CHAPTER 40
Finn
I look at my bed and curse myself. It’s covered in clothes I’ve flung around in my desperate attempt to try on everything in my closet.
And I feel bad about it, since Emma cleaned in here today for the first time.
I dragged my ass home after back-to-back technical meetings and a couple of hours at the barn to find everything absolutely spotless.
Fresh linens. Dusted blinds. An organized walk-in closet. Sparkling marble and glass and chrome.
It smelled fresh and new.
And I’ve already trashed the place.
Because I just can’t figure out what to wear to a shit-kicker summer carnival that I’ve been going to since I was a toddler. Normally, I wear jeans, a T-shirt, and a cowboy hat like any self-respecting Nevada rancher, without even thinking about it.
But this year, I just can’t seem to do it.
“You’re a girl before her junior prom,” I say out loud, shaking my head at how lame I’ve been acting all day.
Two-headed steer?
Singing chicken?
Seriously, Finlay?
“Get a grip, you complete wanker,” I mumble to myself.
In truth, it doesn’t matter what I wear. Emma’s seen me in everything. Anyway, why would I even care if she likes what I’m wearing? She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my housekeeper.
And more than that, she’s my deliriously happy housekeeper! She loves her job. She was ecstatic to get her first paycheck this morning! Leave the girl alone. Don’t push. Give her space. No making anything happen, remember? No forcing or figuring out or setting up.
I sort through the pile of shirts on my comforter for the hundredth time.
Hold up.
Emma hasn’t seen me in everything, because she hasn’t seen me dressed well. Maybe I should wear that bespoke suit Evander forced me to have made on Savile Row the last time we were in London. She might like that. She might think I’m handsome in a suit.
“What the absolute corn-cobbing fuck is wrong with you, MacLaine?”
I can’t wear a seven-thousand-dollar suit to a fair! Especially one that may or may not have a singing chicken but will almost certainly be held in a cow pasture.
“This isn’t a date, dipshit,” I mutter to myself, then proceed to answer myself. “And why is that? I’ll tell you why. Because you somehow decided that it would be better if things progressed on their own. And how’s that working out for you, chucklefuck?”
I give up on the shirt selection and go to my dresser to pick out some socks. I should be able to handle socks. Done! And now boxer briefs. Nailed it! Jeans. Whatever, she doesn’t even know I’m alive.
And now, here I am, not a well-dressed man, but a half-dressed man. “La dee fuckin’ da!”
I stand in the middle of my bedroom, shirtless. Lost.
The way we attacked each other in the barn… it’s like it never even happened. We’re walking on eggshells around one another now. She’s polite and always busy. Sweet, loving, and giggly with Jasmine and then one cool customer as soon as I walk in the room.
This morning was the most genuine emotion I’ve seen from Emma in weeks—and it had nothing to do with me. It was about the check.
Of course it was! Emma’s here for the paycheck. She told me that! Said it right to my face after I jumped away from her like she had leprosy.
She had to make a choice, and she chose the job.
And that’s on me.
I can’t pick a shirt because I’ve lost my mojo. Or maybe I’m shy. No, that’s bullshit. I’ve never been shy around the female race. I dated the entire cheerleading squad in high school, well, except for Cal’s girlfriend.
I’m confident. Not stupid.
Okay, so maybe it’s not shyness. Maybe I’m just rusty. Most definitely out of practice. I’ve bedded women since Amy, but I sure as hell haven’t wooed any.
Wooed? Is that even a word? I want to get to know Emma. I want to start over. So maybe that’s considered wooing.
All I know is that Emma makes me want to be a wooer. Old-fashioned. Chivalrous. Gentlemanly. Because that’s what Emma deserves.
And if I ever see that she might be open to wooing…holy shit, it’s going down.
But Emma still works for me. That hasn’t changed. She cleans my house and cooks my meals and helps care for my daughter. And wooing my employee is unethical.
I want her so bad that I’m losing my mind. I want her so bad that this uptight do-gooder is about to say fuck it and go back to my standard operating procedure.
Make it happen.
Find a way.
So I’ll fire her. Tonight. At the fair. I’ll buy her a deep-fried Snickers and then fire her ass, bring her home, and woo her until she can’t remember her own name.
“Oh, fuck, I got it bad.”
“Dad?”
I wheel around to see Jasmine in my doorway.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Oh, just muttering to myself.”
“Because you’re lonely?”
“I’m what now? No, honey. Of course not. I’m just trying to figure out what shirt to wear.”
“Oh.” Jasmine steps inside. She’s dressed in bedazzled jeans and the new pink boots
Special K got her when he was on a bull riding trip to Idaho a couple months back.
I recognize the shirt as Jasmine’s half of a matching set Aunt Phyllis made for us last Christmas, though my daughter’s version has more embroidery and rhinestones than mine.
Her pink cowboy hat was a gift from Declan.
The silver-studded belt is from Evander.
The turquoise bracelet is from Cal and Victoria.
It takes a village to raise a child, and in this case, it takes a village to dress her, too.
I could’ve used a village myself this evening.
“Should I wear my matching shirt, too?”
Jasmine’s eyes go big. “Please, no. I’m not five anymore, and I don’t want to go out in public matching my dad. Wear something normal.”
I eye my bed. Jasmine marches over and selects a red and light blue plaid button-down and hands it to me.
“This one looks good on you, and it sort of matches what Emma’s wearing.” The kid’s got a twinkle in her eye tonight. “You should really match her, not me.”
She rises up on the balls of her feet and loops her thumbs in her belt. “Emma doesn’t have a hat, but I told her they sell hats at the fair. Do you think we could get her a hat? Like a present for being so nice and wonderful?”
“We can do that. Sure. Let me get dressed and I’ll be right down.”
Jasmine spins on her boot heel and leaves.
I get dressed in a hurry and run a comb through my hair.
I really needed to shave again this evening, but I didn’t have time, so stubble it is.
I head downstairs, wondering if Emma really is wearing a shirt to match mine.
I don’t have long to wait before I get my answer.
She’s standing with Jasmine at the bottom of the stairs.
I stop in my tracks.
Emma is in a simple button-front cotton sundress that ends at mid-thigh, showing off her slim, silky legs.
The sleeves are tiny useless things that fall a little off her lovely shoulders, exposing her trim but strong arms. Her hair is down.
She’s wearing small silver earrings and what look suspiciously like Summer’s red leather cowboy boots.
If don’t pick up my tongue, I will trip over it and do a header down the stairs.
I want to unbutton her. All the way. With my teeth. My lips. I want to slip my hand over her firm thighs and slide it up between her legs. That dress is a tease. A dare. And my dick has just decided to accept the challenge.
“We’re going to be late, Dad.”
I take a deep, calming breath and drag my eyes from the tour they were taking of Emma’s legs. But then I see her face and I can’t help but smile. She smiles back. She’s a beautiful sight. That smile is spectacular.
I’ve missed it something fierce. I’ve missed her.
Emma’s put on makeup tonight. Not a lot, but it’s noticeable. I love her fresh face, but whatever she’s done tonight makes her eyes luminous, fringed with long black eyelashes.
“You are… you look…”
Jasmine’s giggle snaps me out of it. “See? You match!”
Emma’s cheeks blush, and she stares at her boots.
I head down the stairs. “Both of you are beautiful. Two lovely ladies going to the fair! What a lucky man I am.” I’m about to pat myself on the back for the brilliant save when I see Jasmine’s face. She looks horrified that she’s stuck with the world’s most uncool father.
“Hurry or they’ll run out of deep-fried Snickers.” She grabs my hand and yanks me to the door. I grab my hat from the foyer table on the way out.
“It doesn’t open for another forty minutes, Jasmine. They can’t run out before they even start selling them.”
Jasmine moans as if she’s in physical agony.
Emma laughs, and we lock eyes for a moment. I look down at her and feel a stab of recognition.
Hold up.
Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? Is Emma telling me with her eyes that she’s had enough space? That wooing might not be completely off the table?
I break out in a grin.
I must have picked the right shirt.