I hate how fucking pretty it is, and a small traitorous part of me almost doesn’t mind it.
He stops near a stack of hay bales, turning his massive body towards me, looking down to meet my gaze.
“Look, I don’t care what you did; that’s between you and your father. I especially don’t care how little you want to be here. But this is a working ranch, and it doesn’t stop for anybody. This isn’t some southern vacation for you, you pull your weight or I’m sending your ass back to LA to your daddy.”
“Seriously? Is this your version of setting it straight? You might want to work on your fucking people skills.” I snap.
He lets out a sound low in his throat as he steps in, close enough that the space between us disappears. His body heat rolls off him in waves, wrapping around me like a warning or a promise. The scent of cedar and pine clings to his skin, striking me, making the back of my neck flush.
I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. He’s so fucking tall it’s unfair, towering over me like he knows it rattles me. He’s so close, I’m almost sure he can hear the pounding of my heart thudding erratically against my ribcage.
His rough thumb brushes along my jaw before hookingbeneath my chin, tilting my face up. His touch is calloused, warm, and way too familiar for a man I just met.
“I don’t care if you sass me all day long,” he says, his voice is thick and smooth, with a deep baritone that practically hums through me. “I can take it, princess. But, if you plan on surviving out here, you better get ready to get those pretty little hands dirty.”
I shove his forearms with both hands. “Buckle up, cowboy, because this attitude? It’s not going anywhere. Especially not for you.”
“God fucking help me,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?
I let outa dramatic sigh and collapsed onto the bed. It’s firm like a damn rock. I miss my plush, Tempur-Pedic back home.
Does he really expect me to wake up at the crack ass in the morning to do manual labor? Because I sure as hell am not going to.
My gaze sweeps around the room again, still trying to process the decor and the view. Part of me likes it, but there’s no way in hell I’m admitting that to Carter. I’m too fucking stubborn, so no.
I inhale sharply, tossing my Louis Vuitton suitcase and duffle bag onto the bed. As I unzip them both, I begin carefully folding my clothes, methodically organizing them into the dresser drawers.
Silk blouses, satin skirts, and a pair of black heels I already know is going to be fucking useless here.
What the fuck even is the dress code for ranch life? Do they even fucking make cowboy boots in Chanel?
I grab my toiletry bag as I wander towards the bathroom, preparing myself to see a gorgeous bathtub, already visualizing where I can relax and take bubble baths. I audibly gasp when I open the door. The bathroom is small, old-fashioned, and aggressively wooden.
What the fuck is his deal and wood fixtures?
The walls are made of weathered wood in a deep, honey-colored hue, and the countertop is a rough, knotted timber with a large, round metal basin sitting on top.
A fucking basin.
The faucet is one of those old-timey bronze ones, and when I twist the handle, the water sputters for a second before running properly.
I’m in the fucking house of horrors. Great, just great.
The mirror is framed in distressed wood, and don’t even get me started on the lighting. It’s dim and has a yellowish hue. In theory, this can be so romantic, but I need vanity lights and a huge mirror. How the hell am I supposed to do my makeup in here?
Just as I thought the monstrosities were over, my eyes find the shower. It’s not even a real shower, it’s one of those clawfoot tubs with a curtain wrapped around it, the kind that looks charming in an old Western movie but feels highly impractical for actual bathing.
The shower head is a bronze fixture hanging from the ceiling, and I can already tell you that the water pressure is going to be atrocious.
I groan, leaning against the doorframe.
“This is my villain origin story.”
I’min the middle of the most luxurious dream—one where I’m lounging on a yacht in the South of France with my girls. The sun kissing our skin, glasses of champagne in our hands, and a shopping spree waiting for us in Monaco.
It’s perfect, peaceful.
Until a deep, gruff voice yanks me straight into the pits of hell.
