I’m on my third stall, my arms already aching, the borrowed boots Sutton left me digging into my heels like they’re personally offended by my existence. My shirt sticks to my back, and there’s straw in places straw should never be. Every time I heave the pitchfork, I question my life choices all over again.
Sunlight filters through the slats of the barn walls, casting stripes across the dust hanging in the air like floating reminders of how out of place I am here.
I grunt as I lift another shovelful into the wheelbarrow. It lands with a wet, squelching thud that makes me gag a little.
“Need a hand?”
The voice behind me stops me cold.
Low. Smooth. Infuriating.
Sure, I’ve only interacted with him once. The day his father escorted me out of the homeless shelter but once was enough. I went to school with people like him. Rich ass entitled men who oozed sex appeal and used it to their advantage.
I close my eyes, mentally preparing myself before turning around.
Colter Shaw leans against the doorway like he’s been posing there for the last ten minutes, arms crossed, hat tipped low. Of course he’s not sweating, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up enough to show off those forearms that probably have their own fan club.
“You here to help or just admire the view?” I ask, jabbing the pitchfork into the ground a little too forcefully.
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Wasn’t sure if you knew which end of the pitchfork to use. Thought I better supervise.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
He walks farther into the barn, the soles of his boots crunching over stray hay. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he moves, like he belongs in places that smell like this. Places where the work’s hard and honest. It pisses me off how good he looks doing absolutely nothing.
He stops at the next stall over and peers inside. “You missed a spot.”
“Say that again and I’ll stab you with this.”
His grin widens. “Feisty.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the muck. “Don’t you have a bronco to harass or a mirror to flirt with?”
“Nope. Got the morning off.”
“Lucky you.”
“Not really,” he says, and his tone shifts enough to make me glance at him. He’s watching me, expression unreadable. “Drew the short straw. Got stuck making sure you don’t pass out or run off.”
I narrow my eyes. “John sent you?”
He shrugs. “Something like that.”
“Figures,” I mutter, going back to work. “Didn’t trust me to handle a damn shovel on my own?”
“No, he trusts you fine. He just knows what you went through can… get to people.”
I stab the pitchfork into the bedding again, harder than necessary. “Well, I’m not most people. And I don’t need babysitting.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with dust and tension. The wheelbarrow creaks as I dump another load into it. My arms burn. My back screams. And yet, I refuse to let him see even a flicker of weakness.
Colter leans against the stall gate, one boot propped up behind him. “You know, you’re doing better than I thought you would.”
“Gee, thanks.”
