The rooster looked terrifying.
I didn't know its name yet. What I did know was that the demon bird currently blocking my exit from Harrison's town car had eyes like tiny black marbles of pure hatred and a stance that screamedfuck around and find out.
"Mr. Sterling?" Harrison's voice held barely suppressed amusement. "Would you like me to... handle the poultry situation?"
"No," I said, not moving from my seat, still staring at the rooster through the window. "I just need a minute to mentally prepare."
"For a chicken, sir?"
"That is not a chicken. That's a velociraptor in a feather suit. Look at his spurs! He's armed!"
The rooster tilted his head and made a sound that can only be described as demonic gargling. Then he pecked at the car tire like he was personally offended by its existence.
This was fine. Everything was fine. I was Beau Sterling. I'd survived Dallas society, my father's disappointment, and that one time I accidentally crashed a diplomat's party thinking it was someone's birthday. I could handle one fucking bird.
I opened the car door.
The demon fucking charged.
I slammed the door shut so fast I nearly caught my fingers in it. "Nope. No. Absolutely not. Harrison, we're going back to Dallas. Turn the car around."
"Your father was quite clear about—"
"I don't care what my father said. That thing wants to murder me. Look at it! It tastes fear!"
The rooster was now strutting around the car like a prison yard enforcer, occasionally stopping to peck at the ground in what I could only assume was a show of dominance.
"Mr. Sterling," Harrison said in that patient tone he'd perfected over years of dealing with my bullshit, "it's a rooster. You're six-foot-two. I believe you can manage."
"Size means nothing to psychopaths, Harrison."
That's when I heard the laugh.
It wasn't a polite chuckle or even a hidden snicker. It was a full-throated, belly-deep laugh that echoed across the yard and made several nearby chickens scatter. I looked toward the porch where Pops was standing, and next to him—
Holy shit.
Standing next to Pops was a woman who made my brain temporarily forget about the murder rooster. She was tall, probably five-seven or five-eight in her boots, with dark skin that glowed in the afternoon sun like she'd been personally blessed by whatever deity was in charge of making people devastatingly attractive. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tank top and jeans that were clearly work clothes but somehow looked better than anything I'd ever seen on a runway.
But it was her expression that really got me. She wasn't just laughing—she was laughingat me. Her eyes were bright with amusement, her smile was sharp enough to cut, and everything about her body language screamedI know exactly who you are and I'm not impressed.
This had to be Winnie.
Fuck.
"Pickles, get your ass over here!" she called, and to my absolute horror, the rooster immediately trotted over to her like a well-trained dog. She bent down and scooped him up, tucking him under her arm like he was a fuzzy pet instead of a feathered terrorist. "Sorry 'bout that. He's protective of the driveway. Thinks it's his territory."
I climbed out of the car, trying to salvage what was left of my dignity. "Right. Protective. Not homicidal."
Her smile got sharper. "You must be Beau."
"Must be," I said, flashing the smile that usually worked on everyone. "And you must be Winnie. Wow, you look—"
"Different from when we were twelve?" She set Pickles down, and the bastard immediately went back to glaring at me. "Yeah, puberty'll do that to ya."
Direct hit. I felt my cheeks heat up, which never happened. I didn't blush. I made other people blush.
Pops came down the porch steps, still grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had in months. "I see you've met Pickles. He's Winnie's head of security."
