I can’t believe that I really gave this woman a sandwich I made, like she’s some kind of middle schooler on lunch break. Thankfully, she doesn’t laugh in my face. No, instead, she takes the top of the sandwich off, and I watch as she places the chips on top of the ham and cheese before she places the top back on and smashes it down.
I smile at the sight, then keep watching as she brings the concoction to her lips, opens them, and takes a big, crunchy bite. Picking up a chip of my own, I lean back in my chair and bring it to my mouth.
“Tell me,” she says. My eyes stay on her as I wait for her to continue. “Tell me about your ranch.”
I’m not sure what to say. I could tell her a hell of a lot about this place. What started out as a hundred thousand acres of my family’s land has dwindled down to the two hundred I now run on my own. Well, until it’s time for vaccinations, branding, and taking to market. I usually hire temporary help for all of that.
I could tell her about my parents, how my father died before my granddaddy, how my mother and granny were killed by a drunk driver, and then a month later, my granddaddy died of a broken heart, leaving me all alone at the age of thirty-five, which led to me hiring her.
But I don’t tell her any of that.
I’m not sure what this is between us. It’s probably nothing at all. Just a boss and employee thing, and that’s a hell of a lot of trauma to dump on someone who is just my employee. So, instead of telling her all of that, I give her the CliffsNotes version.
I tell Lola-Mae about how my family has been in Hill Country, Texas, since the mid-1800s. The original house is now owned by someone else, the land has been split up, sold, and whatever else has happened over the years.
“It used to be a hundred thousand acres?” she asks.
“Originally, yeah,” I murmur. “Children took portions, eventually sold them here and there, and my own granddaddy had to sell some to pay for property taxes when years got lean. Now it’s only a fraction of what it once was, and the original house is owned by someone else, some people who moved from California and thought it’d be fun to fix it up.”
“Wow,” she exhales. “I don’t think I even have a family history, and especially one like that.”
Instead of asking her about her past, I decide it’s not for me to know. I end the conversation by telling her I need to get going,then I do just that. I grab my sandwich and leave the house to go out to the animals.
Chapter Eight
HARLAN
Sitting in my living room,a beer in hand with the television on, I flick my gaze to the closed office door. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I shouldn’t have made her lunch. I should have kept my distance.
Leaning forward, I place my beer on the coaster in the center of my coffee table, or rather, my granny’s coffee table. I haven’t done shit to this place since they all died.
Everything is exactly the way they left it, except for the closets. I cleaned out the closets and moved into the master bedroom a few months back, but other than that, everything stayed untouched.
Same furniture, same shit in the cabinets, same shit on the walls. Frozen in time, which, to be honest, it was already. And it is definitely decorated in seventies farmhouse fashion, complete with lacy doily shit on every fucking surface possible.
I stand and walk straight to the office. I’m not sure what I’m going to do in here, but I need to be here, maybe because this iswhere she last was. This is where her scent lingers. Flipping on the light, I walk over to her desk and sink down in her chair.
My gaze glides along the surface of the desk. And that’s when I see it—the sticky note. It’s stuck to the side of her computer monitor. I forgot about it. Shit. Frowning, I tilt my head to the side as I take it in.
She didn’t say anything about the note. She didn’t act any differently. I wonder if she even realizes it’s me who wrote it? But then again, who else would have written it? Honestly, writing that note was about as far out of my comfort zone as I could probably go at this point.
Taking a pen and a notepad, I draw another stick figure. This time, it’s a horse. I don’t even attempt to draw a cowboy on the horse. I’m sure it would look like a mythical creature that couldn’t be deciphered.
You’re my favorite daydream. And fantasy.
-Cowboy
Leaving the note in the middle of her desk, I stand and walk out of the office without looking back. It’s another bold move, and it could bite me in the ass, but I don’t think I care too much. I want her to want me. Although I'm not sure what I’m going to do with her once she does.
I head over to the window that faces her house, and my eyes scan the windows. They’re all dark. Since it’s after midnight, I would guess she’s asleep. I should be too. I should have passed the fuck out hours ago, especially since my alarm is going to start ringing in just five hours.
But sleep has become harder and harder with each passing day since she arrived. Forcing myself to turn away from the window, I make myself walk upstairs, rinse down, and climb intobed. Every single moment, I think about her. Especially in the shower, with my hand wrapped around my dick.
LOLA-MAE
I toss and turn. Sleep evades me.
I can’t stop thinking about the man just a few yards away from me. He acts as if he wants nothing to do with me, yet he made me lunch. He told me a little about his family. He wrote me that note.
