.
I step to the side, Charlie still clinging to my hand and trying to yank me forward. I laugh at his impatience and shrug at Owen as Charlie once again sweeps me away.
We’re almost running through the strawberry patch when Charlie’s mother, Charlotte, steps in front of him and holds up a hand. Charlie halts, dropping mine.
She looks stern, but her face soon melts into a smile. “Charlie, shouldn’t you be helping?”
Charlie groans and reluctantly obeys. He walks toward the group of young students planting far too many seeds in the small areas of dirt, plops down next to a little blond-haired girl, and starts stealing from her supply.
Charlotte sighs, watching, before returning her attention to me. She scans my body, a frown forming on her lips. “You can’t help in those clothes, Miss Riley.”
“I was not informed I’d be getting my hands dirty, or I would have come better prepared.” I pointedly glare at Own.
Charlotte's gaze lands on him beside me. “You didn’t tell her?”
Owen’s laugh is low, menacing. “I didn’t know if Miss Riley would want to get her hands dirty.”
“And why wouldn’t I want to help?” I cross my arms.
Owen holds up his hands in surrender. “My fault. I apologize, Miss Riley. I’m sure Charlotte can find you something suitable to wear.”
She frowns. “Of course I can, but may I advise that you bring your staff prepared for work next time? I’m not a clothing store, Mr. Mills.” She turns and starts walking back to the building.
I finally meet Owen’s eyes. They are full of amusement as he stares at me. I huff and stomp past him, racing to catch up with Charlotte. We walk in silence until we reach the doors.
She holds it open for me. “He must like you, Miss Riley.”
“Nora. Please call me Nora.”
Charlotte nods and follows me inside. “He doesn’t usually bring anyone from the office.”
“Not even his old assistant?” I ask, my intrigue growing.
She shakes her head.
His words of trust drift into my thoughts, and I can’t help the shiver that snakes down my spine. It should be a win—getting a target to trust me means the assignment is all but in the bag. So then why do I feel like shit?
Charlotte opens a storage closet and pulls out faded, denim overalls that look about the right size. She also grabs a worn pair of men's work boots and holds them up in front of her face. Her brow furrows, and her gaze shoots to my red heels.
“I can go barefoot,” I offer.
She cocks her head to the side. “Are you sure? I’m sure these would do for a short while.”
“I’m sure.”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall. You can hang your clothes in here when you’re done.”
I thank her. She nods, heading back in the direction of the garden.
I take a deep breath, my palms clammy. This was not what I was expecting when Declan pitched the job to me, and now I’m not so sure how I feel about all of it. I’ve never been so conflicted in my entire life.
I quickly change and sweep my blond hair into a high ponytail before rolling up the sleeves of my white blouse. When I’m finished, I walk back to the garden, letting my bare feet sink into the soft earth.
Owen and Charlotte are desperately trying to keep the four-year-olds under control as they toss seeds everywhere. I can’t hide my smile at the chaos before me. It’s pandemonium, but it’s also joy.
“So much for an organized garden,” Charlotte huffs, frustrated.
“Perhaps the young ones would be better off on watering duty?” I offer, and both their heads swing in my direction.
Owen sweeps his gaze over my attire, the corner of his mouth kicking up. When his stare catches my feet, he arches a brow.
I ignore his silent question as Charlotte stands and takes my advice. “Time to water the flowers!” she yells, followed by enthusiastic squealing.
Owen gets up, dusting the dirt from his hands and knees. “Ready, Miss Riley?”
After I nod, he leads me to the flower garden, assigning me to pull weeds. The monotonous task has me lost in a meditative state. I revel in the dirt beneath my fingers. I’m so used to death and blood that planting life feels better than it probably should.
It doesn’t take long for the weeding to take an interesting turn when the light patter of water falls into my hair. The children hold hoses straight up, dousing everything like rain.
I smile at their laughter and soaked hair and clothes. Charlotte stands with her hands on her hips, but she's smiling and chuckling along with the children.
Too focused on the kids, I don’t notice Owen behind me until a strong stream of water pelts me in the back. As I swing around, I’m blasted in the chest with another.
Yelping, I dodge the stream, trying not to trample the plants in the process.
My feet slide on the dirt that has suddenly become mud.
Rushing forward, I grab a free hose as another stream of water hits my head, soaking my hair.
My fingers curl around a free hose, and I turn on him. In an instant, his shirt is drenched.
Owen appears shocked, pausing his pursuit of me. But a devious grin soon replaces his surprise, and he runs toward me.
I squeal, laughing, and dart out of the way, shooting the water behind me, hoping to catch him as he speeds after me. We chase each other until every inch of us is dripping, but we still don’t stop, both of us wanting to best the other.
It takes Charlotte turning off the main valve to get the children to stop, including us. The water slows to a trickle from the head of the hose.
“Time for lunch!” she yells at the children, who run for the outdoor tables next to the school, leaving the hoses and sprawled seed packets where they are.
Dropping my hose, I put both hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. There is mud everywhere now. It covers every inch of the ground and travels up my borrowed overalls. Big, brown spots dot my white blouse and bare forearms. I reach up to find more mud caked in my hair, and I laugh.
Owen watches me with a smile large enough that his dimple is on full display. He’s covered in the same amount of mud, and his blue T-shirt clings to his body, revealing every detail of his muscular torso.
“You ruined my fun, you know,” I say, trudging toward him and in the direction of the building.
He raises a brow.
“I was quite enjoying my weeding duties,” I clarify.
He chuckles, stepping to my side. “Your smile would indicate our hose war was just as fun.”
I catch myself. He’s right. I’m smiling like a child. I quickly firm my lips into a straight line.
Owen catches me and laughs harder. “You seem like all business, Miss Riley, but you surprise me.”
I realize we’ve both stopped walking and are far too close to each other, but I find myself not wanting to move away.
“I know how to have fun, Mr. Mills.”
“Is that so?” he baits me, but I step back, and he lets me.
“Why a school?” I need to change the subject.
“These kids didn’t have a great start in life, and they can’t learn in high-stress situations. I wanted to give them a more relaxed place, with lots of time outside. They needed a safe place.”
“But you don’t run it?”
“The idea was mine, but Charlotte took it and made it her own. I let her. She certainly knows what these kids need better than I do. She grew up here with no family and very little money or opportunity.”
Owen begins to walk, and I follow him, my head reeling. Can this man really be a murderer?
“This is what your father believes you’re throwing away the company's money on?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He stops and holds the door open for me. As our eyes meet, he nods. “I don’t see it that way.”
“I don’t, either.” I’m not sure why my voice is so quiet or why my heartbeat has picked up.
Owen suddenly scrunches his nose in the most adorable way. “I think maybe I should get you a towel before you come in. You’ll leave muddy footprints all over the school.”
Glancing at my feet, I wiggle my toes.
The sound of Owen’s chuckle has my attention going to his mouth and lingering far too long.
He snaps me out of it. “Wait here.” Kicking off his muddy shoes, he disappears behind the door.
Sighing, I lean against the building, letting the sun warm my cold, wet body.
I’m definitely fucked.