“Is it true?” he asks, his voice soft. “What everyone is saying about you and Mr. Turner?”
“What are they saying?” I ask, completely unaware that I’d be the topic of conversation.
He holds his hands up. “I didn’t believe it.”
Stepping in his direction, I whisper-shout, “What’s being said, and who’s saying it?”
“The guys,” he says. “I mean, all of a sudden, Mr. Turner brings a pretty young girl with a baby to live in his house. Everyone thinks you are . . .”
“They think we’re together?” I ask. “I’m working. Plus, Slade hasn’t even been here since I started. If we were a couple, wouldn’t he be here?”
He shrugs. “I’m just repeating what the guys are saying. They think maybe Finn is his.”
“Oh my God!”
He reaches for my arm. “Not me. I didn’t think any of it was true.”
“Good, because it’s not.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Clay says. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Can we just start over?”
“As friends?” I ask pointedly.
“Sure,” he says. “It’s nice to have someone close to my age out here. I’m planning my class schedule, and these guys are talking retirement.”
I’m not entirely sure I can believe that he’s just looking for a friend, but I figure it can’t hurt anything to be friendly. “Where are you in school?”
Over the next week, Finn and I settle in to a nice little routine. We walk to see Whiskey in the mornings. Most of the time, Clay is there. We talk classes, majors. He has no idea what to major in, still lives at home, and hates his English lit professor. For those few minutes every day, I feel my age. Well, minus the baby on my hip. Then I retreat to the house, my job, and being Mommy to little Finn. I still haven’t perfected sleeping in this big house. I still haven’t seen my elusive boss again, but we’re safe, fed, and I’ve got a couple of new friends in Clay and Catrine. Life is good.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PAIGE
AGE 10
School is the best. Not only do they have a library full of books that I use to escape my god-awful life, but I get a free lunch. It’s a win-win. I’m one of the few kids on free lunch. Most of my classmates bring their lunches. They have fancy lunch boxes with matching Tupperware to keep everything neat and organized. Their containers are labeled, their napkins neatly folded. Some even get little notes from their mom or dad every day. My mom’s never even asked me what I ate for lunch, much less packed me a brown bag.
Case in point, today is field trip day. I was the only kid in my grade that didn’t go. I didn’t even bother asking my mom to sign the permission slip this year. I’ve been down this road before. Field trip days mean bringing a lunch from home. Not gonna happen.
Year after year, I’ve been the kid who “forgets” their lunch on field trip day, forcing the other kids to share their gourmet brown bags with me. Well, not this year. This year, I just didn’t bother having my permission slip filled out—or I should say, I didn’t bother forging my mother’s signature. What’s the point?
Besides, since all the teachers are on the field trip, I get to spend the whole day in the library. Not a bad deal. I was stuck eating with the grade above me, but I’m used to eating alone anyway.
I often wonder if parents are just stupid. God knows, my mom isn’t the brightest. But I’d think the parents of these other kids would be smarter than to pack carrot sticks and fruit in their kids’ lunches. Don’t they know all that goes in the trash? That works for me, though.
I snuck out of the library with a restroom pass to make a quick trip to the cafeteria after everyone left. Some people would think it’s gross to take an orange out of the trash, but the rind is going to get peeled off anyway. And some people probably don’t have to worry about what they’re going to eat for dinner.
Opening up my book bag, I casually stroll by the trash can. Some idiot actually threw away their peanut butter cracker pack. Carrot sticks, apples, oranges, bananas, and boxes of raisins are all mine for the taking. It’s a good day. Most kids hate this kind of “healthy” food, but not me. Did you know you can buy a single banana for less than fifty cents? That’s a pretty cheap breakfast.
“What are you doing there?” a voice questions softly.
Clutching my book bag shut, I turn to see one of the seventh-grade teachers. She’s young and pretty and new this year, so she probably isn’t aware of my free lunch status. I can use that to my benefit.
“What have you got in that bag?”
“Nothing,” I say, holding up my bathroom pass. “I was just . . .”
“Open your bag,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
Slowly, I open the bag, an orange bursting free and rolling on the floor. Her mouth falls open, and her eyes dart to mine. “Are you taking food out of the trash?”
“It’s such a waste,” I say, my voice sounding smaller than I want it to. “They threw it out.”
Her eyes go soft. She must have a good life. A life where compassion and empathy are strengths, not weaknesses. In my neck of the woods, compassion gets you killed.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Paige.”
“Honey, are you . . .?”
I start to laugh. “Oh, no. You thought this was for me?” I giggle some more. “Goodness, no. It’s just, my mom and I drive by this homeless guy every day on our way home from school. You know how they hang out under the bridge by the interstate?”
“Yes,” she says. “So sad.”
“Well, we see this one guy every day. He has a dog.”
“I think I’ve seen him,” she says.
This is too easy. “I just saw all this good, nutritious food going to waste, and I thought, why not take it to him?” I’m lying. I’ve gotten good at lying. It’s better to lie than have Child Protective Services called. All kids in my neighborhood know that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take anything that didn’t belong to me. I just thought it shouldn’t go to waste.”
“This is very sweet of you.”
“So I can take it?” I ask with a sweet smile. She nods, holding her finger up over her lips like it’s our little secret. Dinner is served.
CHAPTER NINE
PAIGE
One of the best things about this job is I can wear anything I want. I could probably stay in my pajamas all day. So even though I’m doing a little work on the computer today, I’m dressed in a simple white tank top and cutoff jeans. With a baby around, messes are frequent, and they usually end up on me, so simple is best.
Catrine walks into the office. I would never say she was waddling, but let’s just say her gait is looking more and more cumbersome. She glances over at Finn asleep in his playpen. “Slade called. There’s some problem with Whiskey. I’m going to walk to the stables.”
“I’ll go,” I say. “You should be taking it easy.”
“Slade said the same thing,” she says. “But I . . .”
Getting to my feet, I say, “I love that horse. I’m going.”
“Thanks. I’ll watch Finn,” she says, sitting down on the sofa.
Ten to one, she’s napping right along with Finn when I get back. Throwing on some boots, I head straight for the stables, seeing a group of men all huddled together, seemingly in some deep discussion. They look like they are plotting an international coup, concerned looks on their faces, rigid postures. The stables are usually relaxing, a place to unwind and escape. Whatever is going on here is the complete opposite of that.
Clay turns, seeing me coming, and starts for me, holding his hands up.
“Is Whiskey alright?” I ask, feeling a lump in my throat. I know nothing about horses, but remember some old stories where they shot horses who got sick or injured. I won’t let that happen.
“He’s fine,” Clay says as I march right past him, needing to see for myself.
The sea of men part, and Slade’s blue eyes land on me. Correction, they pie
rce right through me. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting me. Well, tough.
Ignoring him, I walk over to Whiskey’s stable. His ears are flicking back and forth, his front hoof clawing at the dirt. Something has him upset. I start to reach for him when Slade’s hand lands on my forearm. “Don’t. He may bite.”
“You’re upsetting him,” I say. “All these people.”
“You know horses now?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I know this one.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he motions with his hand, and everyone starts to scatter. “You, too,” I say to Slade.
“Not a chance.”
Rolling my eyes, I take a deep breath and reach toward Whiskey. His head whips side to side, his hoof pawing the dirt. I just wait. Waiting is a gift, a gift we don’t give each other enough. Waiting to hold the door open for someone. Waiting for the perfect moment to kiss someone for the first time. Oftentimes, we hurry these moments. We hurry through our lives. But today, for Whiskey, I wait.
After a few minutes, he steps toward me, placing his head under my hand, and I give him a nice rub. “Hey, boy.”
“Are all men putty in your hands?” Slade asks with a grin.
I laugh a little. “I think my charms only work on Whiskey.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, his eyes narrowing on Clay, who’s watching me.
My heart starts to pound, my knees go weak. “I wouldn’t do anything to screw up my job here,” I say quickly. “Clay is just a friend.”
Slade’s magnetic blue eyes shift back to me. “Why are you here? I told Catrine there was no need to come out here.”
“She was worried, and she’s so uncomfortably pregnant, she didn’t need to trudge all the way out here in the mud and dirt. Besides, I love Whiskey. Finn and I come see him every day.”
His eyes shift back to Clay. “I didn’t know that.”
“Nothing to know,” I say. “Is Whiskey alright? He’s not sick or anything?”
“No.” Slade starts to pat him with me, his long fingers slipping under Whiskey’s mane. “He should be a happy guy. We’re breeding him with a thoroughbred mare today. Instead, he got aggressive.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like her,” I say jokingly.
He doesn’t chuckle. Instead, he just looks down at me. “Or maybe he likes it rough.”
Unable to tell if he’s serious or making a joke, I swallow hard. Turning my face to Whiskey, I say, “What’s the problem? I’m sure I can help.”
“Whiskey is a prized stallion. Other breeders want foals with him. They pay big money.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“You’re kidding?”
His head shakes. “Breeding fees for some stallions can go as high as two or three hundred thousand.”
“I had no idea.”
“Told you. You were charging too little,” Slade whispers. “You and Whiskey are in the same profession.”
He can take me out of the slums and give me a respectable job, but he’ll always think of me as a whore. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, focusing the pain there, then reach for the latch on the stable.
“What are you doing?” Slade asks, grabbing my waist.
I glance down at his hands on me, and he quickly moves them. “Taking him for a walk.” I turn my eyes to him. “He’ll do what he needs to do. He just needs some time to come to terms with it.”
CHAPTER TEN
SLADE
With my arms folded across my chest, I watch Paige. She must’ve walked Whiskey around the pond three or four times already. He looks more settled, relaxed. She did in twenty minutes what my stable guys haven’t been able to do all morning. I can see her lips moving and wonder what on earth she’s saying to my horse. He probably knows more about her than I do.
I’ve been asked a dozen times how much longer by my colleagues, but I simply brush them aside. The truth is, I have no idea. I’ve left my gigolo horse in the hands of my prostitute maid. Who the hell has any idea what’s going to happen?
And I’m not the only one interested. My stable hand, Clay, hasn’t stopped watching her, either. She looked downright petrified when I pointed it out, like I’d fire her on the spot. So despite the fact that I’ve been a total asshole to her since she started, she still wants this job. I can’t stay away from my own house forever. I hired her, for God’s sake, so why am I avoiding her?
“Clay,” I call out.
He walks to me, glancing back and forth between where Paige is walking Whiskey and me. “Yes, sir?”
“You like working here?” I ask without looking at him.
“Yes, sir.”
Turning my eyes to him, all I say is, “Good.”
Message received.
He stands there for a moment, and I turn my eyes back to Paige and Whiskey rounding the curve of the pond. I don’t have to say anything else. The threat is more than implied. I catch Paige’s eyes and step toward her. She motions in the direction of the riding ring.
He’s ready.
*
Watching two horses go at it takes about as long as taking a piss. The whole courting, mating ritual is only a little over a minute, so slightly longer than a piss. Too bad that relationships between men and women aren’t so straightforward. And Whiskey was a professional. Everyone is busy congratulating each other, which is slightly absurd considering we all just stood around and watched horse porn. Well, everyone but Paige.
As soon as Whiskey mounted the mare, Paige turned back to the house. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think I saw her wipe her cheeks a few times. I pull out my phone, texting her.
Stop.
I see her pull out her phone, but she keeps walking. So I try again.
Thanks for your help today. Please wait.
This time she stops, glancing back at me over her shoulder. Even from this distance, I can see her flushed cheeks. As quickly as I can get rid of everyone, I make my way over to where she’s waiting, frozen in the field with her back to me. It only takes one look at her to remember the exact reason I’m avoiding her.
I can’t see her face, but she still looks beautiful standing there, her brown hair moving with the breeze, mud splashed up on her long legs, those jean shorts hanging low on her hips. Damn!
Why do I have to be an ass man? And why does hers have to be fucking perfect?
When I’m close enough, I say her name, only to hear her whimper a little. “What’s wrong?”
She turns to me, her eyes wet with tears. “Will you ever not think of me as a whore?”
I don’t mean to, but my step falters. I did this to her. I’m responsible for her tears. Is there anything worse than knowing you’ve made a woman cry? “I don’t think of you that way.”
“You take every chance you get to make a jab about me. It’s very clear what you think about me. I have no idea why you hired me.”
“I told you why I hired you.”
She just rolls her eyes. “This was a bad idea,” she says. “I should’ve never come here.”
She’s right about me taking jabs at her, but she’s not right about the reason. It’s not that I think that way about her. It’s my way of reminding myself that she’s off-limits. I found her on my father’s arm, for Christ’s sake. I have to keep that in the forefront of my mind, or the next place I’ll take her will be in my bed. “The last thing I want is to hurt your feelings,” I say, my hand reaching for hers but stopping just short. “I was coming over here to thank you.”
“It does hurt,” she says softly. “People assume girls like me don’t have feelings. But the truth is, we probably feel things deeper than other people.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I truly am. I’m trying to save this woman, not hurt her further. “No more comments.” She looks up at me from under her wet lashes. I can see all the people who have lied to her right there in that one look.
“I better get back to Finn,” she says.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Some things you can prepare for, and some things you can’t. Slade Turner is in the latter category. He’s as unpredictable as he is hot. Okay, yes, the man is hot. But he’s also cold and cunning, and knows how to cut me down to size in one swipe of his tongue. Bad example, I shouldn’t be thinking about his tongue. At least I told him how I feel. I’m not going to stand for being degraded every chance he gets. If he wanted a verbal punching bag, he hired the wrong girl.
Opening the door to the house, I’m also unprepared for what I find. Catrine is on the floor, laid out with Finn next to her. He’s eating his foot, and she’s struggling to lift her leg. They both are in a fit of laughter. “What’s this?” I ask, giggling.
Finn’s head immediately pops up, recognizing my voice. “He thinks it’s funny when I try to eat my toes, too,” Catrine says. “But once I got down here, I couldn’t get up.”
“Let me help you.”
“No,” she says. “Watch Finn.”
He’s laughing the cutest little baby giggle as he slams down one hand, moving forward a little. I move a little closer so he doesn’t have that far to go. A string of drool hangs from his bottom lip, leaving a little trail as he crawls to me. It’s not fast. For that, I’m grateful. But he makes it all the way to me. Picking him up, I smother him in kisses, not minding the drool.
“I hope Chewie likes me that much,” Catrine says, still lying on the floor.
“He’ll love you,” I say. “You’ll be able to eat your toes together.”
She laughs. “Can you help me up now?”
“I’ve got it,” Slade says from the doorway behind me. I turn, and he gives me a small smile. “If Jon saw you down there, you know he’d flip his shit.”
She rolls her eyes, holding her arms up for him to help her. “Finn and I were playing. He’s starting to crawl,” she says, getting to her feet. “Show him. It’s the cutest thing. He looks like a little bear cub. His stomach almost touches the ground.”
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