Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
MILLER
Liberating the hay from the farm seems to have gone well. Frankie was in a great mood all the way home. She seemed more relaxed, happier. Maybe even more at ease with me.
And now as we move the bales from the truck to the barn, she laughs at how much she’s struggling.
“I’m so pathetic.” She giggles as I pass her in the opposite direction, heading back to the truck to grab another one. “I could never have done this on my own. The donkeys would have gone hungry while I waited for the delivery.”
“You’d have found a way.” And it’s true. She seems nothing if not resourceful.
She grunts as I return with another and re-enter the barn to find her struggling to shove her bale on top of the stack.
“Just start a new pile,” I advise.
But no, with the stubbornness of a mule, she persists in trying to get it up there, jumping to give it repeated shoves.
She probably can’t see how precarious it is from her angle, and that it could easily fall on her head.
Fuck. It’s teetering now.
“Move!” I shout.
But she just turns her attention to me, puzzled. “What?”
I drop my bale and hustle to push her aside.
But her foot catches on the bale behind her and she stumbles backward, taking me with her.
She lands on her back on the hay with me on top of her, right as the bale she was trying to stack falls with a heavy whoosh and lands so close behind me that it brushes my feet.
“Whoa,” she says, her bright blue eyes locking with mine.
I swear to God I can feel her heart beating against mine. Or is that just mine thumping against my own ribs?
Her expression is full of surprise, her eyes roving my face, mine absorbing the rosy glow in her cheeks that extends down the fair skin of her neck, the fullness of her lips, the bits of hay that now litter her dark hair.
“Sorry,” I say. “That bale was about to knock you out.”
She says nothing as her chest rises and falls with deep, shocked breaths. Every rise pressing it into mine.
Fuck. What is this? This energy between us right now? This surging sensation inside my ribcage? Is it just adrenaline from the surprise of me grabbing her and us falling to the ground? Or is it something that started the moment we collided in her kitchen just after I showed up?
Whatever it is, it’s causing a stirring in my pants that she’s going to feel any second if I don’t move.
“Sorry.” I put a hand on either side of her gorgeous face and push myself up and off her.
The moment I’m upright I turn away, trying to gather myself.
“Yeah,” she says, sounding like she’s getting to her feet behind me. “I mean, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I grab the fallen bale and try to redirect the energy inside me that’s rushing to all the inappropriate parts of my body into swinging it back to the top of the pile.
“Everything okay?” I ask. “I mean, I didn’t hurt you when I knocked you over or anything?” It seems necessary to clarify what I’m asking about, in case she thinks I’m referring to whatever that weird moment was between us just now that’s made my body do whatever the hell it’s doing.
“No, no. I’m fine. And it was my fault. I was the idiot who stepped back and hit the hay.” She lets out a small, nervous laugh. “So to speak.”
“Ha, yes.” Christ, this is all super fucking uncomfortable now.
I study her from the corner of my eye as she dusts herself off and runs her fingers through her ponytail, teasing out bits of hay.
Shifting my hips as subtly as I can, I try to make what’s going on inside my pants more comfortable and less obvious. “I’ll, er, finish off unloading the truck.”
“Yes. All right.” She half turns on the spot as if unsure what to do or where to go. “I’ll leave that to you. Since you’re better at it than me.”
“Not better,” I say. “Just taller.”
“Tall is helpful.” Her gaze is straight ahead as she walks past me. “And you can come use the shower whenever you’re ready.”
“Great, thanks.” I’d thought that would be fine. But now it feels like it’s going to be the most awkward thing imaginable.
But the only alternative is the cold tap I fixed earlier in the donkey barn. Perhaps I should just stick myself under that and be done with it.
And, as my eyes refuse to tear themselves away from the sight of Frankie walking toward the house, a blast of icy water seems like just what I need.
It’s ridiculous to feel like this. Ridiculous.
Why the hell can’t I bring myself to knock on the front door?
I just need to go in there, use the shower, and leave.
It’s not a big deal.
Or even a medium deal.
Or any kind of a deal at all.
Christ, I just need to get this over with so I can get back to the loft and handle all the texts and emails that have been piling up all day.
Taking a deep breath, I tuck the pile of clean clothes tighter under my left arm and pull my right hand from my jacket pocket. Just as I’m raising a fist to knock, the door swings open.
I take a startled step back.
“Thought I saw you walking over,” Frankie says.
“Yes.” In the absence of anything better to do with my hand that was about to knock on the door and is still hanging in the air, I shove it back into my jacket pocket.
Fuck me, she’s striking. The way her lips curl into that half-smile, the glint in her eyes that leaves me wondering what she might say next, the way her sweater falls over her breasts and her jeans emphasize her hips and thighs.
“The shower,” I finally manage.
Christ, what was that my mom always said about me being able to talk my way into or out of anything? There’s something about this woman that makes me lose the power of speech entirely.
Maybe it’s because I hate that I’m lying to her.
I thought this would be easy.
But apparently I’m a better person than I thought I was.
Frankie steps aside to let me in. “Of course.”
The cat instantly jumps from the seat of a kitchen chair and heads right for my legs.
This time I don’t try to get away. My pants already have enough donkey and hay detritus on them that some cat hair won’t make much difference.
Also, it’s weirdly nice to know that she hates almost everyone but likes me.
“If I live to be two hundred and fifty, I’ll never understand Thelma,” Frankie says as she heads toward the stove where she stirs something delicious-smelling that’s bubbling in a large pot.
“You mean you can’t understand any creature liking me?” I ask.
She doesn’t turn around, but her shoulders hitch a little higher.
Okay, that did sound flirtatious. But that’s just the way I always talk. That’s what Mom’s always referred to as my “social skills.” And it’s what makes me excellent at my job.
“I just meant that Thelma is a complex animal,” Frankie says.
“Aren’t all females?” Jesus fucking Christ, Miller. Shut the fucking fuck up, get in the fucking shower, then get the fuck out of here.
“Aren’t all people,” she says.
“I like to think I’m pretty simple.” I shift the pile of clothes under my arm and one of the new pairs of boxers I picked up from the Tractor Trunk falls out and lands on top of Thelma, her face peeking out from under them like she’s wearing a cape.
She doesn’t flinch. But as I reach down to grab them before Frankie can see them, Thelma takes off across the room. She’s faster than she looks. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Frankie glances back at me over her shoulder.
“Nothing, it’s fine.” I stride around the table to try to retrieve my underwear. “I just dropped…something. And Thelma has it.”
“Well, whatever it is, you’re getting that back from her yourself. I’d quite like to retain all my fingers.”
She turns back to the pot and Thelma runs under the table. I place the rest of my clothes on top of it and move a chair aside so I can crawl underneath.
“Remember how much you like me, Thelma?” I ask as I reach for the boxers that are still draped over her back.
The very tips of my fingers brush against the fabric, right as she twists to grab it in her mouth and bolts.
“For fuck’s sake.” I back out from under the table. “Ow. Fuck.” But apparently not far enough before I stand up.
Rubbing the top of my head, I scan the room and locate Thelma. “Jesus.”
“Concussion?” Frankie asks with a chuckle.
“Just wounded pride.” I wince and point to the cat, who’s made it to the top of the kitchen wall cabinets at lightning speed and is dangling my underwear over the edge right next to the stove. “She’s unexpectedly agile.”
The instant Frankie’s eyes land on Thelma, a laugh bursts from her. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut and slams a hand over her mouth, curving in on herself as if trying to hold in hysterics.
“Seriously?” she says when she’s got a grip. “Tractors?”
She points at the boxers, which are indeed black with little orange and green tractors all over them.
“There wasn’t a whole lot of choice.” I reach up and attempt to tug the garment out of Thelma’s mouth. “It was tractors, roosters, chain saws or pitchforks.”
“So you went for tractors?” she says with a sigh-laugh.
“Actually, I got all four.” Thelma might be old but her jaws have the locking power of an industrial vise. “Because, you know, man cannot live by one pair of underwear alone.”
Since the cat’s refusing to let go, I try to get my hand under her to pull her down. But she just creeps farther back to where I can’t reach her without finding something to stand on.
“I had no idea she still had it in her to get up there,” Frankie says through yet more giggles.
“What’s her favorite treat?”
“Tractor underwear, apparently.” She’s thoroughly amused by her own joke.
“Hilarious. Seriously, what might tempt her to drop them?”
“Salmon,” Frankie says. “There’s some in the fridge, but you’ll have to give it to her. If she took it from me she’d only immediately punish me by clawing the hand that fed her.”
“Great.” I pull the fridge door open and the handle almost comes off in my grip. When was the last time anyone fixed anything around here?