I glance at Cole. He’s watching. Listening.
“Yeah,” I say, smirking back. “I think I might.”
A muscle quivered at his jaw again.
And I’m not completely sure, but I think he’s checking me out. I wish I had a flower to pull petals from. He loves me. He loves me not. I can’t read this man for the life of me, his vibes are hot and cold but I don’t hate it.
Chapter 4
Ace of Hearts.
Cole
Damn. This girl is going to be trouble. And if she and Maggie actually get along? Jesus Christ.
Dad said he was going to rent out the guesthouse. Said it’d be nice to have some extra money coming in since it’d been sitting empty. It made sense. What he didn’t say was that the first person he’d rent it to would be her. A girl from Seattle. Layla.
A girl like her probably likes men in suits. The kind who drink wine, drive Benzes, talk too much about restaurants and stocks. She ain’t used to men like me. Men who ride horses. Get dirty. Stay dirty.
She seems like a good girl, though. That part annoys me more than it should. Maggie won’t shut up about her. All these little details she picked up today, how Layla’s an author, how excited she got over the horses, how she laughed like she didn’t even realize anyone was listening.
Like I care. I don’t give a shit. I shouldn’t remember any of this, I don't know why I keep listening to Maggie while she talks about her. She’ll be here for six months. Maybe less, if she can’t hack it. Then she’ll leave, and we’ll never see her again. Temporary people leave, that’s how it always ends.
I’m not getting attached. I don’t want to know her story. Temporary people don’t get space in my head.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Dinner’s gonna be done in thirty minutes!” Maggie yells through the door. “Can you hurry it up in there?”
“Leave me alone—use Luke’s!” I shout back over the shower.
Water rushes over my feet, carrying dirt down the drain. Every day it’s the same. Dirt under my nails. Sweat in my clothes. This place takes everything you’ve got. And now Layla’s coming to dinner.
Again.
Why does my family insist on inviting her to every damn meal? It’s like she can’t exist on this property without being included in everything. I turn the water off harder than necessary.
I wrap a towel around my waist and step into my bedroom.
I pass Maggie in the hall and she stares daggers at me. Then she slams the bathroom door.
“Dammit, Cole! All the hot water’s gone!” she yells.
“Oops,” I mutter.
I pull on jeans and an undershirt, then my boots, the ones I wear around the house. I ain’t trying to impress anybody.
I hear laughter from downstairs. Layla’s laugh. Too loud, too big for this house. She’s early. Again. I head down the stairs and stop short at the bottom.
Layla’s crouched on the floor, petting Rooster—our orange cat. He’s old as hell. Mean-looking. Been around longer than most people.
“He looks grumpy,” she says, looking up at me, “but he’s so sweet.”
I feel my mouth twitch before I can stop it.
“He’s about fifteen.”
“Whoa there, big guy,” she murmurs to him, scratching under his chin. “You take it easy.”
