Ready to Rumble #2
The sex was great. He looked hot in a sweater. He smelled like expensive cologne and bought me good beer. Back then, it was Coors Light, a big improvement over the Busch or Natty Ice we’d choke down at frat parties.
I fell head over heels in love. He must’ve sensed it, because he abruptly stopped responding to my texts and calls.
I cried a lot that semester.
Looking back, I was an idiot. But it did teach me an important lesson: You gotta live in reality when it comes to men.
You can’t change a person, and you have to take everything at face value.
Like Colton here—if he acts like a grumpy asshole, he is a grumpy asshole.
If a guy tells you he only wants to hang out, he only wants to hang out.
Period. No getting your hopes up. No magical thinking about fun sex leading to fun dates leading to love.
Problem is I really do want to fall in love. I’m just not sure where to find a guy who wants that too. Everyone I meet is no different from Mean Clint Eastwood here. Sure, maybe he’s good in bed. With hands like that, how could he not be?
But he’ll inevitably let me down. Hurt me.
“I really can’t take this on right now, Dad,” Colton says. “With my commitments at school—”
“You don’t have a choice.” Dale runs a hand over his face. “I don’t want to hear another word about this, understood? Instead, I want you to show Lainey a good time today.” He glances at me. “Show her what the Wallaces are all about.”
Colton just stares at his dad for a full beat. “You’re really gonna make me do this.”
“Like I said, it’s your job. So yes.”
“You’re the perfect person for Lainey to shadow.” Billie plucks an invisible piece of lint off her shirt. “She’ll see a little bit of everything.”
“I don’t need to tell you that if you scare her off, we’re gonna have a real big problem, right?” Dale asks.
Part of me wants to interject with a protest. A plea to spare me this guy’s less-than-stellar company. Just the thought of getting in his way or pissing him off makes me anxious.
In my parents’ world, women never ever inconvenience men.
But I’m starting to learn that being inconvenient is the only way to get what you want. So what if this prick hates me? I’m here to do a job.
A job I’m being paid handsomely for, by the way. When I gave Dale my proposal after we first spoke, he told me I wasn’t charging nearly enough. He doubled my hourly rate on the spot and then said there was a bonus waiting for me at the end of the project if I could get it done on time.
So now I have a little less than two months to design a full branding package and help launch it.
Ordinarily, that’s plenty of time, especially considering I don’t have school or another job at the moment.
But if this growly cowboy here is determined to thwart my efforts to get work done, who knows if I’ll hit that deadline?
As if he can read my thoughts, Dale meets my eyes. He agrees: The sooner I start, the better.
I arrived yesterday, and I was able to unpack my suitcases.
But looking down at my jeans and clogs, it hits me just how unprepared I am.
I’m definitely not dressed for a day spent shadowing a foreman on a ranch.
I’m an indoor girl, remember? I knew I’d have to be outside a bit to get this job done, but I thought that’d come later.
Possibly in the form of an invitation that would give me plenty of time to prepare.
I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, however.
Dale is giving me an in. I’ll be damned if I don’t take it.
“Lemme just grab my notebook.” I cross the room to dig through my tote bag that I placed on a nearby chair.
Colton scoffs. “Unbelievable.”
“Remind me who’s the six-year-old again?” Dale asks. “You or Dean?”
My pulse skips a beat as I straighten, tucking my notebook underneath my arm. Who is Dean? Is Colton a dad? That would explain why he mentioned school.
Also, does that mean he’s married?
Why do you care?
“I won’t get in your way,” I say. “I’ll just take some more notes, maybe do some sketches to get the creative juices flowing. I’m excited to see the rest of y’all’s property.”
Colton looks at me from the corner of his eye. He’s doing that squinting thing again. It makes him look as formidable and unfriendly as a bear.
“Whatever,” he grunts.
Then he opens the door and walks right out, yanking it shut behind him.
Dale sighs. “Dear Lord and Savior, I pray you give me the patience I need today not to visit bodily harm upon my son. We’ve made it this far. In Jesus’s name, we pray, amen.”
Billie’s head rolls in my direction. “You want me to take you around? I’m happy to—”
“I need you in the office, Billie.” Dale slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
Billie visibly deflates. “Right. On it.”
Dale looks at me. “I sincerely apologize for my son’s behavior. If you don’t feel comfortable—”
“It’s fine.” I reach for the doorknob. “He and I don’t need to be friends to work together. I got this, y’all.”
Dale pops an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll holler if I catch wind of any plans that involve homicide, all right?”
He chuckles at that. “Sounds good. Y’all have fun.”
Fun isn’t what I’m after as I hustle outside. I wouldn’t say I need to win Colton over. But my job will be a lot easier if he doesn’t avoid me like this.
Glancing to my right and then to my left, I realize I have no idea where the hell he might have gone.
The door cracks open behind me, and Billie sticks her head out. “Colton always parks in front of my parents’ house. It’s the one-story ranch right over there. Black pickup. He liked it because it’s the same color as his soul.”
“Ha.”
“You really okay with this? My dad can be kinda pushy.”
I chuckle. “Billie, Colton’s not the first difficult man I’ve worked with, and he sure as hell won’t be the last.”
She grins, squinting against the ardent morning sunshine. She looks so much like her brother that I do a double take. Same nose, same expressions. She’s a completely different person, though. Kind. Warm.
“I’m excited to see what y’all come up with,” she says. “Good luck.”
I’m gonna need it. “Thanks.”
My stomach plunges when the rumble of an engine fills the air. Somehow I know that’s Colton starting his truck. I bet it’s one of those ridiculous monstrosities with eight wheels and absurdly low gas mileage.
Looking down at the stupid-ass heeled clogs I wore, I let out a curse.
I was going for a cute-cowgirl-who-doesn’t-actually-do-any-cowgirl-type-things look.
I thought I’d be inside today because, well, that’s where I always do my work.
Inside. On a computer. At a desk, usually with five half-finished beverages crowding my workspace.
But clearly, I thought wrong.
Screwing my courage to the sticking place—and sending up a silent prayer of my own that I don’t break an ankle—I take off running.
I’m here to do a job, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do it and do it well.
I’m gonna knock your socks off, Colt. Colton. Whatever the hell your stupid-but-also-kinda-hot name is.
Also, fuck you.