Page 10 of Buckled in Barbwire

“I’m hot just looking at you.”

“And now you’re hitting on me,” he mutters under his breath. “This just keeps getting better.”

“What? No.” My cackle is shrill. “You’re wearing long sleeves and it’s almost ninety degrees. I’d be sweltering in that shirt.”

“My clothes aren’t your business, but your poor work ethic is mine.”

I recoil from the hostile barb. “Are you upset about something?”

His penetrating glare is beginning to give me a complex. “What was your first clue?”

“Your sister assured me that we”—I point from his chest to mine—“won’t have any problems.”

“She isn’t here to keep that promise. You let her run off.”

Static crackles in the air, raising the hair on my arms. “I didn’tlether do anything. Bianca is in control of her own destiny. I just offered to help so the decision to leave wouldn’t weigh on her.”

He snorts. “Must be nice.”

“Maybe you’re the one who needs a vacation,” I hint.

Which is the wrong suggestion to offer. There’s blistering fury in Brody’s stare, ready to be unleashed. “Listen, Twinkles—”

“Twinkles?”

“You’re so”—he waves a hand at my rhinestone belt and bling jeans—“sparkly.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Absolutely not. You’re too much.”

I blink at the attitude he’s flinging my way. “Too much?”

“Are you going to question everything I say?”

“Can you blame me when you’re making ridiculous statements that I don’t comprehend? I’m beginning to feel like this is an interrogation.”

He grins but the expression is cold and detached. “Glad we’re finally on the same page.”

My mind gallops to uncover the reason why his anger targeted me. Our only other interaction was when I tried to offer him comfort and he swiftly dismissed my attempt. Considering the circumstances, I shrugged off his cruel words easily enough. It seems like grace might still need to be granted. That’s reasonable to a certain extent.

Silence stretches and expands while I study the fury curling off Brody like wisps of smoke. This guy recently lost his mother. Marion Benson was the center stone that kept everyone else settled. Since she passed, her family has been scattered about and forced to reassemble. This new normal is badly broken but trying to mend. There’s more strength in that than they give themselves credit for.

I’m not a therapist or an expert in grief, but it’s obvious that Brody is struggling. Maybe this is how he copes. He lashes out when the pain demands a release. I just so happen to be conveniently located, and I’m willing to handle his temper for a few rounds. But I don’t dare voice that offer aloud.

The main reason being that his attack feels personal.More than suppressed mourning. I’m not volunteering to be his doormat.

Bandit nudges my arm and knocks me from the spiral. I drift my palm down the slope of his head, taking comfort in the familiar motion. The palomino’s gentle shove reminds me that he’s at my side and I’m not alone. It also gives me the courage to stand taller.

“I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong hoof,” I joke. “Regardless of what you believe, I’m not trying to overstep. Your sister hired me to do a job, and I plan to do it well. There’s nothing for us to fight about.”

Brody bends until our faces are level and the brim of his hat almost thumps my forehead. At this distance, I get a tantalizing whiff of crisp pine and mayhem. It’s too tempting. My concentration buzzes and blurs at the edges. His clean scent has me picturing him fresh from the shower, only a towel wrapped around his waist. The visual of stray droplets trickling along his muscles doesn’t pass the current vibe check. I scold myself and decide to take Bianca’s advice about going on a date.

That resolve gains momentum when Brody’s glare narrows into sharpened blades. “This is a family matter, and you’re not family. You don’t belong here.”

I suck in a sharp breath. That statement is similar to the one he spat at his mother’s funeral. Heat stings my eyes, but I refuse to cry. He’d probably rejoice in my tears. Forget that. I can handle his wrath and beat him with sweetness. He’ll look like an ass, at least to me. What I won’t recover from is letting him see how his words hurt me.

It’s a small victory that my voice doesn’t tremble when I ask, “Are you planning to fire me?”

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