Page 3 of Just One Look

Jackson

“Don’t do that,”

I grumble around a mouthful of leftover chili.

“What am I doing?”

my grandad Clancy replies, feigning innocence.

“Smiling like that. It’s not as cute as you think it is.”

“Oh, I think I’m very cute.”

I roll my eyes and take another big mouthful as his infectious laughter fills the small kitchen. My fault for telling him about the not one, but two encounters I had with Maverick Benson yesterday…and the way I farewelled him in both. They were almost enough to make me forget why I had stormed into Bunny’s in the first place.

Almost.

I still have to figure out how that piece of shit Ridge Duporth found out about my condition, but I think I made myself pretty clear that he needs to keep his big mouth shut. No one knows about it apart from Clancy, not even my sisters, and that’s how I intend to keep it until…well, until I have no other choice but to tell them, and everyone else, the grim truth.

“You know,”

he says, dangling his fork in front of him.

“the Bensons might not be as bad as you think they are.”

“Yeah, right,”

I mutter sarcastically.

“They’re worse. Come on. If anyone knows what they’re like, it’s us.”

Clancy’s usual cheery demeanor momentarily slips, and I start blinking rapidly, unable to control the little pulses of energy in my eyelids.

“Don’t get worked up,”

he says, noticing.

“I’m okay.”

I push my shoulder blades back, shake my head, which does nothing to dislodge the persistent ache lodged there, and attempt to explain my point. I didn’t mean to allude to the way we lost our land. Even though it happened decades ago, I know Clancy still hates himself for it.

“What I mean is, they’re a type. Rich people who decide to relocate to a nice, sleepy small town for a change of lifestyle or to fulfill some bullshit item on their rich-people bucket list. They swoop in, completely change everything to their liking, and turn the once quaint place into something glossy and unrecognizable. Prices skyrocket, so the locals who have lived here for generations can’t afford to buy property. The whole thing is fucked-up. It makes me so angry.”

“I know it does. And it isn’t fair. But you can’t keep flying off the handle. Remember what the doctor said.”

“What’s the point of listening to the doctor?”

I retort, more aggressively than intended, picking up our empty bowls and carrying them over to the sink.

“It won’t change anything anyway.”

I have lunch with Clancy every day. It’s only a short drive from the rescue, his cooking is top-notch, and after Dad died and Mom left, he became our primary carer. I love him more than anyone on the face of this earth.

I’m also low-key worried about him living on his own. He can downplay his age all he wants—including insisting that we all call him Clancy and not Grandpa becaus.

“that’s for old men”—but running a five-acre apricot orchard all by himself is hard work. I help out whenever I can, especially during harvest season, but I worry about how much longer he can keep doing it on his own. Especially since this is likely to be the last season I’ll be able to lend a hand.

Clancy comes over and stands next to me, leaning a hip against the counter. This is our deal. He cooks. I wash up. I can feel his dark-green eyes on me, the ones Mom inherited from him and in turn passed down to me.

“So what’s going to happen with the Benson boy, then?”

“Nothing.”

I start scrubbing a plate.

“Why would anything happen?”

“Well, you’ve finally met him.”

“You make it sound like he’s someone worth meeting.”

I shake my head.

“Geez. It’s not like they’re royalty. They’re not saving lives. I swear, the way people go on about that family around here. His mom ran the world’s second-largest shipping company, and his dad’s family owns Benson Silverstone Winery. Whoop-de-do. Good for them. Who fucking cares?”

A grin dances across Clancy’s lips.

“And how do you happen to know all that?”

I clear my throat.

“Just, uh, heard it around town.”

Annnd I might have done a little online stalking when I overheard that Maverick, aka one of America’s Most Eligible Billionaires Under 0, was following his brother’s lead and moving to Silverstone after everything that happened with their family.

“Jackson?”

A hand lands on my shoulder. I turn to meet Clancy’s eyes, brimming with amusement.

“Think that plate is just about scrubbed clean.”

“Right.”

I place it on the dish rack and move on to assault the frying pan.

“Well, I personally have found him nothing but charming and friendly.”

“And when have you ever met him?”

“He’s stopped by a couple of times.”

I drop the pan into the sink with a noisy splash. “What?”

My head snaps to my grandfather. With thick salt-and-pepper hair, golden sun-worn yet still smooth skin, and clear, sharp eyes, Clancy Ford easily looks a good two decades younger than he is. And his youthful appearance really shines through whenever he smiles goofily. Like he currently is.

“Would you like me to say it again, slower this time, or use different words?”

I pick the pan up and resume scrubbing.

“Actually, you know what? I don’t care because I, unlike everyone else in this town, do not worship at the altar of Benson.”

Although…when Maverick cradled my face in his big, warm hands, my mind automatically went down a very unwanted path where he shoved me to my knees and made me worship him right there and then in the open field.

But that can never happen.

My ship is going down, and I’m not going to take anyone else with me. I shouldn’t even be thinking about hooking up with anyone right now. Least of all, someone like Maverick Benson.

Wrong guy. Wrong time. Wrong everything.

“That’s what I thought,”

Clancy says, watching me keenly with his bright eyes.

“Too bad you don’t care because what he said the last time he popped in was very interesting. In my humble opinion, that is.”

I chew the inside of my cheek until the pain becomes too much. Don’t bite, don’t bite, don’t bite.

“And what was that?”

I ask because I am a weak, weak person.

Clancy’s grin turns smug.

“Oh, come on now. I know how much you don’t like to gossip. And since you’ve made it perfectly clear you don’t care about Mav?—”

I aim a sudsy fork menacingly close to his chest.

“Tell me right now, or I’m going to start calling you Grandpa.”

His eyes narrow.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me, old man. I’ll even get Verity and Sibella to do it, too,”

I threaten, bringing out the big guns by mentioning my sisters.

He chuckles.

“Fine. Maverick and I were talking on his last visit, and I happened to ask him how long he intends to be in Silverstone for. What he plans on doing.”

He leaves it there, and I can read him like a book. I know exactly what he’s doing: waiting for me to relent.

“You win, Clancy. And what did Maverick Benson say?”

He gazes out the window, taking in the neat, green rows of trees shimmering under the sun, the soft blush of ripe apricots peeking through the foliage.

“It’s what he didn’t say that struck me,”

Clancy says.

“He couldn’t give me a straight answer. I got the impression he’s a bit lost.”

He says it so quietly I’m not sure I heard him right. “Lost?”

Clancy nods.

“He’s not of the same ilk as the Duporths or all the other rich assholes you love to hate. There’s something more to him.”

This isn’t computing. From everything I’ve been able to gather about the guy, Maverick has the perfect life. Great family, tons of money, and he’s relatively attractive, if you’re into that whole tall, sharp-jawed, knows-how-to-wear-the-fuck-out-of-a-pair-of-designer-jeans thing.

Which I most definitely am not.

We couldn’t be more polar opposites if we tried.

I don’t shop for clothes often, but when I do, it’s at Tractor Supply Co. or a thrift store. I love my family, but we’re far from perfect. I don’t have any money. I’m a high school dropout. I’ve had health issues my whole life. And in less than a year, maybe even less than six months, I’m going to be legally disabled.

It’s easy to say I’m not interested in a guy like Maverick, but the real punch-in-the-gut truth of the matter is that a guy like Maverick Benson wouldn’t even look twice at a guy like me.

Which is fine.

More than fine, actually.

It’s the way it should be. The way it needs to be.

Silverstone may be a small town, but he’s already been here for months, and I’ve managed to avoid bumping into him until yesterday. I’m sure it won’t be that hard to avoid running into him again.

I may not have money or power or movie-star looks, but I do possess one talent I wouldn’t give up for the world.

Some people are smart, or athletic, or creative…I can communicate with horses.

I’ve loved the majestic creatures for as long as I can remember. There’s a photo of three-year-old me on a bookshelf in Clancy’s living room, perched atop a beautiful black mare, my tiny hands gripping the reins, my face beaming. I don’t remember that photo being taken, but whenever I look at it, I can feel the joy radiating off me in that moment.

When I was eleven, I calmed a terrified horse that had been abused by its owner just by sitting with it out in the field for a few hours. Clancy told me I had a gift, but it just felt natural to me. It was the first bit of good news I’d gotten after Dad dying and Mom abandoning us. A few years later, I dropped out of school, took a few courses in equine behavior and animal therapy, and now I’m the head handler at Silverstone Sanctuary.

I’ve spent more time around horses than I have around humans. And that’s just the way I like it. They’re always talking, just not the way we do, obviously. Part of it is reading physical cues like ear movement. Ears flicking forward means the horse is paying attention, they’re relaxed and engaged; pinned-back ears can be a sign of irritation, fear, or overstimulation.

But it runs deeper than that. I once heard someone explain it like a radio frequency dial. Humans have their own frequency, horses theirs. I’m instinctively able to tune myself to the horse radio station and know what they’re thinking or feeling. It sounds woo-woo, but I can’t explain it any other way.

I don’t know where my ability came from, but I’m grateful for it every single day. It’s the most precious thing in my life.

“So, any plans to flip Maverick off again anytime soon?”

Pip asks, grinning from ear to ear, as we step into the barn to check on Riven.

Ugh. I really ought to learn to keep my mouth shut. My best friend, Pip, is just as bad as Clancy. Possibly worse.

He volunteers at the sanctuary once a week. I told him about my two run-ins with Benson a few days ago as we went through the morning check-ins. He’s been teasing me about it all morning and now, it seems, is planning on ruining my afternoon, too. At least my headache is tolerable today, so that makes Pip’s incessant teasing somewhat bearable.

“I don’t intend on seeing him anytime soon. Or ever again,”

I say as we enter the barn.

“How come? The man is…say it with me…hot.”

I tune out his teasing as I approach Riven’s stall, slowing down when he looks up at me. I pull a bag of peppermints out of my back pocket, grab a few, and stick my palm out.

“Hey, buddy. How ya feelin’ today?”

He scraped his leg three nights ago, nicking it when he jumped the fence to escape. There’s a raw patch just over the fetlock on his hind leg. Thankfully, it wasn’t too serious, so I wrapped it up and am keeping a close eye on it.

His nostrils flare, sniffing the sweet scent in the air. He gently takes the peppermint from my hand with a soft nicker.

“Good boy. I’m going to come in and take a look at your leg. Pip is going to brush you, okay?”

He flicks his ears forward, then takes half a step back as I unlatch the lock to his stall. I crouch down to check Riven’s leg while Pip starts brushing him in long, slow strokes along his flank.

“How’s it looking?”

he asks, his voice low so as not to agitate Riven.

I gently lift Riven’s leg and run my hand down the bandage to check for any signs of swelling or discomfort.

“Okay, so far.”

I carefully peel back the edge of the bandage to inspect the wound, feeling for warmth or any unusual changes in the area.

“Seems to be okay. But if anything changes, I’ll call the vet.”

Pip lets out a grunt.

“You’ll have to get that approved.”

“Don’t I know it,”

I grumble.

The Wellingtons bought the center two years ago and have spent diddly squat on it. The barn has no running water. Fences need fixing. And every single time I want to call the vet, I have to write an email and get written approval for the cost. It’s bullshit. I may not have some fancy business degree, but this is no way to run an animal rescue.

Pip and I work in companionable silence, the barn quiet except for the soft rustle of hay and the occasional clink of tack. No one knows where Riven came from. He just showed up one afternoon about six months ago during a rare thunderstorm, soaked and shaking, his ribs showing through his dull, patchy coat.

I twist my torso and peek around Riven’s back. Pip is working the brush in long, slow strokes. I smile to myself, loving seeing my best friend so calm and peaceful. The parallels between how Riven showed up at the sanctuary and how Pip came into our lives are uncanny.

One stormy night three years ago, he showed up on Clancy’s front porch, soaked and shaking, having escaped the clutches of an Eastern European mafia boss he’d been romantically involved with. Clancy took him in, and he’s been family ever since.

Just like it’s taken time to get Riven to where he is today, the same is true of Pip. He may be short and appear fragile, but anyone who underestimates him does so at their own peril. The guy is feisty, loyal, strong, and one hundred percent never going to have his life controlled by anyone ever again. He’s also got the deepest baritone voice I’ve ever heard.

“Have you figured out how Riven got out?”

he asks, giving Riven’s coat one last swipe, then stepping back to admire the shine.

I get to my feet.

“I suspect it was Hans. He was the evening stable hand that night.”

“That guy is a douche.”

“Most of the staff here are,” I agree.

“Yo!”

Speaking of the douche devil himself, Hans barges into the stall like the moron he is, startling us all, including Riven, who pins his ears flat against his head, his tail swinging wildly.

“Keep your voice down,”

I hiss at the idiot.

I don’t even know why he works here. If you couldn’t care less about animals, there are plenty of other minimum-wage jobs to be shitty at.

“New owner.”

He hikes his thumb over his shoulder, like we’re expected to know what that means.

“What are you saying?”

I whisper to Hans, doing my best to keep my tone level as I gently stroke my hand down Riven’s neck.

“The new owner is here,”

Hans says, a little quieter this time.

“He’s out front and says he wants to meet everyone. So hurry the fuck up and get your asses out there.”

He leaves, and Pip comes over to me.

“Did you know anything about a new owner?”

he asks softly.

“No.”

It’s hardly surprising. The Wellingtons have only ever visited once, and it happened to be on my day off, so I’ve never even met them. Rumor around town has it they only bought this place to diversify their land portfolio. Whatever the fuck that means.

Communication with them is spotty at best, and when it occurs, it’s always done via email. I haven’t logged on in a few days, so maybe they emailed the news and I missed it. Then again, Pip is chronically online, and he seems just as baffled as I am.

I double-check the latch is secured in place, and Pip and I head outside. My mind is racing. The sanctuary has changed hands a lot in the seven years I’ve worked here. It’s usually bought by someone who has no idea what it takes to run a place like this. They get in over their head, and whatever good intentions they may have initially had nosedive when they start bleeding money because news flash: horse rescue centers don’t exactly bring in the big bucks. So then they pass the baton to the next rich fool, and the cycle repeats all over again.

This land used to belong to my family. It’s ours. And it would still be ours if Clancy hadn’t been swindled in some shady-ass deal I still don’t know all the ins and outs of.

I’m getting more and more agitated with the entire situation as Pip and I head toward the front of the property, where everyone has gathered. By the time we reach the group, my blood is boiling over. I’d rather roll around in the dirt than meet the next clueless, rich prick who’s going to run the place I love most in the world into the ground.

Hans notices our arrival and smirks to the person standing in front.

“Here they are. The dawdlers.”

“Fucking asshole,”

Pip mutters under his breath to me, but I don’t get a chance to agree with him because when a couple of people move out of the way, I get a clear view of the new owner.

My jaw clenches, and my lips press into a furious line as I fold my arms across my chest and find myself staring at none other than Maverick Fucking Benson.