This was stupid.
I should have said no to this job.
I should have known I can never have another normal night of sleep again. Or be the type to wake up at six a.m., work out, mix myself a green juice, and march out the door.
The way I used to be until senior year.
I started painting as a way of calming myself. Some people find comfort in warm milk; I make art. Only dozing off after pure exhaustion.
My body and brain must physically give out for me to fall asleep. Which happens around the two or three a.m. hour.
It’s why bartending makes sense. If I’m not sleeping, I might as well be making money.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a dark blue blouse, curse the damn snooze button, then yank on my boots. I almost forget to lock the door before breathlessly rushing out.
It’s still surreal being here. Especially when I’m hustling andbustling, getting dressed like I’m late for opening night of The Rockettes. But every time I open this creaky door, it’s like I’m walking out of my city apartment and onto a movie set.
The summer glow across the fields, the low rumble of tractors in the distance, the occasional faint neigh of a horse.
It’s so full of life—but not.
It’s steady. And I think I like steady.
For once, the world isn’t spinning too fast for me to keep up with.
No constant reminder of something I failed even before I started. For once, I don’t feel pressured to make sensible decisions in life.
A reminder of why I said yes to this gig. It’s like a big timeout. To think about things I did wrong.
Or things I can’t change.
I take a breath, bracing myself for an angry boss before walking into the Saddle Room.
He wasn’t angry yesterday when I raced in late. In fact, he barely looked my way the last two days except when he was training me on something. On Wednesday, after we had breakfast, I spent the afternoon going through old mail piling up on both Wilder’s and Dallas’s desks, then finished payroll for the previous week.
Thursday, Wilder was out all day on the ranch but left a list for me.
I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. Maybe he’s still mad?
Idiot.Ofcoursehe’s stillmad.
The man was probably born mad and will die a grumpy old man.
And it would be a shame. Because I’m sure the universe meant that body for love .?.?. not bitterness.
I swallow as I reach the door.
Maybe if I just walk in like this is my regular time now, hewon’t notice?
Maybe he’s not even in yet? I could easily pretend I’d been here all morning, right?
Wrong.
Sharp blue eyes flick to meet mine. But it’s barely a passing second before he looks back down to his papers. He’s standing behind his desk, leaning with his palms pressed against the wood.
I imagine it crumbling to the floor under the pressure. “You’re early,” he says, voice low and gruff. “I didn’t expect you in until at least ten, given it’s a Friday an’ all.”
OK.Ideservethat.
