Chapter Eight
SLOANE
SHIT.
SHIT.
Shit.
The walls of my room feel like they are closing in on me as I pace my floor, my palm on my forehead. I’ve looked at the pictures in Mr. Harlow’s office hundreds of times when I’m dusting, and even thought those pictures are nearly ten years old, he doesn’t look like the Mason in those pictures.
It must be the beard. How could I have not seen it?
Shit.
Well, that explains all the muscle, he’s Special Forces.
Mr. Harlow likes to brag about him being some kind of military badass, but he jokingly tells me not to let Mason know he thinks so.
He’s proud of all his children but he says telling them would only ‘blow up their egos’ and that would be another thing he would have to deal with.
My knowledge of military rankings is next to nil, so I usually just smile and nod to be polite.
Tapping my fingers to my forehead as I pace in front of my bedroom window, I close my eyes and groan. This is just my luck. I pause my pacing and look out the window to the barn across the backyard.
The one time I give in and let myself enjoy life for a night, it’s with someone that I should have avoided.
When Mr. Harlow hired me, he asked me not to say anything about my ‘situation’ to his kids, he specifically told me to keep it between him and me. If I have Mason’s attention, will he ask questions? If he finds out the truth, will he think I am a danger to his family?
My stomach drops and my palm goes to my chest, will he want me to leave?
Not only is this ranch the perfect place to hide from the men that my brother sold me to, and who are probably looking for me since I might have killed one of them, but I have also come to love everyone in it; they are the only family I have.
I don’t think they feel the same way about me, I’m just another maid and cook, but I still love being here.
Maybe I’m just overacting.
Closing my eyes, I remember how he made me feel last night, his big, strong hands were all over me, scorching my skin. And those lips. My center starts to tingle and the soreness all over my body is forgotten in the haze of desire that washes over me as I remember what he did with those lips.
To be honest, I think last night was one of the best nights of my life; life was great last night.
Sucking a deep breath into my lungs, I blow it out, my cheeks puffing out and I shake my head to focus on the issue at hand.
I’ll just have to avoid him. Disappointment settles over me and the darkness of the past two years of my life settles back over me like cold water.
Since he seemed surprised to see me, I may have even seen a little disappointment on his face as he looked at me, maybe he won’t ask any personal questions.
He may not even want to get to know me. I was just a one-night stand, I’m nothing special. But, God, did he make me feel special last night.
Ugh. I shake those thoughts from my head.
He’s only supposed to be here through the holidays. One month, I can avoid him for the next month, right? Easy peasy. Maybe he will take the lead and avoid me, it was just a one-night stand, my presence is probably just an inconvenience to him at this point.
I’ll just act like last night didn’t happen.
But damn it if every touch from him won’t play front and center in my memory for a long time when I’m in bed at night. When he picked me up and held me against the wall, taking control and giving me the most amazing pleasure, and multiple orgasms, that any man has ever given me.
Damn. I moan and drop my face into my hands.
The alarm on my phone pulls me from my thoughts, the roast I put in the oven earlier today is almost done. To my utter self-condemnation, I actually check my hair and makeup in the mirror to see if I look okay before going downstairs.
I shouldn’t care what I look like.
I sure as hell shouldn’t care what he thinks of how I look.
Right?
The woman in me wants to look good for him, she wants to tempt him even though I need to avoid him.
Thinking about the importance of this job and the relationships of the people in this house, I retrace my steps to my ensuite bathroom and wash off all my makeup before pulling my neatly styled hair up into a messy bun on top of my head.
There. Now I could be any girl next door.
Switching out my form-fitting long-sleeve shirt for a boxy long-sleeve t-shirt that extends to just below my butt, I look in my mirror and decide to switch my jeans for tights and leg warmers.
Totally sloppy and unprofessional. I nod my head in approval and turn to go to the kitchen to get dinner ready for when everyone comes in from working outside.
This will make him wonder what he was even thinking when he took me back to his room.
Opal’s recipe book that she passed on to me when I started working here could be an actual cookbook.
Over the years, she arranged it by meal type, then broke each of those down by Mr. Harlow’s favorites, and then subcategorized those from most healthy to least healthy.
However, I think the latter was introduced after Mr. Harlow was diagnosed with high cholesterol.
In the back of the book, she included a calendar that either limited or encouraged certain foods. If anything, she loved taking care of this family.
When she was training me for those first few weeks I was here, she would get teary eyed just talking about leaving to move in with her daughter’s family to help take care of them.
Just as I’m setting the vegetables on the table, the back door opens and shuts.
With each tick of the giant grandfather clock in the corner of the rustic dining room, my heart rate increases, and I feel like I am going to crawl out of my skin.
Partly because I want to crawl into his lap and pick up where we left off last night.
The roast is the only dish left to set on the table, but I’ll wait until the clock strikes the hour before I put it out. Everyone knows what time they are supposed to be at the table and, according to Mr. Harlow, if the food is cold when they sit down it’s not because it was set out too early.
Mr. Harlow is strict about punctuality and being considerate of other people’s time.
With five minutes to spare, I go into the kitchen to transfer the roast from the warming pot to its setting tray and cut it into slim strips.
The hairs on my neck stand up and my hand cutting through the tender meat stops mid-slice. I can feel him standing behind me, I didn’t even hear him come into the room.
“We need to talk.” His deep voice is closer to my ear than I would like. Even in a lowered volume, the timbre sends a shiver up my spine.
Holy shit, my lower belly is already tingling.
My hope that he will avoid me is erased and I stand stiff as a board. “There really isn’t anything to talk about, you don’t have to worry, I won’t bother you while you’re here.”
He is silent behind me, but I refuse to turn around and face him.
The heat of his chest is on my back as he surprises me by setting the heels of his palms against the countertop on each side of me, caging me in.
“What if I want to be bothered?” He leans forward to lower his head next to mine, his voice low, “What if I want to bother you?”
His breath is hot on my ear and neck, his beard barely touching the shell of my ear making my shoulders shudder. My nipples pucker against the frumpy shirt I’m wearing and the ache in my center has my whole body warming, my panties getting wetter by the second.
I clear my throat and try to be firm, “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” but it comes out breathy and needy.
He stays there, his chest just a hair’s breadth from touching my shoulders and it takes everything in me not to lean into him to close that tiny gap that feels so big.
I remind myself that all the good sex in the world isn’t worth losing the good life I’ve had for the past six months and I return my focus to the roast in front of me.
The back door opens again and I hear boots on the hardwood floor. He steps away from me and I realize that the clock struck the hour and I still don’t have the roast on the table.
Cool air moves across my neck in his absence and I want his heat back. I quickly cut the rest of the meat and when I turn, I’m in the room alone.
When I step into the dining room, Mr. Harlow is already in his seat at the head of the table, fully dressed like he has been outside working all day even though he is on bed rest this week. Marley has been ensuring that he is not working.
I set the roast on the table in its place close to him and go to my seat at the other end behind the siblings and to the right of Mr Harlow.
Little Lainey Rai, Gray’s daughter, is smiling at me across the table with a new gap in her teeth. She was talking about that tooth being loose yesterday and I smile back at her and tap my upper lip in recognition when I wink at her. Her smile gets even bigger.
“Where’s Kinley?” Mr. Harlow grunts.
Marley speaks up, “I haven’t seen her today, Daddy, she’s probably working on something and doesn’t even know what time it is.”
Kinley is an artist and frequently forgets the rest of the world around her when her focus is lost in a new project. She’s a bit moody and tends to distance herself.
That’s when Breanna breezes into the room, skips Kinley’s seat next to Marley, and takes her seat next to me. Mr. Harlow watches her in disapproval but doesn’t say anything.
The hairs on my neck are standing up again, I can feel his gaze on me even though I am trying to avoid looking at him. My body is humming with need and I cross my legs as I place my napkin in my lap, trying to ease the ache that is making this the longest dinner in the history of dinners.
It only just started.
Chancing a tiny glance across the table, his eyes are on me and he is smirking like he knows what his presence is doing to me. I square my shoulders and try to pretend that I’m not thinking of what it felt like to lower onto him, every inch stretching me, like I did last night.
My face turns scarlet and I look down at my food.
“So, Dad, how are you feeling?” His deep voice vibrates through me.
As soon as Mr. Harlow stabs a piece of roast to put it on his plate, the exchange of dishes starts. Everyone starts to fill their plates, the sound of cutlery tapping and scraping fills the room with the controlled chaos of plates floating around the table.
“I’m fine son, I think those doctors jumped the gun a bit, there’s nothing wrong with me.” One would think that Mr. Harlow is a heavy smoker by the low, gravely growl of his voice, but he’s never smoked a day in his life.
“A heart attack is hardly anything to be so apathetic about, Dad,” Marley says, her usually soft voice is sharp.
Mr. Harlow looks at his daughter and his features soften, “Not apathetic, hun, just realistic. Because my ticker skipped a tick doesn’t mean I should lay around in bed for a week.”
“Then don’t lay around, but stay in the house and take it easy, when was the last time you took it easy, Dad?” Mason asks, his knife scraping his plate as he cuts his meat.
“I don’t take it easy and you know that.” The sharp edge in Mr. Harlow’s voice rivals the knife he is using on his meat. I’ve noticed the tone he uses with his daughters is always softer than when talking to his sons.
Mason is unfazed by it and continues, “But you can, Dad, no one’s gonna blame you.” He takes a bite of his roast and looks at me, “This is delicious, Sloane.”
My cheeks heat again and without looking at him, I say, “Thank you,”
When I glance toward the head of the table, I see Gray looking at Mason, his eyes are narrowed and he doesn’t look happy.
Mr. Harlow continues, “I would rather die in my stables, taking care of my home and family than sitting around doing nothing to try and prolong my life just to die of boredom.”
Silverware rattles on a plate and everyone stops eating as Marley pushes her chair out, tosses her napkin on the table, and leaves the room. Mr. Harlow shakes his head as he looks at his plate, a low ‘hmf’ vibrates in his throat.
“See what you did?” Tucker elbows Mason in the ribs.
Mason’s features tighten and his eyebrows pinch together, it’s obvious he regrets the turn of the conversation, “Give her just a minute, if she doesn’t come back I’ll go up.” He says in Tucker’s direction but his eyes stay on his plate.
This is the first time since I’ve been working here, that Tucker and Mason’s seats at the table have been filled at the same time.
Those seats have been designated to them and when they are not here, no one sits in them.
Tucker has been here a couple of times since I have been working here, but Mason hasn’t been home in a year.
Since I lost my parents, I’ve missed the stability and warmth of family, the knowledge that no matter what, there is a seat just for me to return to and I envy everyone at this table.
For several minutes the only sounds in the room are the sounds of eating dinner, until Lainey Rai says, “I’ll help you with your chores, Papa, I’m strong enough to drag a bale of hay with the hook now.”
Lainey Rai is only nine, but she is always determined to be able to do what the adults do.
Just last week she was at the stables trying to ride one of the stallions instead of the smaller pony that is hers.
Gray almost lost his mind when he walked in on her pulling herself up into the saddle of the large animal.
I’ve seen Lainey Rai ride, she’s been on horses since she was a baby, and Marley is always talking about how she has a way with the horses. Not to mention, the horse she was attempting to ride is one of the more gentle ones.
Opal told me once that after Gray’s wife died in a car accident six years ago, which Lainey Rai was in, he’s been especially overprotective of his daughter.
Mr. Harlow, known for spoiling his only granddaughter, points his fork at her and says, “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day, sweetheart, it’s a big deal when you can move one of those heavy things. You can be my new right-hand man.”
Lainey Rai’s smile stretches across her face and she beams at her dad as she picks up her glass of milk, Gray winks at her as he takes another bite of his dinner.
“Excuse me,” Mason says and he sets his napkin next to his plate as he gets up and leaves the room.
Even though I know that he is going to comfort his sister and try to right his wrong, the room feels really empty once he’s left and I want him to come back.