Page 6 of Dark Horse

“It is usually, but I have easy access to housekeeping.”

“Yeah, well, I live in a bar and have easy access to needing more sleep in the mornings,” she grumbles.

“Can’t argue with that. Which sink is it?”

“The kitchen.” She nods to it as she clutches the items she picked up to her chest, her body half turned away from me as she answers. “I’ll be right back.”

THREE

DAKOTA

I hurry to my room,tossing things on my bed and tucking a few things away in drawers. The last thing I want is for him to see the mail that has FINAL NOTICE scrawled in bright red letters across the top or the lingerie I put on earlier and took photos in for a new side hustle. Bristol, one of my best friends, jokingly mentioned selling pictures of her feet online last month for some extra cash, and it sent me down a rabbit hole. A girl had to know her options, especially when circumstances were dire. And mine are about as dire as they get, especially considering I have to go back out there in a minute and tell Mr. Casino Cowboy that I don’t have all the money I need for rent this month. Right after he fixes my sink for free or hires a handyman to do it.

I glance in the mirror as I make my way back out the doorto the kitchen and stop short. I’m covered in whiskey stains, and my body glitter has started to clump along my cleavage. My lipstick is smeared, and the clasp on my necklace has dropped to the bottom, ruining the cute aesthetic I’d started the night with. In the bright light of my bedroom, I look as disheveled as my apartment is right now. I don’t need another thing for him to judge and find wanting.

I stop and grab another crop top out of my drawer, wipe the glitter with a tissue, and adjust my necklace before I swipe another round of gloss on my lips. I run a brush through the curls that have started to tangle at the long ends of my hair too. I’m in desperate need of a trim and a dye, but it’s one more thing I can’t afford at the moment. At least not until I get paid for this last month.

I need to be able to afford my bridesmaid dress and the makeover that I need to look the part. Our best friend Hazel is getting remarried to a pro football player (and regrettably, Grant’s younger brother) in a few short weeks. Between the family money and the rich pro-sports friends, I’m going to have to whip up a miracle to make it look like I even remotely fit in with the bridal party. But I’m not about to let Hazel down.

When I get back out to the kitchen, Grant’s under the sink, messing around with the pipes. His jacket’s off, the tie’s gone, his shirt’s unbuttoned, and his sleeves are rolled up neatly to his elbows. The muscles I thought his jacket perfectly accented? They’re even better in the shirt. And the way his body is stretched out, one leg bent to help give him leverage on whatever tinkering he’s doing, is doing things for me. Especially since I don’t have his disapproving glare or his impatient tone aimed at me right now.

“Hartfield?” He calls out my name louder than he needs to, probably still thinking I’m in the other room.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a tool kit of any kind? I need a wrench.” He softens his voice this round.

“You need a wrench?” I repeat it like a question because I’m baffled at this series of events—that Grant Stockton is on his back under the sink in my kitchen at midnight, that he needs a wrench, and that he appears to know what to do with it.

“I have Jesse’s above the cabinet,” I answer. Or at least I think I still have my brother’s old tool kit. I haven’t touched it in years.

“Can you get it, please?” The please is a little more impatient than the rest of the question.

“Yes,” I say as I walk into the room. “But it’s on the cabinet above the sink, and I’ll need the ladder.”

“Fuck!” he curses. “I don’t want to let this go. It’s loose, and if I do—”

“Okay. Okay,” I reassure him. “It’s fine. I’ll just climb on the edge of the sink. Hold on… Let me just—” I place my feet carefully around his body until I’m standing over him, place my palms on the counter, and boost one knee up onto the edge of the sink. One more boost, and I’m up to the level I can reach the top of the cabinet.

Thankfully, the tool kit is still there dusty and a little worse for the lack of use, but still where Jesse always kept it when we lived here together. I pull it down and set it carefully on the counter next to the sink.

“Got it?” Grant asks when he hears the thunk of it hitting the surface above his head.

“Yep. Just getting down, and I’ll get the wrench.” I dangle one foot back down, trying hard not to step on the man beneath me. That’s the last thing I need because I’ll never hear the end of it if I crush his precious hand or—

“Fuck!” I scream as my knee slips on the pool of water at the edge of the sink Grant created when he tested the faucet. Ifly off the counter and fall to the floor—a fall that’s only broken by the body of the man beneath me.

“Holy fuck!” His curse echoes mine as he catches me. I land in the most awkward position imaginable—practically sitting on the man’s face.

I’m spread across his chest, one knee on either side, his hand wrapped around my thigh from where he tried to stop my fall. It’s currently resting just under my left butt cheek. He’s gripping the back of his head with his other hand, where he hit it on the back of the cabinet door as my body slammed into his chest. He’s forgotten to hold whatever he had been keeping shut under the sink, and water starts to leak out from under it.

“Are you okay?” He rubs the back of his head, apparently not registering anything other than the immediate potential for injury to our bodies.

“I’m fine. Are you okay?” I ask as I try to move carefully and only manage to entangle us further.

“I’m fine. Just be careful sitting up. Fuck. I let go, and now there’s more water. Don’t trip—” He finally looks up to see me practically riding his face. Well, not quite—there’s still clothing and two inches of air—but too close for comfort by the way his face contorts.

“Hartfield.” The pained way he says my name makes me want to die. My face heats, and I scramble up, twisting my ankle in the process but managing to get away from him. I fall back onto the carpeted dining room floor and stare up at the ceiling. I’m trying to think of something funny to say. Or maybe something bitchy. Anything that’s going to stop the awkward silence.

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