“We need to get rid of Santos.”
I whirl on him. “What? Why?”
His icy glare cuts me to the core, like he’s trying to read what’s really on my mind, but I refuse to back down. I stare back, my neck sweating as I force myself to maintain eye contact. “He’s responsible for your accident.”
“McCrae, don’t be stupid.” I push past him.
“I’m serious, V.”
“I was high and drunk, not to mention depressed.” The last part, I whisper, slipping on my boots, but McCrae’s harsh intake of breath tells me he heard it just the same.
“The truck was tampered with.”
“What?” I stand.
McCrae nods, crossing his arms in that way that makes his biceps bulge. “I had it towed to the mechanic this morning, andthey said it was a wonder you made it as far as you did. The brake line looks like it was cut.”
I stare at him, his words closer to a foreign language than English. I hate myself for not understanding the basic concepts—it’s no wonder he doesn’t want me. I’m useless and stupid,not a flattering combo.Even I know that.
At the risk of sounding even more stupid, I say, “It couldn’t have accidentally come from the dealership like that?”
“Well, yeah, but—” McCrae huffs, and I just wave my hand to cut him off.
“What do you have against Santos? He’s a hard worker and seems to be learning fast.”
“You would defend him,” he bites out, and I bristle, feeling cornered by the one person I’ve always trusted to understand me.
“You’re jealous, McCrae.”
“I’m not Valentina. I’m just trying to protect you—it’s what you pay me for.” And with that, he leaves, the firm reminder of our relationship laid out between us.
He doesn’t want me; maybe he never did. He sticks around because I pay him. If I didn’t, he’d leave,just like everyone else.
“How are you feeling?” Santos leans his head out of the first stall as I walk into the barn. I jump back in surprise, clutching my chest. He shoots me a lopsided grin before opening the stall door and stepping out. It’s now I realize he’s shirtless, the black band t-shirt tucked into his back pocket like a rag.
I blink rapidly, drinking in the miles of dark tanned skin covering abs and pecks that are more rock than they are muscle. Sweat gleams between the chiseled ridges and valleys of his chest, pebbles on his taut shoulders like droplets of sunshine glistening on a golden horizon. He turns around, closing the gate behind him, and his back muscles are nearly as pornographic, rippling with each movement. They lead to a very round, very firm ass I’ve never realized filled out his jeans the way it does until this very moment.
Am I still high?
I try not to stare, but I feel like a starving animal in a desert. I don’t actually want him. It’s just the after-effects of my drug-induced dream.
He chuckles, the sound like rocks tumbling in a glass. “Do I need to make an HR complaint? You’re my boss, after all.”
“You’re not that hot.” I scoff, turning away and walking toward the horse in the opposite stall to cover the sudden heat burning in my cheeks.
“So you think I’m hot?” He sounds insufferably smug, and I don’t know how to rectify the situation. Santos acts like he has something on me, knows some secret I don’t, and it’s enough to make me not want him to know I find him attractive. It’s only more power he wields, and I don’t like anyone having power over me.
“Can you show me?” I motion to the stall.
“How to scoop shit? It’s pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it?”
I turn on my heel to leave. If I wanted to be ridiculed, I’d have followed McCrae around more.
Santos grabs my elbow, far gentler than I remember him doing last night. “Here.” He hands me the fork and opens the gate. “Just slip inside.”
I do as he says, and he follows me in, closing the gate behind us. All of a sudden, the stall feels too small, the oxygen thick, and I struggle to breathe deeply.
A white horse eyes us, its giant orbs flicking around the stall as it moves in the opposite corner. I realize it too late: I’m locked in a stall with a giant animal that could kill me, and panic starts to crawl up my throat.
