Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

After that, I went through the filing cabinets and found all the financials organized by year and then sorted into months. I spread out the last three years’ worth of documents, receipts, and all the other paperwork. To my surprise, I found it surprisingly well kept. I did feel guilty for that thought after. Becki might be messy, but when does she have time to clean?

In just four days, I’ve come to realize she does the work of at least ten people. She probably knows every little detail about every animal in her care. When she’s not in the barn, she’s either making something to eat and eating it on the run or coming into the office to check on stuff online—probably her fundraisers or updating her social media sites. She goes to bed early, most likely because she’s exhausted, but she also gets up ungodly early.

I always thought I worked hard, but Becki makes me look lazy in comparison.

Reviewing the financials takes me until six in the evening, and Becki still isn’t home. I don’t know if I should worry. Even if I should worry, should I worry?

I basically come to the same conclusion that Becki already had. She can’t afford to hire someone. Thinking about it while I sip a cup of coffee in the messy living room—and what I mean by messy is that the place looks like it was attacked by a tornado spewing trash everywhere which was never cleaned up and also mixed in with the old, slightly ratty couch, reclining chair, beat-up coffee tables, and ancient artwork, it’s not pretty—leads me to make a decision.

Becki can’t hire someone, and she’s working as hard as she possibly can, doing as much as one person humanly could. I learned from the financials that she doesn’t pay herself anything. All the money goes to the sanctuary. I’m not sure how she pays for her groceries or anything else she needs unless she has savings, or maybe her friends and family help her out.

After going through all the paperwork, I needed a cup of coffee. It’s late in the day, but I brew one anyway. The living room overlooks the driveway, and I tell myself I’m just resting my eyes and not actually watching for Becki to come home. If I’m waiting, maybe I’m just anxious for the animals.

I’m just about at the bottom of my cup and debating a second round when Becki’s car comes down the driveway. She parks in front of the house but doesn’t come in. Instead, she heads straight to the barn. I debate bothering her out there, but I don’t think she’d appreciate it, so I turn around and decide to wait until she comes in.

With one quick look around, I let out a sigh and start picking things up in the living room—mostly the same garbage I picked up in the office. This might be the first time I’ve picked up anything in a long while, and it’s not because I’m lazy and rely on my housekeepers back in New York. I’m just not really home often enough to make a mess.

That thought is more than mildly depressing. I’ve been away from the office for exactly five days now, counting the day I got here, and already, I feel like a different person—not just in a different world but a different person in a different world.

When I finish the living room, I start working on cleaning the kitchen. I wash and dry all the dishes by hand since there isn’t any dishwasher.

Becki still hasn’t come in, and if she has a kitten with her, I’m both curious and concerned. I mean, everyone likes kittens, don’t they?

I throw on my boots—yes, I thankfully managed to make it through today without ending up stuck in any more fences—and walk out to the barn. It still isn’t dark yet, thanks to summer, so it’s easy to see where I’m walking. Unlike some barns, the front door of this barn isn’t one of those massive rolling wood doors. There is a big door, but there is also a regular door, and so—I told you I was smart—I go through that one.

All the lights inside the barn are switched on even though there are big windows along the one side to let in lots of light. It smells like a barn in there. Haha. Well, of course it does. But really, it does. At the moment, I’m not sure why people use it as a negative thing because it smells like sweet hay mixed with the musk of different animals, but it’s not bad. It’s earthy and warm, and I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I dare say, it’s also comforting—the sound of animals chewing their dinner echoes through the whole space.

Both sides of the barn are lined with stalls or pens or whatever they’re called, and some are larger while others are quite small. There is a supply room at the front that’s open, and it has all sorts of animal equipment plus things like shovels, gloves, and extra boots. A huge cabinet stands at the far end of the room with little bottles and bandages, and there’s also a fridge where other medication or food is probably kept. The larger room beside that has collapsible tables set up, and bags of feed are lined up neatly next to the wire rack shelving. The barn is complete with a hayloft—look at me go, because I’m sure that’s what it’s called—but there isn’t anything up there.