“That’s heresy, ma’am,” he says, eyeing her with a humorous scowl.
They work through the pile of dishes, laughter and gentle ribbing continuing until another presence makes itself known in the kitchen. It’s odd—though the person doesn’t make anynoise, Grace can still feel the energy shift around them. With a quick glance over her shoulder, her suspicion is confirmed.
Crew Caldwell. Looking just as pleasant as he had the previous morning.
He stands at the counter, pouring coffee into a giant thermos, and he doesn’t look up or acknowledge them, even when he’s done. He simply stands there, sipping his coffee, frowning.
From what she’s gathered so far—which isn’t much, just what she could pick up around the dinner table and then the subsequent fire they all sat around, cradling Solo cups of Jack Daniel’s—Crew is unforgiving and tough on the ranch hands. But he doesn’t seem to work in a loud, spurious way like Bellamy does. His authority is quieter, more intense, and more intimidating than Bellamy could ever hope to be.
When he notices Crew standing behind them, Mikey’s laughter quiets down until there’s no sound in the kitchen except the running faucet. He flashes a smile at Crew and, in a somewhat endearing attempt to include him in the conversation, offers, “You like spicy, right, boss? What do you think about Flamin’ Hot Cheetos?”
Silence stretches, and Grace nearly turns around to see if he’s actually just left without responding when his rumbling voice hits her ears.
“I think Cheetos are something you can talk about on your own time,” he says, words raspy and rough.
The sound makes Grace wonder if he actually sleeps; she’d spotted him earlier that morning, jogging on the paved road that loops around all of the housing structures on Halcyon. She’d seen him sitting out on his porch the previous night, too, when she’d remained outside after the fire died down to stare atthe moon and listen to the blaring symphony of crickets and cicadas. He’d been accompanied by a dog, who sat faithfully at his feet. She figures that if he does sleep, he must not do it very well, considering how perpetually grumpy he seems to be—a theory that’s supported even further when he adds, “You got all the equipment ready for that burn yet?”
“I was just finishing up here, I’m gonna go get it all—”
“Because it seems to me like you thought flirtin’ with the new girl is a better way to spend your morning.”
Mikey sets the sheet pan on the counter. “ ’Course not,” he says, shaking his head. “I was just leavin’.” He gives Grace a sympathetic look, a silent apology for abandoning his task.
“Hm,” Crew murmurs as Mikey passes them, quickly speeding out of the kitchen, then hopping on one foot through the door as he hastily yanks on his boot.
Left alone and no longer comfortable with her back to him, Grace shuts off the sink and turns, leaning against the counter. “Good morning,” she tries, mustering her best, most professional smile.
“Sure is,” Crew says dryly, then takes a sip of coffee, surveying her over the lid with his piercing brown eyes. “You had enough yet?”
Grace tilts her head. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she does, not yet tucked away into her regular ponytail. Crew’s eyes follow the motion, tracing from her neck to her shoulder and then back up again. “What kind of question is that?” Grace asks.
He shrugs, a small, halfhearted motion. “An honest one. That horse is a stubborn bastard. He doesn’t want to be broken.”
Grace huffs out a humorless laugh. “Does anyone?”
For a moment, he simply stares at her, pinning her with a look that feels exposing, like he’s silently stripping away one of her protective layers without even trying. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay if you decide this job isn’t for you. Not a lot of people can handle a horse like that.”
“Your mother doesn’t share that opinion, and she’s the one who brought me here,” Grace says, folding her arms over her chest. “She thinks I can get through to him.”
“My mother is an unfailing optimist.”
Grace considers him for a moment. Then, because she’s irritated that he’s doubting her without even knowing her, and without having seen the progress she’s already made, she frowns and asks, “You seem to know a lot about horse training. Why haven’t you tried with him?”
Crew chuckles, wholly unfazed by her boldness. “I don’t have time to rescue any more lost causes, I’m afraid.”
The dig stings. Taken aback by his rudeness, Grace pushes off the counter and steps toward him. “What’s your problem with me?”
His gaze travels downward slightly until their eyes are locked again. “Why, exactly, would I have a problem with you?”
Grace’s eyebrows shoot up. “No clue, but you seem to have a hell of a bone to pick, which is odd considering we just met. Or is this”—she looks him up and down—“your natural state? Do you just default to dickhead?”
Crew’s eyes narrow, and a game of chicken begins between them, both silently daring each other to look away and neither willing to relent. He takes a step inward, chin dipping down even farther; he’s fully towering over her now. No doubt used to using his behemothness to his advantage. He hums, then asks,“Is that any way to speak to someone who might be your boss one day?”
With her chin held high, Grace volleys back, “So, now I have a shot at sticking around? Thought I was a lost cause. Thought I shouldn’t quit my day job.”
His jaw works restlessly back and forth. “Guess time will tell.”
Her eyes harden. “I guess it will.”
