Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“What’s the problem? You don’t like dogs?” the grouchy one asked.
“I like dogs,” I replied sharply. I loved dogs as a matter of fact and resented the snide look he gave me. “I just don’t think there’s any room for me to sit in the cab––unless you’d like for me to ride in the flatbed?”
“Listen up, babydoll. If you plan on living with me, you better get used to them. Now, are you getting in or not? I’ve got work to do.”
Had he said work? I would’ve sworn on a Bible that Scott did not have that word in his vocabulary either.
“What kind of dogs are they?”
“Irish Wolfhounds. C’mon, in you go.”
With a hand on my lower back, he nudged me forward while holding open the door of the truck. I took a few more reluctant steps, glanced inside again, and noticed that the top of the dogs’ heads grazed the ceiling of the cab.
“Are they friendly?”
“Romeo and Juliet are lapdogs.” Then, turning to the dogs, “Kids, meet your new stepmonster.”
I mean, really? I threw a glare askance and squeezed onto the bench seat of the truck with a tiny flutter of fear in my belly. Not for nothing but the dog’s head was bigger than mine. “Nice, doggo. Sweet, doggo.”
The dog next to me––the one practically sitting in my lap––panted in my face, a pink tongue as long as a tube sock hanging out the side of his mouth. And then the smell hit me. I’d bet a hundred bucks they hadn’t been washed in months.
“What’s that smell?” I asked as Scott climbed behind the wheel. There were so many competing pungent odors I couldn’t say which one was worse.
“That’s the sweet scent of ranch life, Mrs. Blackstone,” he shot back with a cynical smirk. “Better get used to it.”
Smelled like bullshit to me, both literally and metaphorically, but I kept the commentary to myself.
He tore out of the Four Seasons’ driveway like his ass was on fire. The dogs slammed into me, I slammed into the door handle. There’d be bruises later but I didn’t make a sound. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Scott Blackstone had no idea who he was dealing with. I’d let him discover it in due time.
* * *
“This is the southern pasture. We graze our cattle by rotation method, try to raise our beef to leave the smallest footprint on the environment as possible…”
I leaned forward, to get a direct line of sight on him since the dogs were in the way, and found a perfectly bland expression on his face. He’d been talking for hours. Hoouuurs. He’d shown me the barn, the stables, the storage buildings, the pastures, the pens. He’d explained that the Lazy S Ranch was named for the Lazy Snake River that ran through the property and not Lazy Scott as I’d assumed. An honest mistake when one knew the owner. He’d described every freaking blade of grass he owned.
There was no denying the drop-dead beauty of the place. God had pulled out all the stops with Wyoming. But it was early afternoon and we hadn’t stopped for a cup of water yet. Not even a potty break! Thus, my appreciation for the magnificence of Mother Nature was hidden under a thick coat of resentment and a truckload of low blood sugar. I was starving and it was dropping faster than Kong off the Empire State Building.
The truck dipped and bounced. “…getting car sick?” he shouted over the music blasting from the radio. Kelsea Ballerini was singing something about some guy never growing up, calling him Peter Pan. Which basically summed up the man sitting two dogs down from me.
We’d driven over muddy land and ditches, over hills, and bushland. It was a miracle we hadn’t gotten stuck yet, and I was starting to wish we had because I’d be going Kong on him soon if he didn’t cease this obnoxious game he was playing.
“…hello?”
Was he still talking? I’d tuned him out an hour ago, when my bladder started to speak up.
“Did you say something?” I absently queried as I glanced down at my phone for the umpteenth time, the coverage still spotty. That had to be remedied immediately if I was going to live here for any length of time. The work was paramount. Wouldn’t it be the cruelest fate of all if I married the manchild and then was vetoed as CEO because the quality of my work fell off? That would definitely be grounds for spousal homicide.
My phone finally rang and one glance at the screen told me it was the lawyer representing my grandmother’s estate, not the office as I was hoping. I sent it straight to voicemail. He’d been trying to get a hold of me for weeks, since my grandmother passed, and so far, I’d done my best to avoid him. This was after I’d explained in a lengthy email that I wanted nothing from her––from them. And yet the phone calls hadn’t stopped.