Keira
Saint fell asleep first while I lay there, wide awake and poker straight, afraid if I moved that I’d brush against him.
The room rests in half-darkness, tranquil beneath the steady cadence of his breathing beside me.
Even though the bed is warm and comfy, I refuse to be next to him when his eyes open.
I ease out from under the duvet and tiptoe away, making a beeline for the bathroom.
At the sink, I splash warm water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror, not pleased with my tangled hair and eye bags.
There’s not much sitting on the counter, other than a spray deodorant and toothpaste. So I slosh water and paste around my mouth, rake my fingers through the knots and glare at the plastic bag sitting where I’d left it last night.
My only options are wearing his clothes that drown my petite frame or stepping into the borrowed breeches of his pretty girlfriend.
After an eyeroll, a loud sigh and a minty spit in the basin, I pull them on despite myself. They fit well and that pisses me off.
When I’m finished hating the super-soft sweatshirt, that’s actually a nice shade of cornflower blue, I head for the kitchen and switch on a lamp as I pass the sitting room.
There’s a trace of cigarette smoke and coffee in the air, and the first aid kit sits on the table where she’d left it.
I fill the kettle, dip a teaspoon into the coffee jar, and grab the milk from the fridge. The water has just started to boil when footsteps thud behind me.
“Fuck, there ya are.”
Saint’s moving fast as he says it, halfway dressed in a white vest that hugs his chest, boxers tight to his hips, hair a mess from sleep.
He stops short in the middle of the kitchen, eyes flicking over me before he drags a hand down his face. “Thought you’d done a runner again.”
“I wish,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “Because instant coffee tastes like shit.”
His mouth tugs into a faint smirk. “Not good enough for the Paris princess, huh?”
I glare at him. “I’m sorry my standards offend you.”
“I ain’t that easily offended,” he says, crossing the kitchen to the counter where I’m standing. “The coffee, on the other hand, might tell ya to go fuck yourself and drink water.”
He reaches for a mug and makes himself a coffee, stopping close enough that I’m aware of the heat coming off him, the same restless awareness that made it hard to fall asleep and harder still to get out of bed.
He looks at the clothes I’m wearing and nods.
“Congratulations,” he says. “I see you finally did what you’re told.”
“No.” I shift my weight back a fraction. “I decided this outfit was better than yours.”
“Like I said, Harrington,” he replies. “You did what ya were told.”
He takes a drink, watching me over the rim of the mug with intense dark eyes.
“Just because I’m wearing her clothes doesn’t mean you get to look at me like that,” I say. “After last night, you’re the one who needs to be cuffed.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “Because my foot brushed your leg?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I let out a fake sigh. “For a guy who set the rules, you got pretty comfortable in your sleep.”
His breath leaves him slow through his nose.
“I didn’t touch ya.”
“Yeah, you did,” I say. “And if you try to put your arm around me like that again, I’ll shove a pillow over your face.”
His jaw muscles clench for a second, then release.
“Read into accidents, Harrington,” he says quietly, “and you’ll embarrass yourself.”
He stays where he is, coffee in hand, the fresh morning haze caressing his bare arms and the ink on his skin.
My chest tightens, and I look away first. He turns then and heads for the bathroom.
“Finish your coffee. You’re with me all day. There’s a pair of work boots for ya on the porch. We head out in ten minutes.”
“I didn’t sign up for yard labor.”
“This isn’t a holiday camp,” he says, not looking back. “You stay in my cabin, you work for your lodgings.”
“And what about the asshole host?” I call after him. “Is suffering him a bonus?”
He doesn’t answer. The click of the bathroom door closing fills the silence.
I blow out a breath and stand there, waiting for something else to happen.
Nothing does.
I tell myself I’m angry because he dismissed me, gave orders, and locked me inside.
With that list, I have ample reason to lash coffee onto his face. Instead, I take another sip, then pour the rest down the sink and head back to his bedroom.
Grabbing a pair of his socks from the drawer, I sit on the edge of the bed and pull them on. I don’t enjoy wearing pieces of him, and it’s worrying how my body doesn’t seem to care that they’re his.
The sound of running water fills the room, and my thoughts stray where they shouldn’t.
I twist and drive my fist into the pillow, breath rough in my chest, then straighten, snatch a baseball cap from the dresser, and head for the front door.
Of course it doesn’t open.
So, I give it a kick, more out of frustration than brute force, turn away, and plant myself by the window, arms folded tight across my chest.
That’s when I notice movement outside. A man passes the edge of the porch wearing a long coat, then stops by the fence. He lights a cigarette and waits there, gaze fixed on the cabin.
Eventually the bathroom door opens behind me, and Saint comes back out, towel hung around his neck as he rough-dries his hair, jeans already pulled on.
“There’s a guy staring at the cabin,” I say. “Who is he?”
Saint follows my line of sight and nods. “Shay.”
“That’s it?” I glance back at the window. “Just Shay?”
“He runs the yard when I’m not about.”
“And why’s he watching this place?”
“I told him to.”
Outside, Shay taps ash from his cigarette and leans back against the fence post, his attention drifting to the far-off fields. I step away from the window, and Saint notices my retreat.
“Ya feel that?” he asks.
“Feel what?”
“His eyes,” he says. “That man misses nothing. Try something clever and things get complicated fast.”
He disappears into his bedroom and comes back a few minutes later dressed, cap pulled low, dark green shirt buttoned to his throat.
“Let’s go,” he says. “Don’t make today harder than it needs to be.”
At the door, he grabs his coat, slips the key into the lock, and turns it before pulling the door open to the bite of cold air.
On the porch, I tug on a pair of work boots while Saint does the same. He’s already walking off by the time I straighten, the icy wind biting at my cheeks as I follow.
Shay falls into step beside him without a word. They speak low as they walk ahead, their conversation hushed. Saint glances back to check I’m still following.
And I am because there’s nothing else I can do to change it.
He sets the pace and I’m forced to keep it.
The two men lead me along the treelined path, past the barns, and into the stable block, the smell of hay and horse a reminder of home.
“You know how to skip out a box?” he asks.
I nod.
He hands me a pitchfork, tips his chin toward a wheelbarrow, and says, “Get started.”
Then he turns back to Shay and continues his conversation.
I pick the closest stable, slide open the gate, and get to work, raking the fork through the bedding.
Manual yard work is straightforward enough, but as time passes, my attention keeps drifting.
From where I’m standing, I can see Saint and Shay talking in low voices, their heads angled toward each other. Saint looks irritated as he speaks while Shay listens, his expression giving nothing away.
Rafe joins them, all restless energy and hand gestures. His voice lifts just long enough for my father’s name to carry across the barn before it drops again.
I pause with the pitchfork stabbed into sodden bedding and tell myself I’m staring because I don’t trust them.
However, that’s just an excuse.
The fact that Saint hasn’t looked at me since we stepped into the yard eats away at me more than it should.
I drag the fork through the bedding as if it’s done something wrong and stop, exhaling through my nose.
This funk I’m in is stupid.
It’s what happens when a guy plays at being decent to make you forget what he actually is.
He’s waiting for this to be over. For me to be gone.
The woman with the black ponytail appears in my line of sight and blocks my view of him, her body planted at the opening.
“You seem very interested in their conversation, little Miss Harrington.”
I straighten and tighten my grip on the handle.
“What’s it to you?” I say, acting unbothered. “I don’t owe anyone anything.”
Her mouth curves into a thin smile.
“Nah, ya don’t owe us shit,” she says. “But that curiosity of yours could get people around here in trouble.”
“Kidnapping women tends to do that,” I reply.
She laughs and glances across at Saint. “Or maybe you’re watchin’ because ya can’t keep your eyes off him.”
“Oh, please,” I scoff. “You can keep him.”
Her gaze cuts back to me. “Has he kissed ya?”
“What? No. Of course he hasn’t.” I stab the bedding a few times. “Why the hell would you ask that?”
“I’m a woman, Harrington,” she says. “I can tell when a girl’s lookin’ where she shouldn’t.”
She shifts back a bit as if she’s done talking, and Saint comes back into view across the yard.
“And Tallon blood doesn’t mix with Harrington blood,” she adds. “My brother would never choose a Harrington over us.”
I swallow hard and force myself to look away. They’re siblings.
“I’m not asking him to pick anyone. All I want is to go home to my family.”
When Sera steps back, I risk a quick glance at Saint and curse myself for the wild pulse in my throat when I find him staring at me.