“You’re married?” His question sounds more like an accusation.
“Engaged.”
“Engaged,” he repeats, and I nod. “He doesn't care that you’re staying with a man?”
“I just work here.” And I don’t see why he would care. My fiancé never gave me the time of day, so I still don’t understand why he insisted we get married.
He lets out a curse, looking madder by the second before he stomps out of the kitchen. A moment later I hear the front door slam. Well, if he wasn’t mad at me before, he is now.
Too bad I have no idea why.Chapter FourClayI sleep like shit, so when it’s finally an acceptable hour to get out of bed I’m on my feet. My shower is cold, and my towel is rough and most mornings it doesn’t bother me. But today I feel like my skin is sensitive. Everything that touches it feels uncomfortable and I don’t like it.
I fucked around in the barn last night until it was way past midnight and I thought Dorothy would be asleep. Dotty. That little bundle piece came out of that car and walked in this house like she belonged here. The goddamn problem is that she looked like she did.
A city girl with clean jeans and sandals, wearing a too-tight sweater, looked like she fit right in even though this place is a pigsty. I’d never really felt ashamed of my home before because my excuse was that I worked too hard to come home and wash a plate, but seeing her staring at my mess made me want to apologize. But what did I do instead? Oh yeah, stomped out of there like a cat with its tail caught in a barn door and hid out of sight until she was asleep.
I hung my head in shame as I went to bed, not even bothering to turn on the lights. God, I did so much to update this place, but the past few months have been hard. It’s not that I can’t keep up, but I just keep working myself to the bone every day, and I’ve let things go. I thought by hiring a live-in cleaner it would help, but now I just feel like a failure.
After I pull on my jeans without bothering to put on underwear, I grab a white shirt off the top of the dresser. I haven’t done laundry in so long, I’m used to not wearing underwear anymore, and white shirts are cheap and easy to come by.
I tiptoe past the guest room, carrying my boots in my hand so I don’t wake her up. I pause at her door for a second, and the image of that fucking ring on her finger flashes in my mind. I turn away quickly and make my way downstairs. I’ve never spent time thinking on what it would be like to have a woman, but I’d burn my farm to the ground before I let her sleep in another man’s home. I didn’t realize I could have that kind of anger, and the reaction to her ring surprised me.
I’m lost in my thoughts when I get to the kitchen and don’t realize the light is on. I stop mid-step when I see Dotty in front of the stove frying up some country ham and gravy.
“Good morning.” She smiles over at me, and my chest tightens.
I open my mouth to say something, but I think I might be having a heart attack.
She’s got her blond hair in a messy bun with no makeup on. She’s got on an oversized T-shirt, long plaid sleep pants and she’s barefoot. There’s nothing sexy about what she has on, but I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
Her honey-wheat eyes meet mine, and for a second I can see it. I can see her here in this house as my bride and the mother of my babies. I picture her down here every morning in the kitchen, barefoot and smiling at me as I leave for the day. I can almost feel her warm body pressed against mine as I hold her and just absorb her love into me before I have to go.
But the shine on her ring catches my attention, and the vision evaporates like smoke.
I nod as I walk past her and over to the small table in the kitchen because I never eat in the dining room. I pull on my boots and it’s then I glance around and see the kitchen is clean. All the dishes have been put away, and there’s no trace of my mess. God, how long has she been awake, or did she do this last night while I was gone?
“You hungry?” she asks, holding out the spatula to her side with her other hand on her round hip.
“Yeah.” I sit back and she serves up a plate with homemade biscuits, and my stomach rumbles. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything homemade that wasn’t me opening a can.