Arrogant Devil

It’s great so far, lots of murder and blood—everything a girl needs—but I’m having trouble focusing on it because it’s so damn hot in here. The sun is on its way down for the day, but the air is still humid and stifling. I took an ice-cold shower after work then put on one of Jack’s t-shirts, and instead of knotting it, I’m wearing it like a dress while my jeans hang up to dry. I finally got around to washing them, but this weekend I have plans to go into town and spend a little bit of my advance on some shorts. I can hardly wait.

I push the window open and stick my face out, hoping for some cool wind, but instead, I’m greeted with stale, warm air. A bead of sweat rolls slowly down my forehead. This is ridiculous. Texas is a sauna. In California, it’s probably a breezy 70 degrees. At this moment, a woman is out with her boyfriend and begging him for his jacket. He’s annoyed she didn’t bring one of her own. I didn’t realize it’d be so cold! Boyfriends in Texas must not have this problem.

Without another thought, I rip my book off my bed and fling the shack’s door open. I’m aware that Jack’s t-shirt cuts off pretty high on my thighs, but I don’t care. The idea of shoving my legs into wet jeans makes me want to dry heave. Besides, no one’s going to see me in this ensemble anyway. The guys are already gone for the day since ranch work starts early and ends early, and I’m pretty sure I saw Jack’s truck drive off an hour or two ago, so there’s no reason to suffocate myself in the hot tub I call home.

If there was a pool on the property, I’d jump into it head first. I’d stay there, floating on my back until the sun burns out. As it is, I’m aiming for a hammock nestled under two oak trees behind the house. I spotted it my first day on the ranch, but I haven’t seen anyone use it. It might be a little dirty, but I don’t mind. My hope is that if I really get it swinging, I’ll generate a little air flow to cool me down. If not, I’m marching into Jack’s house and Tetrising my entire body into the freezer. I’ll happily perish beside the frozen peas—just the thought sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.

I relish the feel of the soft grass beneath my bare feet as I make my way across the yard. I decide this is already infinitely better than the shack, right up until I hear a low whistle that says, Hey there, pretty lady.

My attention snaps to the left, toward the barn, and I freeze mid-step.

A group of ranch hands are circled around the front of the ancient truck I drove to the grocery store the other day, apparently working on it. Two of them are already staring in my direction—Chris and another boy about his age that I haven’t met yet. Chris’ eyes go wide and then he quickly averts his gaze as if I’m tiptoeing around outside in lingerie instead of a loose t-shirt. The other ranch hand doesn’t look away, and I’d bet money the whistle came from him. He’s focused on my bare legs like they’re two juicy cheeseburgers and he’s starving. The third ranch hand—the one with his head tucked under the hood of the truck—finally steps back and pauses his work. With a start, I realize it’s Jack. He wipes the grease from his hands with a rag and mutters something I can’t hear. Neither of the guys respond. He looks up to find them distracted then follows the gaze of the second man right…to…me. When he finds me standing in the middle of the lawn, my knees nearly buckle.

I do the only thing I can think of: hold up my book as if to say, Hello kind fellow, nothing to see here, just doing a bit of light reading.

He scowls, and just like that, the look is completed. It’s the perfect cowboy fantasy I never knew I had: he’s over there working on a farm truck with grease-stained hands, the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw, his dark hair winging out from beneath his backward baseball hat. His t-shirt is stretched tight over his chest and his dark jeans are so worn in, I bet they’re perfectly molded to his thighs. His dark eyes warn me away. In fact, they do more than that. They’re a visual growl, rumbling in the waning light, but I can’t seem to take heed because in that moment, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s a problem.

A major problem.

He catches the ranch hand still focused on me and smacks him in the back of the head, knocking his cowboy hat off. The boy scurries to pick it up and make his apologies, and I use the opportunity to turn tail back toward the shack as fast as possible. My legs move so quick, I break the sound barrier and a random window four miles away shatters as a result.

Once I’m there, I throw the door closed behind me and start pacing. I get it; it doesn’t look good. He already thinks so little of me—hell, he probably thinks I’m some kind of west coast nudist, forcing my liberalism on these good Christian people.

There’s a heavy knock on the door a second later, and I curse and squeeze my eyes closed.

“Meredith,” Jack says, pounding again. “Open up.”

“No!” I shout back. “I’m busy.”

“I just saw for a fact that you are not busy.”

“I’m busy not dealing with this right now!”

“Bullshit. We need to talk.”

“Fine!” I groan. “Okay!”

I reach for the jeans, which are still hanging up to dry, and try to yank them on. I get them up to my knees, but they won’t go any higher; they’re too wet and tight. DID I HAVE TO LEAVE MY HUSBAND IN A PAIR OF SKINNY JEANS!? I hop around, yanking as hard as I can. I’m Ross Geller trying to stuff his sweaty gams into those leather pants, but it’s no use. The jeans won’t budge, and Jack is growing more impatient outside.

“Meredith!”

“Just hold on a minute!”

I lie back on my bed and tug with all my might, and finally the denim starts to work with me. YES YES YES. I zip and button them, leap off the bed, and fling the door open with an angry huff.

Jack breezes right past me and stomps into the shack so heavily that the fragile walls quake. It’ll be a fitting end, both of us suffocating under the rubble. Just as we’re gasping for our last breaths, I’ll offer to make peace, and very quietly, he’ll whisper back, Go to hell.

“Yes please,” I mock rudely. “Invite yourself in and make yourself at home.”

He turns to face me.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, flinging his arm toward the yard.

I scowl. “That was an accident. I thought I was alone.”

“Alone!?” He shakes his head like I’m a certifiable idiot then takes two deliberate steps closer to me. I’m made aware of how small I am by comparison. I have to tip my head back to meet his brown eyes. I’m a child standing at the feet of a giant. “Let me make something perfectly clear: this is a working ranch. You’ll never be alone on this property. Also, you’re a young female employee—correction: the young female employee. It’s hard enough trying to keep the guys in line, and then you go out there dressed like that!”

I fist my hands in my damp hair, resisting the urge to scream as I shout up to him. “I get it, okay?! I’m not an idiot. It was an honest mistake and it won’t happen again.” I walk to the door, yank it open, and motion for him to get out. “Now if you’re done yelling at me, I’d like to try to salvage the rest of my evening.”

He doesn’t budge, and his angry scowl only deepens. His gaze is on his t-shirt. “I thought I told you to stop wearing my clothes.”

“I plan on it, as soon as I get some of my own.”

“When’s that gonna be?”

“This weekend.”

For a few seconds, neither one of us speaks. In fact, we don’t even breathe. We stand there, staring each other down. His hands are on his hips. There’s a deep line etched between his dark eyebrows, and that line says, You’re more trouble than you’re worth.

I’m staring up, memorizing every tan contour, when he suddenly breaks. He puffs out a heavy sigh and pinches the front of his shirt so he can tug on it and get a little air down his collar.

“Shit, it’s hot in here.”

“See?!”

I want to wrap my hands around his neck and shake him like a doll, but it would only annoy me more when he wouldn’t budge. Maybe if I throw my whole weight into it like I’m trying to break down a door…