Page 11 of Tame Me Daddy

I jolted awake to the buzzing of my phone alarm, heart hammering against my ribs. For one disorienting moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all rushed back—the Greyhound bus with its sticky seats, Maya's beat-up pickup truck, and my first glimpse of Grant Warwick's stern face as he'd sized me up like a horse at auction. I wasn't in Vermont anymore. I was in Texas, at Warwick Ranch, and today was my first day of work.

Four-thirty in the morning felt criminal. My body ached for more sleep, but I forced myself to silence the alarm. The room—my room now, I supposed—was chilly. The thin blanket had done little to keep out the early morning cold that seeped through the ranch house's old windows.

My hand moved instinctively under my pillow, fingers searching for and finding the small square of fabric hidden there. My baby blanket. Or what was left of it, anyway.

I traced the worn edge of the blanket scrap with my thumb, counting to ten in my head. Ten seconds of comfort. Ten seconds where I allowed myself to be who I really was. Ten seconds of weakness before I had to face the day.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

The satin edge was soft against my skin, familiar and soothing.

Four . . . five . . . six . . .

I fought the urge to bring it to my cheek, to breathe in the faint scent of home that still clung to its fibers.

Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .

My breath caught on a small hitch, a moment of grief for everything I'd left behind.

Ten.

Time up. I tucked the fabric square back under my pillow and sat up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The woodenfloor was cold against my bare feet, a shock that helped clear the remaining fog of sleep from my brain.

After dressing, I hesitated by the dresser where I'd unpacked my few belongings the night before. The bottom drawer contained things I shouldn't have brought—things that would get me sent packing if anyone discovered them. But I couldn't bring myself to leave them all behind.

I knelt and opened the drawer just enough to slide my hand inside. My fingers found the soft fur of my plush bunny's ear. I stroked it once, twice, drawing courage from the small contact. Then I pushed the drawer firmly shut, locking away that part of myself.

In the small attached bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. The shock of it erased the last traces of sleep. I stared at my reflection in the mirror—pale face, shadows under my hazel eyes, honey-blonde hair hanging limply around my shoulders. I looked scared.

"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection as I pulled my hair into a tight ponytail.

The words felt hollow, but I repeated them anyway as I finished getting ready. I squared my shoulders and left my room, navigating the dim hallway of the ranch house, then the yard to the mess hall.

The dining space was already alive with activity, ranch hands filling the long tables. The scent of coffee, bacon, and something doughy and delicious hung in the air.

I froze in the doorway, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces. Men and women in work clothes, weathered skin, and callused hands. Real ranch workers. Not a single face looked as soft or inexperienced as mine.

My nerve nearly failed me. I was about to retreat when someone called my name.

"Cherry! Over here!"

Maya waved from a table near the kitchen, her dark braids bouncing with the movement. Relief washed over me, and I made my way through the crowded room, feeling eyes on me as I passed. New girl. City girl. Outsider.

"Morning, sunshine!" Maya said as I slid onto the bench beside her. She pushed a steaming mug toward me. "Figured you'd need this. Rosa makes coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead."

I wrapped my hands around the mug gratefully, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. "Thanks."

"Sleep okay?" she asked, passing me a plate piled with eggs, bacon, and a massive biscuit swimming in white gravy.

"Well enough," I lied.

"Eat. Trust me, you'll need the energy."

I forced a forkful of eggs into my mouth. The food was good—unreasonably good—but my appetite had gone into hiding.

"Mrs. Hernandez believes no one should start work hungry," Maya explained, nodding toward the kitchen where a short woman with steel-gray hair efficiently directed two younger helpers. "She's been feeding ranch hands for twenty years. Says she can tell who'll last by how they eat breakfast."

I looked down at my barely touched plate. "What does that say about me?"

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