Jerk: A Bad Boy Romance (3 page)

“What is it with you and my boobs?” My blood turned to steam. “Asshole!” I grabbed his stupid thermos and bag of whatever and shoved them at his chest. “Get out.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a pastry?” he asked. “I bought cream-filled. Your favorite.”

“You mean,
your
favorite,” I shot back, venom darkening my voice. Then I realized the terrible mistake I’d made.

Our gazes tangled.

His cocky grin widened.

“You got that right. I love
cream
.” He licked his lips.

What a sick bastard.

I wanted to smack that smug look right off his ridiculously gorgeous face. But I didn’t. Because I knew that was exactly what he wanted. He loved to push my buttons. I was not going to give him the satisfaction.

I stabbed a finger at the door. “Out.”

“Sure, anything you say, boss.”

“Yes, that’s better. Boss. I am your boss. Remember that. I sign your paychecks.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He moseyed out the door. The ancient wooden screen door slammed shut behind his ass with a satisfying
smack
.

My stomach rumbled.

Shit. I had nothing to eat but pickles. And no car. But there was no way I could accept one of Clay’s cream-filled pastries. Or any of that delicious smelling coffee. No matter how much I needed caffeine.

Which I did. Desperately.

I dragged my still groggy self back to the bedroom and eyed the rumpled bed with regret. How I wanted to dive back in that soft, comfy bed and go back to sleep! I wanted that almost more than anything.

But I couldn’t. It was now almost six o’clock and my stomach was screaming at me to get something in it. Not to mention Elvis, the rooster, was going to make sure I didn’t get another wink of sleep until tonight. Little bastard. He was still cock-a-doodle-doing like his freaking life depended upon waking everyone within at least a five mile radius.

If he kept that up, maybe I’d cook him for dinner tonight. Roasted rooster. Yum.

My stomach growled louder.

So what if I’m a vegetarian. A girl’s got to eat.

I dug through my boxes for some clothes, quickly changed and headed outside in search of something to eat. It was too early in the season for any of the berries or fruit. The garden area was an untilled patch of weeds.

But clucking came from the hen house.

Now that was a sweet, sweet sound!

Clucking hens equaled eggs. Fresh eggs. Scrumptious eggs. Eggs were on my okay-to-eat list. They didn’t have a face.

I scurried to the wooden hen house and ducked inside, sneezing at the dust and feathers. Eyes watering, I poked around in the straw nested in each box, looking for eggs.

I found one.

One?

Surely there had to be more. There were at least ten chickens cackling and scratching around my ankles.

I checked again, actually lifting the clumps of straw and inspecting each compartment. The girls squawked, pecking at my shoes, tugging at shoelaces.

The door swung open and Clay caught me red handed, my hand shoved under the ass of one pissed-off hen.

“I heard the commotion and thought I’d better check. There’s been a coyote eatin’ the hens. Saw the door hanging open and thought it might’ve gotten in again.” He took a step back. “But I see it’s no coyote.”

“Why aren’t these birds laying?” I displayed the single egg I found as I pushed past the chicken police. The instant I stepped outside I sneezed, bobbling the egg in my palm.

“Too old,” Clay said.

“Too old? What?”

“The hens. They’re too old. Sandee knew they weren’t laying anymore. But she couldn’t get it in her to slaughter them. She said she was an old bird too, and didn’t want anyone snappin’ her neck just because she was too old to lay eggs.”

Now, that sounded like my aunt. I felt myself smiling, despite my hunger. “I see.” I carried my one egg with great care as I made a beeline for the house. “Well, I guess I’ll figure out what to do about that later.” I yanked open the door and headed straight to the kitchen.

Skillet. Yes.

Butter? No, no fresh butter.

And no patience to milk a cow and make some.

No biggie. I’d fry the damn thing dry. I didn’t care.

I clunked the old cast iron pan onto the stove and lit the burner. Flames flared. I cracked the egg and it plopped onto the pan. Within seconds the whites were sizzling and the air was filling with the mouthwatering scent of fried egg.

Being reasonably well seasoned, the pan wasn’t totally dry. But it was pure hell getting the cooked egg off the surface. By the time I killed the heat, much of it was permanently glued to the black metal. I grabbed a spoon and scraped off as much as I could and stuffed it into my mouth. I’d tasted better but I didn’t give a damn. It was food. Protein. And right now it was all I was going to get.

Thank God one of the girls had laid an egg for me.

Hardly feeling satisfied, but grateful nonetheless, I headed back outside to start the chores. I found Clay sitting on top of a tractor, still stuffing his face.

From my brief inspection of the books, I knew I was paying that man a decent amount of money per hour. As far as I could tell, he’d spent most of that hour packing away baked goods. On my dime.

I pointed at him. “From now on, you start work at seven-thirty.”

He checked his watch. “Okay, boss. Seven-thirty it is.” Then he took another monster bite of baked heaven. I had to swallow hard because of all the drool collecting in my mouth, watching him. Not that it was his fault I was starving and he was devouring half a dozen donuts by himself. He’d offered to share. And I’d refused. But still, did he have to eat right in front of my face?

I headed to the barn. Nothing killed a girl’s raging appetite faster than mountains of shit.

Inside the cool, dusty barn, I inhaled deeply. Ah, shit. I’d forgotten how bad it smelled. Potent stuff.

I grabbed the manure rake and headed to the first stall. Crotch Rocket (aka Rocket) gave me a look I’d seen before. The Arabian with a mean streak as wide as the fucking Mississippi, Rocket and I have never been on good terms. The one and only time I rode him, he did everything he could to knock me off. Since then I’d avoided him.

Much like Clay.

Now I couldn’t avoid either of them.

Hopefully those two wouldn’t make the next five years of my life absolute hell.

Miracles could happen. Right?

B
y seven-thirty A.M. I’d had enough shit to last a lifetime. But things were looking up. Way, way up.

Maybe I’d been looking at this thing all wrong, like a prison sentence to be served. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad spending five years here.

I’d never seen so much mantitty in one place, not even that time my bestie at school and I had gone to that male stripper show. This was a real life Chippendale's review. Only better. Because I was the only girl here to enjoy the show.

The ranch was teeming with men. Crawling with them. Young, buff, tanned, beautiful men with bodies that boasted muscles honed by real, hard work not playing with iron in a gym.

Firm asses. Broad shoulders.

Ohhh, yeah. Aunt Sandee sure knew how to pick them.

No wonder her employee costs were out of this world.

I stood in wonder and soaked in all that scrumptious beefcake.

She loved me. By God, she loved me!
Thank you, Aunt Sandee.

“You look like the wolf that’s just been let loose in the hen house,” someone said behind me.

Was it that obvious?

A tiny bit embarrassed, I tried to wipe the goonish grin off my face and turned to see who had caught me drooling over the help.

Clay. Of course.

I gave him some squinty eyes. “Don’t you have something better to do than stand around and watch me?”

“No, there’s nothing better than watching you. But I do have work to do.” He slapped his gloves against his rock-hard thighs. “And so I’ll be off. I’ve got to run into town to pick up some supplies. Be back in a couple of hours.” He turned and took a couple of loping steps while I waged an internal war.

I could ask him to buy some groceries for me.

Or I could be proud and stupid. And starve.

“Wait!” I called out to his broad back.

He turned, crooked smile in place. “You called, ba—boss?”

“I need some things. A
few
things. For the ranch. If I give you a list would you buy them for me?”

“I might be able to do that.”

Might
? He was on the clock, dammit. I wasn’t going to pay him any more than what he was already getting. I gave him a glare that told him so.

He chuckled, the rumbling vibrations taking hold of my nerves and shaking them up. How I despised the way he affected me. Not just my mood or my thoughts but my body, too. He made me feel hot and twitchy and I didn’t like it. Not at all. It was as if my body remembered it had once belonged to him and it didn’t want to give that up. It warmed for him. It got damp for him. Even when I was wishing he’d fall off the face of the earth.

“Just pullin’ your strings,” he said. “Of course I’ll buy what you need. Where’s your list?”

“I don’t have one. Give me a minute.” I looked down at my empty hands and at his, also empty. I needed paper. A pencil. I raised an index finger then dashed into the house.

Pencil. Paper.

I dug through kitchen drawers. None.

I ran to my bedroom. I knew I had some there. In one of my boxes. But which one?

I faced Mount College Crap and ripped open the top box. Books. Books. Books. No paper. Shit.

I shoved that box off the top. It hit the floor, thud. The second box was full of useless crap too And the third.

I heard a chuckle from the doorway, and a little jolt of electricity sizzled up my spine. Did the man ever knock? Or did he enjoy sneaking up on me?

“Need some help, darlin’?”

“No. And my name is Morgan. Remember?”

“All right, then. I’ll just wait.”

He was waiting. Right over there. I could feel his presence. It created a warm sensation on my back. And prickles at my nape.

I shoved box three off Mount College Crap and dug into box four.

“What’re you lookin’ for?” he asked.

“Paper. Pencil.” I lock of hair flopped over my eyes and I finger-combed it back into place, tucking it behind my ear.

“Well, if you’d asked for some, I would’ve given it to you.” He stomped away, heavy boots clomping down the hallway, stopping somewhere in the house then returning to my door. “Here you go.” He rammed his arm at me, hand curled around a pencil and piece of clean, white paper.

“Thank you.”

“For future information, living room. Desk drawer.”

“Of course.” I did a mental head smack. Of course that was where the paper and pencils would be, the desk. Why was I so flaky today? Overdose of pheromones? Or brain damage from yesterday’s crash?

I plopped down on my bed and started scribbling down a list of the barest essentials I would need for the next few days. When I handed it to him, I said, “Thank you. I’m assuming you have a company credit card to pay?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I guess that’s it.”

He turned to leave. “Be back in a few.”

My eyes went straight to his bluejean-clad butt.

“Looking at my ass again?” he asked, as if he could tell exactly what I was doing.

Jerk.

My face flamed. “No!”

He turned around. His grin was wider than the freaking Grand Canyon. “Gotcha!”

I wanted to slap him. But I didn’t. For one, he was doing me a huge favor by going to the store for me. And two, I didn’t need him crying employee-abuse. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Once Clay’s truck had skidded out of its parking spot, sending a cloud of dust into the air, I went back outside to see what all the other men were up to.

As much as it pained me, I had to make some cuts. I couldn’t afford to pay this many men. Not the way the ranch was going now, barely making enough from the meager lease payments it was collecting from neighboring farmers for the back acreage and the little it would get when we sold the beef cattle in the fall. There wasn’t a way to make more money. So I had to spend less. A
lot
less.

My eyes scanned the landscape.

So gorgeous. Lots of rough terrain. Hills and valleys.

Oh, and the land was pretty too, but not as glorious as the boys working for me.

How would I decide who should stay and who should go? And once I did decide that, how would I tell the ones I had to fire that they didn’t have a job anymore?

Being a business owner sucked.

I watched a few mount horses with ease and gallop off to move the herd from one pasture to another. I watched others working the land where the kitchen garden would go. And others busied themselves with various pieces of equipment—tractors, mowers. I caught sight of one guy with grease up to his elbows.

Aha! A mechanic. Now, he would come in handy.

I donned my best friendly-boss face and moseyed up to him, admiring the flex of sinuous muscle in his shoulder as he fought with a tight bolt. “Excuse me,” I said. “When you get a minute I’d like to talk with you.”

He lifted his head, revealing striking blue eyes, a set of chiseled cheekbones and a big black smudge of grease across his forehead. “Sure.” He smiled, displaying a set of blindingly white, straight teeth.

“Thanks.”

Stepping away from him, I continued to watch the other men. They all looked busy. Most of them were doing things I couldn’t. Like patching the roof of the barn. There was no way I’d climb up there.

It looked like everyone had a job to do and was doing it. How would I decide who should stay and who should go? It was going to take some time to figure it out.

“’Scuse me, ma’am. You wanted to talk to me?” my grease monkey asked, his blackened hands gripping a rag as oily as they were.

“Yes.” I motioned to my car. “I was wondering if you could take a look at this. I couldn’t get it started yesterday.”

“Sure.” He stopped at the front. “Go ahead and pop the hood.”

I reached inside and pulled the lever, unlatching the hood. Then I watched his biceps flex as he lifted it. Not a bad sight at all. I lost sight of him once the hood was propped open.