Page 8 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

“It’s Beau,” I say.

“That’s fake.”

“I need your real name for the contract. And you’ll see that my real name is indeed Beau. I’ll show you my ID so you know the contract is legit. I need to see your driver’s license too, to put the number in as proof of identity.”

She snorts at me from around the cookie. “Goodness. This is a very formal contract.”

“It’s a lot of money. I want to make sure we’re both protected. There will be a clause against cancellation so that we both hold up our end of the deal. If I should cancel, I’ll pay out the contract regardless. And if you should cancel, you’ll pay me three thousand dollars per missed night.”

She still has a full cookie stuffed halfway in her mouth, holding it there with her teeth instead of her hands, and she should look silly when her eyes cross. But no, she doesn’t look silly. Rather, she looks adorable.

Good fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking things like that. She’s not adorable. There’s a ninety-nine percent chance this woman is a criminal.

I continue, “Formal. Legal. You haven’t signed it yet. You can still kick me out and—”

“Finish it.” She waves me off, finally taking the cookie in her hand. It looks downrightmouthwatering. I don’t cave on things like cookies or adorable women with pet crawfish, but I want to. I want to ask her for a damn cookie. Badly.

I don’t.

I finish the contract instead.

She leaves for a minute and comes back with a beat-up brown leather bag. It looks handmade. The wear only increases the aesthetic.

When she hands over her license, I read her name. Ignacia Sutherby.Ignacia.That would be beautiful if it were real.

It’s not.

I have enough training to spot a fake ID when I see one. I knew she’d have one. She didn’t just run from her old life and go into hiding with her real name. She was smarter than that. She was smart enough to commit fraud so many times that she could have bugged out somewhere a hell of a lot nicer than here. Why steal money just to live an impoverished-looking life in the country?

Maybe she knew she was being investigated. Maybe she’s just lying low, gathering as much money as she can in order to leave and live the high-end lifestyle she obviously craves.

Part of me grudgingly respects her for the effort she’s put into this. She’s still designing or at least sewing, and she still looks like she’s thriving instead of just surviving. Even if this is a new way to shake people down for money, she’s giving those men something for it. She’s already put a burr in my chest, and that space has remained burr free up until this minute.

It doesn’t bode well for my already surly state. I took this job, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it, and now that feeling has been absolutely confirmed.

Chapter three

Ignacia

We go out to the barn after I electronically sign the contract that Beau prepares in record-setting time, with all the scary clauses included. I don’t plan to default on my end of the deal. I’m not that kind of person,andI need the money.

I get the feeling Beau’s sharp blue eyes miss nothing. He looks at the barn like he has already realized it’s crumbling. I think he knows why I’m doing the hot bedding thing. He walks in after me, looks around, and freezes.

“It’s nice in here,” he comments.

He looks so out of place in his city attire. He looks like he’s going to a meeting where he hands someone their lunch and maybe their dinner as well, boss style. And I’m not talking about food. Rather, it’s him handing them their ass. There’s no doubt the meeting would take place in a super expensive all-glass high-rise building with at least ten other people in the room, their combined net worth higher than my calculator can count.

“It isn’t great yet, but thanks,” I reply.

“No. It’s tidy. I like what you’ve done with it.”

There’s still a thick layer of hay all over the floor. When I start fixing this place up, it’s all going to have to be dug out. The bales I have stacked up on the one side for the cats, their little houses their food dishes, and mats, all the garden tools, and half of the other junk that came out of the shop when I started cleaning it out.

When I got here, the shop was bursting at the not-so-great-metal-clad seams. I threw away the gross stuff, the crap there was no reason to keep. I recycled what I could, called a guy to take away the scrap metal, and donated the salvageables I didn’t need, but there were some things I couldn’t part with. A few bundles of roof shingles that match what’s on the roof of one of these buildings, although I’m not sure which one, old boards, some live edge lumber, old barn wood—all of that would find a buyer in a few hot seconds if I posted it for sale, but I want to keep it. My arts and crafts end with sewing, but don’t count me down and out yet. There’s also a collection of ancient, decrepit furniture in here—a dresser missing the back leg, a very warped, faded, water-damaged antique armor, a vanity missing the mirror, and two drawers.

It’s all a work in progress. When I have the shop ready to go, I guess I’ll be able to move everything in there. Like the barn, it’s a work in progress. It might not need a new concrete floor, but it does need repairs to the metal siding and roof. The big overhead door also barely stays on its hinges and scrapes the ground every time I try to move it.

Beau perches on the edge of a bale. They’re stacked up, so they’re the right height for him. I want to tell him not to ruin his suit, but I figure his clothes are his business. I feel like I’m on fire even just having him here, his frosted-over eyes roaming around the place, never fixing on me but still seeing straight through me. It makes my blood rush and my heart pound double time.

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