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. . .
My muscles ache from working, but it’s nothing compared to what I know I’ll face today. The stench of the barn hits me the moment I walk inside, and I instantly feel the bile rise in the back of my throat.
I can’t believe I’m doing this shit again.
Standing in the doorway for a moment, I try to steady my breathing as I take in the rows of stalls in front of me.
There’s no way around it, I have to do this.
I glare down at the pile of horse shit. Shovel in hand, designer sunglasses slipping down my nose, and I mutter under my breath, “This is not what I meant by scooping up shit in life, okay?”
The horse—some big-ass chestnut beast with lashes longer than mine—blinks at me from her stall, completely unbothered. She chews slowly, judgment oozing from every lazy blink.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I snap, jabbing the shovel into the pile. “You’re the one dropping literal mountains in here. I’m just the poor rich girl trying not to throw up.”
She lets out a snort, stomping once like I’ve offended her.
“Yeah? Well, I didn’t fucking ask to be here either,Toffee. You think I dreamed about cleaning your ass barn while my friends are probably sleeping in their luxurious beds?”
Toffee snorts again.
I sigh, wiping sweat from my brow. “God, if I start talking about my feelings, just shoot me.”
She leans forward, nudging my shoulder gently with her big, stupid nose.
I pause.
“Fine,” I grumble, reaching out to scratch her soft nose. “But I’m not calling you my emotional support animal, we’re not there yet.”
I walk toward the next stall, and the air thickens with the smell of wet hay and manure. I grab the shovel, and my hand trembles slightly as I keep scooping. The texture is sticky and moist as I lift it, and it drips down the tip of the shovel, making my stomach churn.
I try to push past the disgust. “God, this is so fucking vile.”
Scoop it. Just do it. Don’t overthink it.
Every motion feels like it takes every ounce of my willpower. The smell is overpowering, the mixture of manure and urine thick in the air, and I gag once, but quickly swallow it down.
I can feel the cold sweat starting to bead at the back of my neck. The next scoop is worse. The muck is even more saturated, and it sloshes around, sticking to the shovel. I turn away quickly, a gag catching in my throat.
My stomach flips, and I try to fight it back, but it rises again.
Fuck, this is disgusting.
My hands are shaking, and the wheelbarrow is already filling up with a mess I’d rather not think about. The smell, the wetness of it all—it’s fucking too much. I can feel the pressure building in my stomach, the urge to stop, to walk away, but I can’t.
The barn door creaks behind me.
I feel his presence before I even hear him move, and I know he’s watching me. His heavy footsteps rustle behind me, and I want to scream, but I don’t. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore him, and push another load of shit into the wheelbarrow.
I hear the faintest sound—a deep, low chuckle.
Asshole.
I can practically feel his eyes on me as I scoop another shovelful of manure, and it’s like the pressure inside me intensifies. He’s standing there, leaning against the barn’s wooden beam, looking like an arrogant prick. He’s watching me work with that infuriating smirk on his face.
My gaze lifts from the pile of shit on the floor, meeting his blue eyes for a second, and my breath catches as I try to hold it together.
