Dad just raises a brow. “You sure about that?”
I fume silently as silence stretches out between us. Why the fuck should I work when my money is wasting away in a trust fund? Why is it my fault that my dad never took me seriously when I told him about my plans? I’m not coming out of left field with this, but this is the first time he’s acting like I don’t even have the agency to make my own choices.
“I’m not getting a fucking job,” I spit out.
“Language,” my mom scolds without looking up from her laptop.
Dad and I glare at each other, both too damn stubborn for our own good. I know he’s got the upper hand here, though.
Maybe I can just say I’ll go to college and slack off. Six years of that sounds fucking exhausting, but it’s better than the alternative. It’s not like Dad’s going to be checking my report cards, and I’ll at least have a little pocket money.
“Why does everyone else get what they want?” I ask, unwilling to just roll over and take it. “I helped deal with Savannah when she messed with Oakley and Bo! I’m the only reason that stuff got figured out. What, is that not enough to earn the right to live my own life?”
“No, Magnolia,” Dad says with a roll of his eyes. “Putting your nose in other people’s business isn’t enough to convince me of your maturity. Just because you wound up helping doesn’t mean you were doing anything other than looking for gossip.”
I gape at him, offense and hurt rocketing through me. What thefuck? He won’t even admit that I helped because I fuckingcareabout my family? Everything I’ve done is just going to be brushed to the side to fit his narrative?
At this point, putting my plans on hold just to make Dad regret trying to fuck with me is something I’m willing to do.
Our staring match is cut short by the heavy clunk of Bo’s boots announcing his approach.
“Dad, new guy’s here,” he calls out before he even makes it into the kitchen.
He stops short at the tension in the air, blue eyes flitting between me and Dad. He makes a soft humming noise under his breath, the same one he always makes when he thinks he has to step in and get me out of trouble.
“Maggie, stay here,” Dad says, shoving away from the counter. “We’re not done talking. I’ll be back after I handle this.”
I roll my eyes at the instruction, brushing it aside without a second thought. Like I’m going to listen to him right now.
Stay put and be good, Maggie.
Yeah, like that line ever worked for anyone.
“What, need more time to come up with ridiculous punishments you won’t follow through on?” I needle, following him and Bo down the hallway.
Bo looks back at me reproachfully, but I ignore him. Just like I ignore the way Dad tries to shut the door behind them before I can follow.
“You’re being an overbearing ass and shoving your own expectations on me,” I continue as he and Bo rush down the porch steps. “Seriously, why can’t you just be happy as long as I enjoy my life?”
I don’t get an answer before they’re out of earshot, and I scowl at being so blatantly ignored. Asshole.
He never treated Oakley like this—no, she was always his golden child, even when she was sneaking around with Jamie. And Bo has always been exactly what Dad expected of him. Hell, he hardly even stood up for himself when it came to fixing things with Kenzie. I had to do all the work for him.
I can’t even follow them down toward the barn, still in my pajamas and fluffy slippers. There’s no way I’m going to get the pristine white of my favorite bunny slippers dirty with whatever filth lines the ground out there. Hell, I hardly even go out there in my rattiest sneakers, and I only do that when I’m forced. Dad always calls me obnoxious and petty about my insistence on keeping my clothes nice.They can be washed, Magnolia. God forbid I like having nice things and don’t want to ruin them.
Caring about my appearance doesn’t make me petty, but that’s not something a rough and tumble guy like my dad will ever understand.
The tank of my rage is nowhere close to empty, but I figure it’s smarter to head back inside and get some coffee in me before we continue arguing. I’m always wittier after half a pot of coffee, and bugs are already swarming me out here.
Fucking gross.
I’ve already started to turn back toward the door when I stop in my tracks.
Bo and Dad are walking down toward a beat up work truck with a similarly beat up silver bullet trailer hitched to the back of it. Nothing special, really. Plenty of the temporary ranch hands have shown up in something similar.
No, what’s special is what climbsoutof that muddy truck.
He’s tall and bulky in all the right places, thighs thick as tree trunks and arms so built I can see the bulge of his biceps from down the driveway. His skin is the kind of warm tan that makes me want to drag my fingers over every visible inch of it—and then everything that’s currently covered. Plenty is bared, too, since the guy is only wearing a black tank top to cover his top half.
