by Anna Sugden
“I said no chitchat.”
“It’s not chitchat. It’s an interrogation.”
He glared. Glowered. All frustrated irritation. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining him making that kind of look naked. If she did something sassy. And she would need to be punished.
Okay, if she were the blushing type, she’d be blushing.
“I was going to be a vet,” he grumbled, attacking his sandwich as if it had done something wrong. “But, you know, you need a steady hand.”
She had to try hard to not let the pity show on her face. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure Wes was not the kind of guy who would deal well with pity. Oh, but her heart did hurt for him. He obviously loved animals, and getting hurt had ended his chance to be a vet.
Geez, this guy was a sob story. Usually those made her run in the opposite direction. Hurt feelings and tough emotions were not her forte, but Wes made everything that usually freaked her out seem irresistible.
Well, you better do some resisting, Cara Pruitt.
“So, anyway, my mom had opened an organic grocery store in California and done pretty well, and it gave me the idea for organic pet food stuff. Did some research. Set up a business. Blah, blah, blah.”
“That’s pretty amazing. Starting your own business. I watched Mia do it, and she had a farm to start with. It’s really impressive you put together a whole business you can sustain yourself and a bunch of animals with.”
He stared into the creek. “It’s okay.”
“Right. Well, I’m impressed. I can’t even make myself go after a job I want, let alone start my own business.”
“What’s your excuse?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Cave under pressure. Useless with expectation.” She nudged a few pebbles with her foot. “I’m working on it.”
“I would freaking hope so.”
There was an undercurrent in the way he mumbled it. Kind of mean. The meanest she’d ever heard him sound. Even meaner than when he’d yelled at that lady at the market. “Huh?”
“Sorry, no patience for that bullshit.” He stood, shoving his empty baggie and soda can in his pocket. He held a hand out for her trash, but she didn’t give it to him.
“What bullshit?”
“Not going after something you want because you’re afraid.” He made a “give me it” motion with his hand, which, for some reason, made her clutch the trash even tighter.
“I’m not afraid. That’s how I’m wired. Or whatever. I can’t handle it. I’ve tried.”
“You know what I have to say to that?”
“Something really nice and comforting?”
“Try harder.” With that, he let out a sharp whistle that had the dogs jumping to their feet and scrambling after his already retreating back.
Cara stared after him until he was a few feet away. Sweetness stood at the top of the hill, whining at her. Only then did she move.
Oh, hell, no, that had not just happened. He had not barked “try harder” at her as if she was some soldier. She might be his employee, but she took orders from no one.
And he was about to find that out.
CHAPTER SIX
WES HAD WARNED HER. That was his one and only defense. Before he’d offered her the job, he’d warned her he sucked with people. So, you know, she could not be surprised that he’d been a total jerk.
Sure.
He stalked back to the barn, headache inching its way up the base of his skull. A ball of tension, dull for now. He forced Monster back inside, even though the dog whined. Usually he let both dogs out on their runner in the afternoon, but right now he needed to get inside the cabin.
Inside and away from the woman stomping toward him looking as if she was going to beat him up.
He’d probably let her. He didn’t know where all that stuff had come from. It certainly wasn’t his place to tell her she was wrong and ridiculous, even if she was. So much for trying to be pleasantly friendly to coworkers. He couldn’t even get that right.
“You have no right to say that stuff.”
He shrugged. “True enough.”
She opened her mouth, and her eyebrows drew together. She huffed out a breath. “I—you—oh, I could punch you.”
“I’d apologize, but...” He was an idiot. Apologize and but did not go in the same sentence. He knew that, but, well, he didn’t feel like apologizing. She was fully functional and apparently had the opportunity to do something she loved, and she had caved?
She was gorgeous, funny, personable and, from all accounts, had a decent family life. What excuse did she have for not going after her dreams?
“But what?” she demanded, hands fisted on hips, muddy shoes tapping on the soggy grass.
“Would you be so angry if I wasn’t right on the money?”
Her mouth dropped open, her foot stilling and hands dropping to her sides. She looked frozen. Like a statue or one of those mannequins that only came to life when someone wasn’t looking.
“You—”
“Look, I warned you about how I am with people. So, you know, if that’s a problem, feel free to quit.”
Again there was a long pause before she reacted in any way. Which spoke volumes about how together she was. That she could pause and think before acting.
“I can’t quit.”
“Yes, you can. In fact—”
“This is all I have right now. As much as I think you’re being kind of a, well, something I can’t say to the man I want to not fire me. I’d rather be here than back at the farm supply store.”
“What about that hair place?”
“They already replaced me. I can fill in, but that’s only in emergencies. Even this job doesn’t cover all my expenses. It’s supposed to be my motivation to ask Sam for another chance at the pie thing. So you can’t take it away. I won’t let you.”
Maybe that was why he didn’t understand her self-deprecating, fold-under-pressure speech. He’d yet to see her fold under anything. She stood her ground. She swept in where she had no business being. She’d somehow convinced him to give her his dog.
She was a hurricane, and hurricanes didn’t fold.
“Then let’s go inside and work. And not talk. This, this right here is why I don’t do the chitchat thing.”
She muttered a curse under her breath, and he was pretty sure it was directed at him. He couldn’t hold it against her.
He walked toward the house, and she followed. This was some kind of truce. It was better than where they’d been when she’d put flowers in her hair and asked him how she looked.
Beautiful. Breathtaking. Words a guy like him didn’t think, let alone say aloud. But Cara defied his norm. The talking about not having animals when he was a kid, and commenting on her life and choices. That wasn’t something he did with anyone else. He’d been trying to be normal, but it had spiraled out of his control.
Thank God she defied his norm in annoying ways, too. As long as she could push his buttons, he was safe. Don’t worry, Wes, your virginity is very, very safe.
But instead of heading inside, she stepped in front of him. He had no choice but to look at her. No choice but to be sucked into Hurricane Cara.
“I bombed the job interview. The pie-baking one. The one that would be perfect. Explain that. How I did that. Me, who has been making pies forever. I could do it in my sleep. I put in too much salt. I burnt the edges. He was standing there staring at me, and everything went wrong when it never has before.” She poked him in the chest. “Explain that.”
“Bake the pies beforehand.” The way her tense expression morphed into shock was evidence enough that this had never occurred to her.
“Before...”
“If it’s the pressure that gets to you, bake it in a no-pressure zone. Then take it to him. If he’s the suspicious sort, have your sister watch you or video you or something.”
“But what if I get the job? I can’t video everything.”
“Tell him you’d rather use your own
kitchen. It’s not like you’re going to sit in his restaurant making pies to order. It takes too long, doesn’t it? You’ll want to make dough in batches, make the filling in batches, right? Like a diner.”
“How did you...? That never even... Why didn’t he...? Why didn’t I...?”
Here was the choice. One he usually didn’t struggle with, but Cara’s vulnerability under all the strength she didn’t seem to think she had made it hard to be the close-the-door-in-her-face kind of guy he would prefer to be. “I’ve spent a lot of time learning to avoid my anxiety triggers. You have an obstacle, you find a way to circumnavigate it. Defuse it.”
“Wes.” She said his name with wonder. As if he was helping or something, and that made him uncomfortable enough to bring the harsh side of him back out.
“What you don’t do is wimp out, then whine about it.”
Yeah, that snapped any sweet appreciation off her face as easily as a slap might have.
She crossed her arms over her chest. Which tugged the top of her tank top down a little. A strip of neon pink lace poked out from beneath it.
Stop looking.
“But if it is anxiety, which I’m not all that certain it is, I can’t make it go away.”
“Do you think I’m telling you that?” He pointed at Phantom, who was sitting uneasily off to the side. Assessing. “Dude with a therapy dog. I had military-required therapy and psychoanalysis. I’m saying you find a way to deal. It’s called coping. It’s healthy and whatever.”
“No offense, Wes, but you don’t strike me as the most mentally healthy guy.” She closed her eyes, and her mouth twisted in a pained expression. “Please, ignore me.”
“I keep trying.”
Her mouth quirked up. “I guess I’m not very good at fading into the background. But, um, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m not mentally healthy.” He was bitter, angry, frustrated. Then there was his physical health. “In fact, I’m a mess. Which—it is what it is. But you should know that. Accept it. You want to keep this job as your motivation, you’re going to have to understand this is me.”
She cocked her head, studying him in a way that made him want to squirm. Only calling on his military training kept him from doing it. He was tempted to stand at attention.
“You don’t scare me, you know.”
“I thought you folded under pressure.”
“Pressure. Expectation.” She frowned. “Hope. That’s when I fold, when I know I should be better. Fear? Well, I’m not afraid of people who can’t hurt me.”
“I could fire you.”
“You could, but for as much of a mess as you are, I don’t think you’re cruel.”
She had his number. “No.”
“Then, I’ll get back to it.” With that, she turned on a heel and waltzed into the house. His house, and yet again, he didn’t know what to do about it.
* * *
CARA GLANCED AT the clock. 4:28 p.m. Two more minutes, then she was out of this loony bin. Of course, she was coming back on Wednesday. And Thursday. Week after week.
Unless she started looking for work elsewhere, which was probably what she should do. Every time she thought of Wes saying, “Try harder,” she wanted to punch him. Right in the nerve damage.
But then she thought about the way he called himself a mess and she wanted to... She didn’t know. Something warm and fuzzy and foreign. Because usually when it came to messes, Cara steered way clear. She was not the clean-up-a-mess girl. She maybe could help if someone needed something easy, like Mia had. But not deep-seated-issue messes. She was a hey-wanna-slap-on-some-lipstick-and-drown-your-sorrows type.
Why the heckity heck was Wes different? Just because she had the hots for him? That was sad, even for her. She’d overlooked a guy’s flaws before, but they were usually flaws like he never paid for dinner or didn’t have a job.
Not, like, therapy dogs and war injuries. That was heavy stuff. Stuff to run away from so she didn’t make a situation worse, like she had during her brief relationship with James. And yet, given the chance with Wes, she hadn’t run. Nor had she made light of the situation.
She’d stood up to him.
Huh.
Two thuds interrupted her obsessing, and when she looked to the office entrance, Wes was standing there. His arms were crossed, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. For the first time, she could see that the scars on his hand went up the length of his forearm and disappeared beyond the sleeve.
She wasn’t supposed to look, but it was hard. She was curious. She wondered what he’d gone through, if it still hurt, if she could help.
“You can leave now.”
She wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. He’d hired her, but he didn’t want her here. Sometimes he acted as if he liked her—he’d given her a dog—and other times he acted as if she was gum on the bottom of his shoe. Try harder.
She should quit. That was the bottom line. She needed to quit and beg Miranda for her job at the salon back. Or find a whole different job. Somewhere in Millertown.
But then Sweetness yipped happily at her feet, and the desire to quit receded. He’d given her a dog. His dog. He wasn’t all bad. Just, well, like he said, a mess.
Maybe if she learned how to deal with someone else’s much harder mess, she’d figure out how to deal with her own.
“I’ll be back bright and early Wednesday morning.” She lifted her chin, daring him to argue.
He gave her the slightest of nods, and she got the distinct impression he was purposefully not saying anything.
That was fine and dandy. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to be friends. He could be gruff, silent boss man, and she would be A-plus administrative assistant lady.
She gathered up her things and clipped Sweetness’s leash onto her collar, but when she walked over to him so she could leave, he didn’t move out of the doorway. He blocked it, arms still crossed, all frowny and...
Hot. The word you are looking for is hot. She had no idea how, but his mountain man flannel and hair had become something of an obsession.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice so low and grumbly she barely made out the words.
It was possibly the most sincere apology she’d ever gotten. He was uncomfortable, and his enunciating could use some work, but that was what made it so genuine.
It wasn’t BS. It was very real. Very honest. She didn’t know what to do about that, except be honest back.
“You weren’t wrong, even if you were kind of jerky about it.”
“Yeah, well. I’m sorry for the jerky part.”
Sweetness tugged on the leash, obviously ready to get outside, but Cara wasn’t ready for it because she was still a little off-kilter from the apology. Instead of holding on tight and tugging back, she bumped right into Wes.
A hard wall of muscle. Yowza.
He gripped her elbow with his unscarred hand. “She needs some work on her obeying.”
I would gladly obey. Talking about a dog. Not her. Right. Cara swallowed. “Well, I should get her outside, huh?”
He maneuvered her via the arm he held, so they switched places. He was now in his office, and she was in the door frame.
“Right. Well. See you Wednesday.”
He nodded, giving no indication he felt any of the same crazy attraction electricity she got every time he was all whatever that was.
She should be glad he didn’t feel it, but she remembered the way he’d blushed when she asked him how she looked with the buttercups in her hair. He wasn’t immune, and she wanted to know why he insisted on pretending he was.
Except he was her boss and, of his own admission, not mentally healthy.
“Did you need something else?”
“Nope. I’m good,” she said brightly. Too brightly, but oh, well. He was always too grumpy, and she could be too cheerful. Maybe they’d balance each other out.
Hardy-har-har.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WES HAD A
LWAYS liked spring. The time between the chill of winter and the oppressive heat of summer. Growing up, there had been far too many extreme seasons where the use of heat was rationed and the use of air-conditioning did not happen. Period.
Spring had always been a relief. Warmth and sun and the promise of comfort for at least a few weeks. The promise of a new, fresh start that never really delivered, and yet he found himself hopeful, year after year.
The spring morning of the market swirled around him, almost promoting a good mood. The Millertown Farmers’ Market wasn’t as big as the one he sold at on Fridays, but the crowd was decent. A lot of them walked dogs. Which meant eventually they’d arrive at his booth.
Sometimes the prices scared people off, but mostly people couldn’t resist buying at least one treat for their furry companion.
He’d never be known as an outgoing, charming salesman. But he managed, because it wasn’t small talk or flirting or navigating difficult emotions. It was explaining how he made his treats, what benefit the ingredients offered and possibly complimenting a dog or two.
All things that came naturally to him, when so little did. It damn near made him cheerful.
Until a bright and cheery voice interrupted all the peace and quiet of people asking about the necessity of organic dog treats.
“’Morning, Wes.”
He tried to muster up some kind of armor for facing her outside the prescribed boundaries of work and his house. This was the market. It was still work, even if Cara wasn’t technically working for him at this very second.
“’Morning,” he offered, not at all pleasantly. He couldn’t help it. She had a short-sleeved shirt on, baring those long, slender arms and the occasional freckle. And she never had the decency to wear a shirt with one of those collars that went all the way up to the neck. No, always a deep V, an expanse of smooth white skin with a little beauty mark on her collarbone.
He wanted to touch her. He wanted his palms on her skin, and he knew that it couldn’t happen. He’d self-destruct even if it would. He couldn’t do it, and he knew he couldn’t do it, so fantasizing about it was becoming torture.
