Sabrina
That night, I sleep so badly that it barely qualifies as sleep. Every unfamiliar sound pulls me awake. Pipes shift in the walls. Wind brushes the windows. Floorboards creak downstairs. Mostly, though, I lie in the dark thinking about the morning train.
I could pack my things, ask Damian to drive me into town, and leave before this arrangement gets any worse. The thought is extremely tempting around two in the morning, when I’m angry, exhausted, and painfully aware that I crossed half the country for a man who’s irritated by my existence.
But going home wouldn’t solve anything. There’s no job or apartment waiting for me, and I didn’t come here expecting the first day to be easy. More importantly, I’m not someone who quits the moment something becomes uncomfortable.
I came for thirty days. And Damian Nash is getting more than one.
Before sunrise, heavy footsteps cross the hallway and descend the stairs. The back door closes a few moments later. I wait until the house goes quiet, then get dressed and head outside.
The morning air is already warm. I follow the scrape of metal against wood and find Damian inside the barn, working a pitchfork through dirty bedding. His hat is pushed back, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the muscles beneath his shirt shift with every movement.
He glances over. “You lost?”
The tension from last night remains between us, nearly as unpleasant as the smell in the barn. I resist matching his tone. “Is there something I can help with?”
His eyebrows rise. “You really offering?”
“Yes.”
He nods toward another pitchfork. “Muck out the next stall. Dirty bedding goes in the wheelbarrow.”
It takes less than five minutes to realize the job is much harder than Damian makes it look. The fork is heavy, the bedding fights every attempt to lift it, and sweat gathers at the back of my neck before I’ve filled half the wheelbarrow.
Damian finishes his stall while I’m still struggling through mine. I can feel him watching me, but I refuse to slow down.
When the wheelbarrow is finally full, I grab the handles.
“Leave it,” he says.
“I can manage,” I insist.
“You’re going to dump it.”
“I’m not.”
One wheel catches on the uneven floor, and the load tilts. I wrench it straight before anything spills. Damian lets out a low sound behind me.
I send a look over my shoulder. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.” He comes closer and reaches for one of the handles. “Move.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re killing yourself trying to prove something. Take a break.”
“I’ll decide when I need a break.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re going to be too sore to move tomorrow.”
“That’s my problem.”
“Not if I have to listen to you complain about it.”
“I don’t complain.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I release the wheelbarrow before I’m tempted to shove it into him. Damian takes it from me without another word and wheels it out of the barn. By the time he comes back with it empty, I’ve managed to cool off.
“Honestly, I don’t know why the agency thought we’d be compatible in the first place,” I say.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Damian says with a snort.
“What did they even tell you about me?”
He pauses. “You’re twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Close enough.”
“I guess.”
“You’re from Ohio.”
“Pennsylvania.”
His eyes narrow. “They said Ohio.”
“I lived there for two years. I grew up in Pennsylvania.”
He scratches his jaw. “Fine. You’re twenty-nine, grew up in Pennsylvania, and like books.”
“I also worked at an insurance company.”
“Office work.”
“Yes.”
He glances around the barn. “Yeah, I don’t know what the agency was thinking. They sent me a woman who likes offices and books to shovel shit on a ranch.”
“I didn’t come here to shovel anything. You put me to work.”
“You volunteered.”
“I’m trying to help.” I drive the fork into the bedding. “Why did you apply?”
“I told you. I needed a change.”
“That isn’t a reason to marry a stranger.”
His expression hardens, but after a moment he leans against the stall wall. “My father died six years ago. My mother moved into town. My sister’s married with two kids, and my brother works oil fields down south. That leaves me here.”
“Alone.”
“I’m not scared of being alone.”
The speed of his answer suggests otherwise.
He drags off his hat and wipes his forehead. “I was tired of the house being empty. Tired of eating over the sink every night. Everyone I know is married, divorced, or related to me. The women around here know what I’m like and have the sense to stay away.”
“That’s surprisingly self-aware.”
“Don’t sound so impressed.”
“I’m trying not to.”
He puts his hat back on. “Your turn.”
I focus on spreading clean bedding. “My parents died in a car accident when I was nineteen. I moved in with my aunt, worked, saved, and left as soon as I could.”
Damian goes still. “Nineteen’s too young to lose your parents.”
I keep my eyes on the stall instead of looking at him. “I went to school for a while, then dropped out when tuition got too expensive. Eventually I ended up in Ohio.”
“What happened there?”
“The company closed our branch. Then my boyfriend decided our relationship was too much effort once I didn’t have a steady paycheck, and the lease was in his name.”
Damian’s face darkens. “He threw you out?”
“He gave me a week to find a new place.”
“Asshole.”
“He’d already found someone else.”
“That makes him a bigger asshole.”
“Everything just kept snowballing,” I continue. “I couldn’t find steady work, I didn’t know anyone, and every plan I made seemed to fall apart. Then I saw the agency advertisement.”
“And decided marrying a stranger in Texas was your best option.”
“I decided it was an option.”
He watches me for a long beat, his usual smugness nowhere to be found. Finally, he says, “Sorry you went through all that.”
We finish the stalls without another argument. By the time Damian leans his pitchfork against the wall, my arms ache and my clothes are coated in dust.
“Food,” he says. “Before you fall over.”
“I’m not falling over.”
“You’re swaying.”
“I’m standing.”
“Badly.”
I wipe my forehead. “We should probably avoid cooking anything complicated.”
His mouth pulls to one side. “Agreed. I don’t think it’s safe for us to be in the kitchen together.”
“I could make sandwiches,” I offer.
“Thought you weren’t here to wait on me hand and foot.”
“I offered to make lunch,” I point out. “That isn’t the same thing.”
“Just reminding you what you said.”
“I don’t need reminding.”
“Fine. I’ll make the damn sandwiches.”
He walks out of the barn before I can answer. I stand there with aching arms and dirt coating my clothes, wondering how a conversation that almost felt productive managed to leave us exactly where we started—at odds.
Apparently, that’s the one thing Damian and I are good at.
The next several days settle into an exhausting routine. I wake early, find Damian somewhere outside, and help with whatever needs doing. I clean stalls, carry feed, collect eggs, scrub buckets, and spend an afternoon helping repair a fence while Damian insists I’m holding the wire wrong.
By night, every muscle aches.
The tension between us doesn’t improve. We argue about coffee, towels, tools, and why the back door should simply be repaired instead of lifted every time it’s locked. Damian says I’m stubborn. I tell him he treats every suggestion like an insult.
None of it stops me from noticing him.
Working beside him only makes that worse. His shirts cling to his back in the heat. His forearms flex when he handles tools. He pushes his hat up with one finger when he’s thinking, and every arrogant half-smile makes my body react before my judgment can intervene.
I sleep poorly every night.
On the fifth evening, Damian pulls a deck of cards from a kitchen drawer. We sit across from each other beneath the lamplight and speak only about the game.
“You’re cheating,” he says after I win the third hand.
“I’m better than you.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“Why?”
“It just…isn’t,” he huffs.
I shake my head and deal again. We play in silence until he sets down a card and says, “Maybe the agency screwed up. Maybe we were supposed to be paired with other people.”
“It’s possible.”
He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “What did you tell them you wanted?”
“What?”
“In a husband.”
The question catches me off guard. I set my cards down. “Someone I can trust. Someone who keeps his word and treats me like we’re on the same side. I want a husband who’s also my best friend, not just a man who lives in the same house.”
Damian watches me, saying nothing.
“I want someone dependable,” I continue. “Someone who wants a family and understands that building a life takes effort from both people.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, a little romance would be nice.”
His brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“You don’t know what romance means?”
“I know the word. Jesus. Give me examples.”
“Opening doors. Making me coffee sometimes. Bringing home flowers because he thought of me.”
“That stuff matters?”
“Sure. It’s nice.”
“What else?”
“Helping with something heavy instead of standing there commenting on what I packed.”
His gaze shifts away. “You got the bags into the truck.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s nice when a man wants to make things easier for you.”
He taps his cards against the table. “Sounds like a double standard.”
“How?”
“Why’s the man doing all the romancing? What kind of sweet shit does he get?”
I almost smile. “Fair enough. What do you want a wife to do for you?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
“Well?” I ask.
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve clearly given marriage a lot of thought.”
“Shut up.”
I wait while he studies the cards.
“A shoulder rub now and then,” he says finally.
“Okay. What else?”
“Maybe tell me I look nice once in a while.”
A laugh slips out of me.
His eyes narrow. “What’s funny?”
“Damian, you don’t need your ego stroked.”
“Everybody likes compliments.”
I snort. “You already know you’re attractive.”
I realize what I’ve said a second too late. Suddenly the room feels hot. Damian’s gaze holds mine across the table, full of cocky amusement.
“You think I’m attractive?” he asks.
I reach for my cards. “I said you know you are.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“You’re blatantly hot,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It isn’t exactly a secret.”
Silence stretches between us. When I force myself to look up, Damian is watching my mouth.
Heat climbs my neck. “Can we put on some music or something?”
He holds my gaze another second, then pushes back from the table. “Yeah.”
As he crosses to his record collection, I gather the cards with unsteady hands and try to convince myself that what just happened doesn’t mean a damn thing.