10. Nothing But Empty Space #2
A gritty cloud of dust blew across the platform, settling on my lips.
I tasted the dry earth and the exhaust fumes, focusing on the bitter grit rather than the man standing by the black vehicle.
I refused to let him turn Ruby’s loading dock into a tabloid spectacle.
The local delivery drivers did not need to witness an A-list actor practicing his apologies in the dirt.
I picked up the pen from the aluminum clip. I pressed the rough, splintered edge of the clipboard tight against my ribs. Gripping the wood firmly kept my hands from shaking. I pulled my shoulders back, refusing to revert to the frightened wife who had fled Los Angeles.
I turned my attention to Declan.
“Declan, could you just double-check the tie-downs on that last hydrangea crate for me?” I asked, keeping my tone crisp and even. “I need to handle a minor interruption before I sign the invoice.”
Declan didn’t move toward the van. He narrowed his eyes, staring down at Hayes.
“Are you sure you want to do this right now?” Declan asked, crossing his arms over his dusty T-shirt. “I can grab Ruby to run him off, or I can step in myself.”
The offer was simple and practical. Declan didn’t puff his chest out or try to pick a fight; he just offered to stand between me and the problem. It was the exact kind of quiet protection I had begged for in Los Angeles. But I didn’t need anyone to fight my battles for me anymore.
“I am fine to handle this myself,” I said. “Just keep the loading zone clear.”
Declan studied my face for a long moment. He nodded once, turning back toward the open doors of the refrigerated truck to check the heavy nylon straps.
I turned away from the van. I walked to the edge of the platform and started down the steps.
My boots scraped against the grit coating the stairs. Every step down felt slow. I kept the board pressed against my torso, using the wood to shield my swollen belly from Hayes.
I reached the bottom step.
My boots sank into the loose gravel of the driveway. I walked straight toward Hayes, the loose stones shifting under my weight. He stood frozen by the side of the idling vehicle, his eyes locked on my overalls.
I stopped ten feet away. I planted my boots in the dirt, blocking his path to the dock.
The short expanse of loose gravel separating us felt like a minefield.
The diesel engine of the delivery van continued to idle behind my back, kicking a steady stream of hot exhaust over the concrete loading dock.
I kept my boots planted in the dirt, refusing to back down.
Sweat prickled at my hairline. I stared at the man standing beside the rental car, waiting for the reality of the situation to finally break through his PR-trained facade.
Hayes finally took a step forward. His shoes crunched over the rutted stones, picking up a thick coat of dry dust. He stopped again, his gaze dropping from my face to the faded denim covering my torso.
His breathing turned frantic and shallow under the designer jacket.
He looked at the round swell of my stomach as if a bomb had just been dropped at his feet.
The silence between us dragged on in the oppressive summer heat. A bead of sweat slid down the back of my neck, soaking into the damp collar of my shirt. Behind me, the snap of Declan testing the cargo straps inside the refrigerated van echoed off the shed.
Hayes didn’t notice the noise. He just stared at my stomach, suddenly confronted with exactly how much time had passed since Los Angeles.
“Sutton… my god, you’re pregnant.” His voice cracked, completely losing the confident cadence he used for the cameras.
He took another hesitant step into the dirt. “Why didn’t you tell me? We need to go somewhere private and talk about this right now.”
Private. The demand lingered in the stagnant air, mingling with the acrid scent of exhaust fumes.
He didn’t want to apologize in the dirt, nor did he want to acknowledge the life I had built here.
He wanted to usher the messy complication out of the sunlight and hide it behind closed doors before anyone could see the flaw in his perfect public image.
The realization stung, a cold, final confirmation of what I already knew. The man standing in the gravel was just a handler trying to contain a leak.
He took a sudden stride across the remaining distance, reaching out to grab my arm. His silver cufflink caught the harsh sun, flashing a brilliant reflection across the yard. The sudden movement broke the standoff.
I stepped backward, dragging my boots through the grit.
I pulled the clipboard up from my hip, pressing the rough, splintered edge flush against my ribs.
I crossed my arms tightly over the wood, guarding my baby.
The shipping manifests crinkled beneath my tight grip.
He grasped nothing but empty space, his hand narrowly missing my sleeve.
“Do not touch me, Hayes.” My voice cut sharply through the rumble of the idling engine. “And do not come onto Ruby’s property and try to order me into a corner like I’m one of your publicists.”
His hand lingered in the empty space before he let it drop to his side.
Panic broke through his practiced composure, his stance suddenly tight with the urgency of a man watching his perfectly curated world unravel.
He turned his head, pointing frantically toward the SUV parked in the driveway.
The dark, tinted vehicle looked like a suffocating, isolated box designed to hide him from the world.
“Please, Sutton, just get in the car so we can go to a hotel. You shouldn’t be out here working in this heat in your condition.”
I stared at the black SUV. He was standing on the farm I helped run, looking at the child I was carrying, and his first instinct was to hide us both away.
The arrogance of the command felt like a slap.
Nothing had changed since Los Angeles. He was still the exact same man who would rather hide me in the dark than risk a single bad headline.
I tightened my grip on the wood, refusing to step toward his vehicle.
The standoff in the dirt broke when a flash of safety orange moved at the edge of my vision.
The wholesale delivery driver stepped down from the concrete dock, his work boots crunching against the gravel.
He walked straight toward me, holding out his manifest for me to sign.
I looked away from Hayes, shifting my focus to the man in the vest. The suffocating weight of the Los Angeles machine faded the moment I turned my attention to the practical demands of the farm.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the driver said. He ignored the man frozen by the luxury car. “I just need your signature on the final count before I pull out.”
I took his pen. I secured my own board against my hip and pressed the tip to the top sheet of his manifest. The ink glided across the page, my grip completely steady.
I kept my handwriting crisp and legible, refusing to let his presence shake my focus.
While Hayes stammered in the mud, I managed a commercial shipment.
I peeled the bottom copy away from the stack. I handed the pen and the yellow sheet back to the driver.
“Here is the signed manifest,” I said, keeping my tone crisp and professional. “Have a safe drive back to the city.”
The driver nodded and tucked the paper into his pocket.
He turned toward the van and climbed into the driver’s seat.
The metal door of the cab slammed shut. The hydraulic brakes groaned in the sweltering heat, followed by the sudden rev of the diesel engine as the driver shifted into gear.
The van rumbled out toward the highway, its loud mechanical noise washing over the yard.
The second the truck cleared the driveway, Hayes crossed the newly emptied yard, his shoulders tight with desperation. His control completely fractured. He looked at the dust coating his shoes, then back up at my face.
“Sutton, please!” Hayes begged, holding his hands out. “Just give me five minutes to explain what happened!”
I did not flinch, and I did not yield. In the California mansion, I would have dropped everything to soothe his bruised ego and manage his schedule. Out here, he was just a trespasser interrupting my workday. I stared at his shirt and jacket. He had absolutely no authority out here.
“I am on the clock, Hayes,” I said. “Your Hollywood apologies are worthless to me in the real world. You had four months to explain. Now get off this farm.”
I did not wait for his response. I turned sharply, the grit crunching beneath my boots. I walked straight toward the loading dock, ignoring the man standing in the dirt behind me. I climbed the concrete stairs one by one. The cool, damp air of the shed hit my face as I crossed the threshold.
I walked to my workstation and grabbed my shears, refusing to look back to see if his car was still in the driveway.