catalina
. . .
Iused to eat five-star fucking meals at Nobu, sipping overpriced cocktails with beach views and plates of sushi that looked too pretty to touch. Everything smelled like salt and luxury, the kind of life where the most significant inconvenience was a chipped manicure or a server bringing the wrong type of sparkling water.
Now I’m standing in front of an old barn that smells like fresh shit, surrounded by flies that won’t leave me the hell alone, and the kind of heat that makes my skin feel sticky in places I didn’t know could sweat.
And just to make matters worse, I can’t stop fucking noticing him.
I couldn’t stand the way he walked, all broad shoulders, dark scowls, and this constant, brooding silence. I keep my arms crossed tightly around my chest as I trail behind him, pretending I’m not paying any attention to how his biceps strain against the thin cotton of his shirt. Or how his stupid shirt clings to his back, giving me an unwanted glimpse of the muscles flexing underneath. I couldn’t ignore the tattoos on his arms either, traditional black and white designs, intricateflowers, and filler work that I couldn’t fully make out, but it was all there, perfectly displayed for anyone who cared to look.
Why the fuck was I even looking? I hate him… I think. My hormones didn’t get the fucking memo.
I was here against my will, in this god forsaken town.
No shopping. No glamour. No festivals.
Just shoot me now.
“This here is the barn, where you’ll be spending most of your time,” he says, like he’s giving me a tour of sacred land. “Don’t go wandering around without me, not unless you want to get fucking kicked by a mare.”
I stare at him. “What now?”
“Mare… A female horse,” he enunciates.
“Righttttt. Because that’s so in my sweet little handbook of things I don’t fucking say,” I snark.
He comes to a halt, spinning around to face me, brows drawn together in a deep scowl.
I roll my eyes. “Do they have names?”
“You planning on making friends with them?”
“Depends. They might be friendlier than you, and I need someone to talk to out here, since we’re in the middle of fucking no where.”
“Hilarious,” he mutters, already turning back toward the house. “You’ll be real cozy knee-deep in horse shit tomorrow morning.”
“Not a fucking chance.”
He grunts in response, continuing to walk forward.
Cool, love that. He keeps walking, like arguing with me isn't even worth his breath.
God, he’s so infuriating.
I storm after him, my strides quick and sharp as I try to close the space between us.
“Wow, really living the dream, huh? Shoveling shit and glaring at people who are way too fabulous for this place.”
“Yeah, well…” he drawls, “this is my dream.”
Well, now I feel like a fucking asshole.
I keep my mouth shut as I try to keep up with him. He doesn’t slow down; he purposely tosses a smirk over his shoulder, quickening his steps.
Dickhead.
We pass the fence line, the pasture opens up, yellow and orange rays sprawl beneath the lazy afternoon sun, way too picturesque for a place that smells like shit.
