Arrogant Devil

  “Yes I’m back!” I shout back, annoyed with this Marty person for being such a narc. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about! I got to the store and back just fine, no thanks to that rust bucket your ranch hands lent me!”

  “That truck runs just fine when I drive it!”

  “Yeah, the engine’s probably running from you like everyone else around here!”

  Edith throws her hands in the air. “That’s enough shouting! Jack either come down here and talk to Meredith like a normal human being or get back to work. Lunch won’t be ready for another thirty minutes!”

  “Forty,” I whisper.

  “Forty minutes!” she corrects.

  Jack’s footsteps clomp back into his office, and Edith and I exchange a conspiratorial smile.

  Forty minutes later on the dot, Jack and his grandmother sit down for a lunch of summer kale salad, cauliflower rice, and baked salmon.

  I stand at the end of the table, twisting a towel in my hand and waiting for them to take their first bites. They both stare at the food like it’s some kind of alien sustenance.

  “There’s not a potato on this plate,” Jack points out.

  “I think you’ll like the cauliflower. It’s rich and garlicky.”

  “Is this the first course?” he asks, peering up at me from beneath his dark brows.

  “Jack, don’t be so rude,” Edith scolds. “Meredith, sit down and eat with us.”

  “Oh, I’ve been eating this whole time—y’know, checking the seasoning levels.”

  “Eat s’more then,” she demands. “You’re too skinny.”

  I laugh. “Where I come from, that’s a compliment.”

  Truthfully, I could eat. I’m starving, but I’m aware of the fact that Jack hasn’t asked me to join them. In fact, his body language sends the exact opposite message. If we were in elementary school, he’d drop his backpack on the empty seat beside him and proclaim loudly, Seat’s taken.

  I take the hint and leave them to it. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish organizing the groceries.”

  “Thank you for lunch,” Edith says. “It looks very…exotic.”

  I shake my head as I walk back into the kitchen.

  There’s silence for a few minutes as forks and knives meet plates. I start to organize the groceries in the pantry, but my ears are trained on the dining room, listening for feedback.

  “The salmon’s really good,” Edith says.

  Jack grunts.

  “I notice you’ve nearly cleared your plate there,” she points out.

  “A man’s gotta eat.”

  “Uh-huh. You’ve about licked it clean—I’m sure Meredith would give you seconds if you asked.”

  I can’t hear any conversation after that, and then a few minutes later, Jack walks into the kitchen with both of their plates. There’s not a speck of food left on either.

  I hold out my hands to take them from him, but he steps around me.

  My brows jump to my hairline, but I keep my lips zipped.

  He opens the dishwasher and bends down to load their plates and silverware. I don’t stare at his butt in his worn Wranglers, and I definitely don’t snap my gaze away before he stands and turns to face me. He drops his hands onto the counter and leans forward. I busy myself by folding a towel and hanging it over the side of the sink. I pick at a speck of dirt on the counter. I open a cabinet, look inside, and then close it again. It’s clear he wants me to stop what I’m doing and give him my attention, but I can’t do it. Everything inside of me wants to fight him tooth and nail, even for something as simple as this.

  “So the truck gave you some trouble?”

  His tone is the same one my parents used when they knew I’d done something wrong but they wanted me to fess up to it myself. Meredith, do you know what could’ve happened to the entire sleeve of Oreos?

  No clue, I’d mumble through pursed lips, cheeks bursting at the seams, teeth looking like an active coal mine.

  “Nope. No trouble at all.”

  “That’s strange, because Marty—a trusted friend—asked me if I’d had any trucks stolen by a raven-haired woman.”

  I suppose Marty, with his level of observational detail, must be the sketch artist at the local police department. I have no choice but to adjust my current strategy of denial.

  “Ohhh, he must’ve seen me when I pulled over to admire the wildflowers.”

  “What kind?”

  “Sunflowers.”

  “I haven’t seen any yet this year.”

  “They were massive, big as your head.” I spot the obvious flaw in my plan and sidestep it masterfully. “Somebody was out mowing though, so they’re probably all gone now.”

  “Y’know, it’s an old truck. It could have given anyone a hard time.”

  He’s playing good cop, trying to bait me into an easy confession. I turn and give him a blank, innocent stare.

  He tips his head to the side.

  I mimic him.

  He puts his hands on his hips, and so do I.

  He narrows his eyes, and I mirror the gesture.

  Finally, he cracks. When he’s gone, I’ll pump my fist in the air in victory.

  “Next time come get the keys for my truck.”

  His truck?

  “Is it from the Stone Age or the Bronze Age?”

  He heaves a heavy sigh like he’s lost all his patience with me—that, or he’s trying not to laugh.

  “It’s brand new.”

  “And you’d trust me with it?”

  “Do I have a reason not to?”

  His gaze is so warm, and yet so cold all at once. Meeting it makes me feel like a tiny fist is punching me repeatedly in the gut. I’m surprised I still sound normal as I ask, “What’d you think of lunch?”

  He shrugs, glancing down at the shirt I have knotted off at my waist, yet another of his hand-me-downs. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly before his gaze finds mine again. “I don’t usually like salmon.”

  There’s a compliment in there somewhere, but I’d have to use a pickaxe to find it.

  “Right, well, I saved the skin. It’s good for dogs.”

  His brows rise as if he’s impressed. “Going to give it to Alfred?”

  “Give it, drop it out back through the cracked door—tomato-tomahto.”

  He shakes his head and pushes off the counter. “We really gotta work on that fear of yours.”

  “Total avoidance is working out pretty well,” I quip. “I’ll just continue that forever.”

  “Forever, huh? Strong words for someone on their second day.”

  I try not to smile. “That’s how long I plan to stay—either that or until we’re so sick of each other that you fire me.”

  “That’s how you think this is gonna end?”

  Now we’re both fighting smiles. “I won’t be quitting, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  He rubs the back of his neck as he turns for the back door. “We’ll see.”

  It’s a cheeky little sendoff, and just like with everything else concerning Jack, it digs under my skin. We’ll see, I mouth snarkily to his back like a snotty grade-schooler, all the while watching him walk away. He reaches for his baseball cap on the hook by the door, slips it on over his chestnut brown hair, and then he’s gone.

  Later that evening, after I’m done working for the day, I find an envelope tucked halfway underneath the door of the shack. Inside, there’s a small advance: $500 in cash.

  Jack’s jagged handwriting adorns the front of the envelope: Stop wearing my clothes.

  10

  Jack

  With summer in full swing, we’re right in the middle of our busy season for Blue Stone, and the restaurant is more popular than ever. This morning I went over there to meet with the head chef and the GM, and I approved a new seating layout so we can fit a few more tables out on the back porch.

  Our vineyard and winery have been expanding for the last few years as well. I’ve been working on opening up a d
istribution channel between us and a few regional grocery store chains, but we’re still working out the terms. The dry weather last year hit us hard, and we weren’t sure we’d be able to keep up with supply. Funny enough, the shortage sparked more interest than usual, and what wine we were able to stock sold out as soon as it hit shelves. I’ve hired a few more growers to ensure that this season fares better than the last.

  The manager for our wedding venue assures me we have more events booked than ever, says brides are having to inquire a year in advance to secure their desired dates, and even then, most of the highly coveted weekends are already double-booked with a wedding in the morning and another in the evening.

  The fact is, with everything going on with the various Blue Stone businesses, I rarely find time to step out from behind my desk. It’s a shame considering how much I enjoy working outside, so I take advantage of every opportunity I can get—like right now, I’m in the middle of an all-hands meeting, checking in with the guys about the progress on a few projects around the ranch.

  Too bad not a single one of them is listening to me. A few yards away, Meredith is stealing the show.

  She’s out on the front porch with Alfred, attempting to conquer her fear by treating him to some of the salmon skin from yesterday’s lunch.

  “Sit!”

  Alfred sits for two seconds, gets overwhelmed with self-pride for obeying, and then leaps excitedly at her outstretched hand.

  “I said sit! Sit!”

  The problem is she’s holding the treat way over her head to keep it out of his reach, but he thinks she’s giving him a challenge: Oh! You want me to jump higher?!

  “Very bad!” she admonishes, wagging her finger as if he’s fluent in sign language. “I’ll feed it to you as soon as you can hold a sit for more than a blink!”

  He jumps up again and she squeals and flings the salmon skin away like it’s a hot potato. Alfred makes it disappear in two seconds.

  It’s pitiful. None of us can look away.

  “Where’d you find her, anyway?” Garrett, my ranch manager, asks. “They got mail-order California brides now?”

  “She’s his new housekeeper,” Chris, my youngest ranch hand, interjects. “She just started a few days ago.”

  He’s wearing a proud smile I find confusing.

  Garrett wags his thumb toward her. “Why’s she wearing your shirt?”

  Yes, why is she wearing my shirt? I groan thinking of the note I left on her doorstep yesterday afternoon. Apparently she decided to disregard it. Even worse, it looks like she’s actually cut the sleeves off of this one. Now I don’t even want it back.

  “So is she a Russian bride or is she single?” someone else asks, inciting a round of snickers.

  All heads spin to me as if they’ve been waiting for the answer to that question all day. A few of them rub their necks from whiplash.

  I answer swiftly, tacking on my most gruff tone, the one that makes them pee their pants. “She is nobody’s goddamn business. Show her some respect and get back to work.”

  I catch Chris smiling, seemingly happy with me for sticking up for her. What the hell is wrong with him?

  I get my answer when he and David catch up to me as I’m walking back toward the farmhouse.

  “Hey boss, is there any lumber we could use to fix up that shack you’ve tucked Miss Meredith away in? I figure we could patch up the floor pretty quick, shouldn’t take longer than a day or two.”

  “First of all, why are you calling her Miss Meredith like she’s your mommy’s friend? Second, what are you talking about?”

  They exchange a glance like, here we go again, and then David speaks up. “Which part are you confused about? The lumber or the—”

  “Who said anything about fixing up the shack?”

  Chris’ eyes go wide. “Haven’t you been inside there lately? There are gaps in the floorboards this far apart.” He stretches his arms out as wide as they’ll go. It’s an exaggeration…I think. “A snake could crawl in sideways.”

  David nods. “Not to mention, it’s about to get hot as hell. Once we fix the floors, we could drop in a window unit from the hardware store. They’re pretty cheap these days—”

  I hold up my hand so they’ll both shut their yaps. “Why do you two care? You don’t even know her.”

  Chris frowns, clearly offended. “We met her yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah? Now y’all are buddies?”

  He shrugs. “I gave her directions to the grocery store.”

  “And now she has y’all running around working for her?”

  He stops walking and props his hands on his hips. David follows suit. “Oh no, she didn’t ask—just seems like the right thing to do. You know she made us muffins this morning, brought ’em out to all the guys, still warm from the oven, just like Gammy used to make.”

  What is going on? When did all my ranch hands go soft? And why didn’t I get any of these muffins?

  “So what do you think?” Chris asks, his eyes comically large and brimming with hope.

  “We’ll do it on our own time if that’s the problem,” David adds.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  They beam, and I leave them there like two little love-struck schoolboys.

  Meredith is sitting on the porch steps, soaking up the sun and watching me approach. When I get within earshot, she holds up her hands. “Before you accuse me of slacking on the job, I’m taking my fifteen-minute break. I asked around and all the guys said we’re allowed two a day.”

  I tip my head down to hide my amusement. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Oh sure.”

  I reach the stairs and crouch down to pet Alfred, who’s lounging on the grass there. “I’m surprised you’re sitting so close to him.”

  “It’s intentional. I’m trying immersion therapy.”

  I peer up at her and squint to keep the sun out of my eyes.

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  She shrugs and scoots a smidge away from him, trying to play it off like she was just readjusting her seat. “It’s not so bad now that his attention is on you.”

  I make a point to scratch his belly so he’ll roll onto his back. His tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth and his hind leg starts to kick the air.

  “Well now you’re just showing off,” she says in a clipped tone.

  “I promise you, he’s a lover, not a fighter.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they say pets are a reflection of their owners, but I guess there must be some exceptions.”

  I turn to see her lean back on the stairs, a coy smile hinting that she was teasing, not trying to land a punch. I should push to stand and get back to work, but I’m stuck focusing on the sprinkling of freckles across the brim her nose. Were they there when she first showed up?

  “The guys said you brought them muffins this morning.”

  She tips her head to the side and her smile fades. “If I say I did, will I get in trouble?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know, you sounded kind of annoyed just then.”

  I frown. “I think that’s just my default tone.”

  She laughs at that—a rich, warm laugh that stops me in my tracks. My gaze hitches on the deep dimple dotting the left side of her smile. When she notices me staring, she clears her throat and motions back to the house.

  “I saved one for you, though it wasn’t easy—Edith already sniffed out the two I hid behind the breadbox.” I don’t think she can tell how shocked I am by the gesture because she continues nonchalantly. “I could bring it up to your office with some coffee.”

  “I thought you were resisting the notion of waiting on me hand and foot?”

  She looks away, eyes narrowing. “If you don’t want it, just say so.”

  That hurt expression twists my insides, and my first instinct is to fall to my knees and beg for that damn muffin, but I c
atch myself. What the hell am I doing, standing here and chatting? I shouldn’t be warming up to Meredith. I shouldn’t be letting my guard down with her at all. She’s a heartbreaker. She’s spoiled and flighty. If Helen is to be believed, she left her husband to teach him some kind of bratty lesson. I’d be wise to keep my distance, even if that means hurting her feelings to do it.

  I push to stand. “Yeah, I had a big breakfast. You can give it to Edith.”

  Later at lunch, Meredith sets down another one of her healthy meals. This time there’s baked chicken, asparagus, and some kind of tiny grain that looks like it should be sprinkled into a fish tank.

  “Couscous,” she announces softly.

  I feel my mouth turn down with disdain and have to fight against it.

  Still, she senses my reluctance. “It’s wheat, country boy. Give it a try. I promise you’ll like it.”

  Edith pats the empty place setting beside her. “Take a seat and eat with us.”

  If she wasn’t my grandmother, I’d kick her shin under the table. What is it with her and Meredith? Edith never tried this hard to be friendly with our old housekeeper.

  I aim daggers at her, but she’s too busy making googly eyes at Meredith to notice, so I have no choice but to speak up. “Mary never used to eat lunch with us.”

  Meredith bristles at the comment and spins on her heel to head back into the kitchen.

  There. Problem solved.

  Edith sends me a scathing look from across the table. When I was younger, that look would have made me recoil in fear. I’m surprised it hasn’t completely lost its effect.

  “That’s because Mary used to prefer watching Jerry Springer up in her room during lunch.”

  I shrug and scoop a pile of couscous onto my spoon. Here goes nothing. “It’s better this way. I’m still pretty sure she’ll be gone in a week anyway. There’s no sense in getting friendly with her.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Believe me, you’re in no danger of that.”

  I straighten my shoulders, fish food forgotten. “You think I’m being too hard on her?”