The realization sinks in at the same time as her words.
She wasn’t altering our refrigeration, but looking for a pretty bag of oysters. And I just turned into a goddamn gorilla.
I’m too worked up to sort it out now, so I dig my heels right in. “Did it ever occur to you that I told you that for your own safety? Last thing I need is you hurting yourself and taking it out on us.”
She crosses her arms and snorts in my face. “Yeah, you definitely have two brain cells.” Her finger’s gone, but the imprint of her manicured nail is seared into my skin. “If you gave a damn about my safety, you would’ve given me a tour and explained what’s dangerous and why. Not left me here to figure it out on my own.”
Her logic is indisputable, and the haughty look on her face says she knows it. I stare her down—the fierce set of her shoulders, the ready-to-fight spirit blazing silver in her hazel eyes.
It stirs something in my abdomen, something that counters my dislike. Probably more of that respect from earlier.Not sure whyrespecthas me suddenly noticing the soft floral scent coming from her hair or neck or wherever it is women put perfume. Which has me noticing the trail of goosebumps along her collarbone.
I reach around her, slam the refrigerator door shut, then take a step back, because I don’t need to be crowding her like this. Trying to intimidate her with my size.
Christ,when did I turn into one ofthoseguys?
“I still need to find my bag of oysters,” she points out, rubbing the chill from her arms.
“Not from the top shelf. Clearly, you’re unstable up there.”
Her brows crash together. “I wasn’tunstableuntil you attacked me from behind.”
I hide a wince behind a blank stare. She’s waiting for an apology. One I owe her.
When I don’t give it, she tacks on, “If you’re done throwing your tantrum, I should be fine on my own.”
Not a fucking tantrum, City Girl. I’m protecting my farm.
Self-control stops the response from coming out. Or maybe it’s the fact that those flowers are tickling my nose, and I’m noticing a few freckles scattered across her cheeks that are just like the ones sprinkled across the smooth skin of her neckline, above her?—
Cut it the fuck out.
I’m standing there like an imbecile, not speaking, not moving, long enough for Eliza to release a long exhale and ask, “Why do you hate me so much?”
Because social media, in that pretty little city-girl package, doesn’t belong on this farm.
Because you can’t possibly understand what we’ve built here, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
Because you remind me of my mistake, and how easily my dick can override my common sense for a nice smile and pretty face.
“I don’t hate you,” I say instead.
She barks a dry laugh. “Yeah, you do.” Losing her anger, her hands drop to her sides. “I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m here because your brother posted an open position, and I took it.”
There’s resignation in her tone now, and it twists unpleasantly in my gut. I want the fire, the insults back. Maybe because it makes me feel like less of a dickhead. Makes my insolence more acceptable.
“I’m aware,” I reply lamely.
She turns away, reaching again for the refrigerator door. “I have work to do.”
Right.
The image of her falling down replays in my mind, and I realize that my concern for her safety is genuine. I don’t want this woman smashing herself on the floor. God knows I’ve been beating her up enough with my words.
Fuck.
I back away and turn toward the door, but not before saying, “Just use a bag from the lower shelves. They’re all the same.”
I’m not expecting a thank you, and it doesn’t come as I walk out the door.
