I can’t help but wonder how long he’s been listening.
TWELVE
VALENTINA
September 20th, 2025
Seduction’snever been a challenge for me—even when it should’ve been difficult, I’ve never struggled to turn people on. It’s one of the few things I consider myself to be natural at.
With as much forced practice as I had at a young age, I should be a natural—I should be the fucking most seductive person alive.
So why won’t McCrae just give in already?
Are we not two hot, horny, and equally depraved people? What could he possibly have to lose by sleeping with me?
“Are you gay?” The inside thoughts come out as words before I have a second to swallow them. Instead of showing the shame coursing through me like fiery poison, I double down.
Because if I’m not toxic, I’m dead.
“I’ve never seen you with a woman, is all.” I shrug, leaning against the stall door, and watch McCrae’s back turn from hard muscle to stone, already coated in a thick layer of sweat, proven by the way his shirt clings to his skin. His muscles ripple beneaththe fabric, bunching and flexing as he fills fork after fork with shavings and manure, tossing them into a wheelbarrow.
I note, with great irritation, he’s not wearing his sling. It’s like the damn thing doesn’t exist; if it wasn’t for him cringing every time he lifts the rake, I’d think he was completely healed.
“Why aren’t you wearing your sling? Does it make you less manly or something?” He doesn’t respond, and at this point, I don’t expect him to.What can I say to really piss him off?
It’s only nine in the morning, and rivulets of sweat pour down his temples, across the various tattoos peppering his face and neck, disappearing beneath the neckline of his shirt. I watch one particular droplet race out of view, and I imagine the path it takes, racing all the way to his waist line. Just like I wish I could do.
He pauses, wiping his forearm across his forehead, the bill of his cap pressed against his neck.
I lick my lips, leaning forward. “Why do you wear that if you’re just going to turn it backward?”
It’s a slutty look, honestly—I’ve always preferred well-dressed, tailored men to dirty, hardworking ones. But something about the honesty of it all, of seeing one’s labor go from mental to physical, is secretly amazing to me.
I still hate this ranch and everything it stands for.
But I don’t hate watching McCrae working on it. Or Santos, for that matter.
At first, I hired him because I could see how pissed off it made McCrae. But now, it’s more than that—I kind of like the guy. He’s a hard worker, charming in the most mischievous kind of way. He looks at me and doesn’t see my past full of evil mistakes. He just sees a snobby, rich woman who still whines when she gets dirt under her fingernails but likes to flirt whenever given the chance.
He doesn’t see how broken I am.And I’ll admit, I like how that makes me feel.
“Heelllooo.” I knock my toe against the wheelbarrow, but McCrae just grunts. To my surprise, though, he flips the hat forward, squeezing the bill so tightly, I'm afraid it’ll snap.
Is that what he wants to do to my neck?
No. He thinks I’m too fragile.
I slump back against the wooden stall, the motion sending a thumping noise through the wood, and McCrae quickly looks back at me, his eyes wide. His expression is worried for a split second before he turns back around, ignoring me as if I didn’t exist in the first place.
Interesting.
“If you’d tell me how to help, I’d do more than just watch you work up a sweat. Although,” I lick my lips again, making sure to smack them for effect this time, “I do love seeing you working up a sweat.”
He begins to grumble something under his breath, his rhythm ofscooping, throwing, scooping, throwing,picking up to a maddening pace. A twinge of excitement races through me—he’s about to crack, and we can put this silence behind us.
Instead, he sighs. “Why don’t you take the truck to the dealership like you talked about and trade it in for something you actually like? Make yourself useful for once.”
As soon as he says the words, I hear the inhale of breath. He freezes, like he’s balancing a shard of glass on his head or something, too afraid to even exhale for fear it’ll crack.
