. . .
Catalina is late.
I knew from the second I laid eyes on her that she wasn’t going to be cut out for this. She’s all designer labels and expensive perfume—the kind of woman who probably considers “work” planning her next bar crawl.
And now I’m supposed to teach her responsibility? Fuck, I’d have an easier time spotting Bigfoot than this shit.
The front door finally swings open, and there she is, sauntering down the steps. She ditched last night’s disaster of an outfit, but whatever she threw on this morning isn’t much better. Leggings hug her like a second skin, outlining every curve I have no business fucking noticing.
A cropped, black leopard Louis Vuitton sweatshirt rides high on her waist, leaving a peak of bronzed skin on display, glowing in the morning light like it’s trying to test me.
And those fucking sunglasses? Ridiculous.
My eyes drop to her shoes.
Heels? She’s wearing heels, she has to be fucking joking.
I scoff under my breath, shaking my head, already questioning what the fuck I did to deserve this.
She’s going to fucking learn today.
She finally reaches me, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Okay, cowboy, let’s get this shit over with. I have better things to do with my time.”
I push off the fence, the wood groans beneath my weight as I straighten up, ignoring her little nickname for me.
“We’ll be done when I say we’re done, and you’re starting with the stalls.”
She squints at me from behind her ridiculous sunglasses. “And by stalls, you mean?”
My lips curl into a devious grin. “Shoveling horse shit.”
Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me? Absolutely not.”
I toss her a pair of gloves. “You heard me, princess.” Pointing towards the barn. “Grab a shovel.”
She wrinkles her nose, staring at the gloves like they’re last season’s fashion statement. “You can’t be serious, can I just go brush their hair or something?”
“I’m dead serious,” I say, walking towards the barn. “That manure isn’t going to clean itself.”
She gags at the word, her nose scrunches up like she smelled something foul, which she’s about to.
“I don’t even know,” she says, gagging. “How to do that.”
Jesus, talk about never lifting a fucking finger.
“It ain’t complicated. Scoop, toss, repeat.”
I walk past her, leading the way inside. The scent of hay and leather mixes with the more unpleasant stench of manure, but to me, it’s just another part of the job.
The second Catalina walks into the barn, she gags again.
“Oh my god,” she whimpers, clutching her stomach. “I’m going to fucking die.”
“You’ll live, drama queen.”
“Will I, though?” she mocks, lifting her sunglasses just enough to shoot me a glare. “Because I feel like I’m being poisoned right now.”
I hand her a shovel. “Start with Midnight’s stall.”
