I sort through the pile of shirts on my comforter for the hundredth time.
Hold up.
Emma hasn’t seen me in everything, because she hasn’t seen me dressedwell.Maybe I should wear that bespoke suit Evander forced me to have made on Savile Row the last time we were in London.She might like that.She might think I’m handsome in a suit.
“What the absolute corn-cobbing fuck is wrong with you, MacLaine?”
I can’t wear a seven-thousand-dollar suit to a fair!Especially one that may or may not have a singing chicken but will almost certainly be held in a cow pasture.
“This isn’t a date, dipshit,” I mutter to myself, then proceed to answer myself.“And why is that?I’ll tell you why.Because you somehow decided that it would be better if things progressed on their own.And how’s that working out for you, chucklefuck?”
I give up on the shirt selection and go to my dresser to pick out some socks.I should be able to handle socks.Done!And now boxer briefs.Nailed it!Jeans.Whatever, she doesn’t even know I’m alive.
And now, here I am, not a well-dressed man, but a half-dressed man.“La dee fuckin’ da!”
I stand in the middle of my bedroom, shirtless.Lost.
The way we attacked each other in the barn… it’s like it never even happened.We’re walking on eggshells around one another now.She’s polite and always busy.Sweet, loving, and giggly with Jasmine and then one cool customer as soon as I walk in the room.
This morning was the most genuine emotion I’ve seen from Emma in weeks—and it had nothing to do with me.It was about the check.
Of course it was!Emma’s here for the paycheck.She told me that!Said it right to my face after I jumped away from her like she had leprosy.
She had to make a choice, and she chose the job.
And that’s on me.
I can’t pick a shirt because I’ve lost my mojo.Or maybe I’m shy.No, that’s bullshit.I’ve never been shy around the female race.I dated the entire cheerleading squad in high school, well, except for Cal’s girlfriend.
I’m confident.Not stupid.
Okay, so maybe it’s not shyness.Maybe I’m just rusty.Most definitely out of practice.I’ve bedded women since Amy, but I sure as hell haven’t wooed any.
Wooed?Is that even a word?I want to get to know Emma.I want to start over.So maybe that’s considered wooing.
All I know is that Emma makes me want to be a wooer.Old-fashioned.Chivalrous.Gentlemanly.Because that’s what Emma deserves.
And if I ever see that she might be open to wooing…holy shit, it’s going down.
But Emma still works for me.That hasn’t changed.She cleans my house and cooks my meals and helps care for my daughter.And wooing my employee is unethical.
I want her so bad that I’m losing my mind.I want her so bad that this uptight do-gooder is about to say fuck it and go back to my standard operating procedure.
Make it happen.
Find a way.
So I’ll fire her.Tonight.At the fair.I’ll buy her a deep-fried Snickers and then fire her ass, bring her home, and woo her until she can’t remember her own name.
“Oh, fuck, I got it bad.”
“Dad?”
I wheel around to see Jasmine in my doorway.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Oh, just muttering to myself.”
