Page 122 of Dust Storm

The cow peered out of one eye, glaring at me as I turned back and forth in the desk chair.

“He’sthe one who blindsided me. You can’t ambush someone when they have their pants off, and demand a relationship. That’s highway robbery.”

Mickey groaned and closed his eyes.

Bourbon and mint burned my throat as I scooped the remnants out of the bottom of the bowl.

“So. He blows it up, makesmethe bad guy because I don’t want to dive headfirst into a family unit where I’ll always be the fourth wheel, then puts ice cream and fucking bourbon in here—assuming I’d be torn up about it!”

The cow groaned in annoyance, lumbered up to his hooves, and sauntered out to get some peace elsewhere. The pool noodles smacked the doorway as he squeezed out.

“Great.” I dropped the bowl onto the desk and tossed the spoon in. “Even the cows hate me.”

Not even five seconds later, Christian waltzed in. “You kicked Mickey out?” he asked without making eye contact with me as he shuffled through the stack of paperwork piled on the corner of the desk.

“Apparently, I talk too much.”

He chuckled. “You know you’re settled in when you start talking to the cows.”

I gritted my teeth.

How dare he pretend like nothing was wrong?

Christian’s brows knitted together as he started through the stack again.

I huffed. “What are you looking for?”

“The records for?—”

I grabbed a manila folder from the top of the printer and handed it to him.

“Oh. Thanks. Do you know where the?—”

“Invoice for feed from George Thompson is already paid.” I handed him the printed sheet, confirming the payment. “I authorized the check.”

He stroked his beard. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine. I was waiting for a phone call from a tent guy for the groundbreaking party. I didn’t know when you’d be back up here, so I took care of it.”

“Thanks. I’ve gotta do payroll, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“It’s done,” I clipped. “Checks are signed. I’ll tape them up on the door when the boys call it a day.”

Christian stared at me. “That’s not in your job description.”

I hit him with a frosty glare. “You authorized me to write checks, did you not?”

He frowned. “I did.”

“It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to do payroll.”

“So, why’d you do it?”

I turned my back to him and scrolled through my email inbox, looking for the rental confirmation for tables and chairs. “So you wouldn’t have a reason to be in here.”

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder with a feather-light touch. “Cass…”

“Cassandra,” I clipped.

---