Page 5 of Taming the Billionaire Cowboy (The Billionaire’s Bidding #3)

OLIVER

T he to-do list feels like it weighs more than the luggage I brought in. Carly made it extra detailed, probably so she can enjoy laughing when I manage to screw up anyway.

Ten horses. Twenty-something chickens. Seven goats. Eleven sheep. Eight cats. Four cows. How hard can it be?

It takes me ten minutes to find the chicken feed, but the chickens seem forgiving enough.

The goats, however, start gnawing at my pants the moment I step foot in their pen.

I’m still trying to figure out how to navigate that situation without losing a chunk of my calf, when I hear the horses whinnying in the barn.

Carly must have tipped them off to the fact that I’m new in town, because they look entirely unimpressed.

The day stretches into the night, and by the time I have all the animals fed, I’m drenched and exhausted.

But there’s something about the task that feels satisfactory.

Carly’s smirk flickers in my mind every time I think about taking a break, and the thought of her saying “I told you so” pushes me past my limits.

Sweat clings to every inch of me as I stumble back toward the house.

It feels miles away, and each step is heavier and more exhausting than the last. The thought of a shower keeps me moving, even if it’s a weak incentive.

If I were back in Houston, I’d have an ice-cold beer in hand already, possibly served by someone who isn’t so quick to judge my competency.

The shower is as unsatisfying as I expect it to be. The water pressure is terrible, and the heat only lasts for a few minutes before giving out. I mentally add getting a new water heater to my to-do list.

Wrapped in a towel, I survey my new surroundings. There are a few pieces of furniture that I bought from Mack along with the house, but since I haven’t really moved in yet, the home is lacking character. I’ll need to order some art, put some personal touches up here and there.

For now, though, a heavy silence settles in like an unwelcome guest. Even the hum of the fridge is subdued, as if it too is unsure of my presence.

I trail my fingers across the rough wood of the kitchen table, thinking about Carly.

There’s a directness about her that’s both appealing and infuriating.

I admire her grit, but I don’t need to prove anything to her.

It’s not like the work I’m used to is any less demanding.

And I already plan on not over-extending myself here.

This is supposed to be an escape from the grind, a chance to figure out what I’ve been missing.

Still, the fact that she expects me to fail is gnawing at me like the goats. I could easily call her for advice, but the urge to prove her wrong is just as strong as the desire to hear her voice.

I make myself a quick meal with the groceries I picked up on the drive over, and eat it at the kitchen table, the quiet becoming more oppressive. My thoughts drift back to the office, to the constant demands that seemed suffocating at the time.

But this is worse, not better. Here on this ranch, the wide-open space feels like a void I can’t possibly fill. I’ve spent plenty of hours and nights by myself — I’ve been living alone for years now — but something about this flavor of alone feels unbearable.

My phone sits on the table, tantalizing. I reach for it, hesitate, and pull back. It’s the same push and pull I felt when Carly was here — wanting to be close, wanting to resist.

It’s been a long time since anyone has surprised me, and it’s unsettling. The more I try to push her out of my mind, the more she lingers. Her confidence and stubbornness intrigue me, though I tell myself to stop thinking about her.

Running my fingers through my still-wet hair, I stare at the kitchen wall. I can do this. And maybe, if I say it enough, it will actually be true. Eventually, I’ll discover that zen that the doctor and my assistant insist I need. I’ll bounce back right as rain and return to Houston a new man.

When I finally cave and check my phone, I see that nothing’s changed. Or at least nothing I can see, thanks to Marie’s program of digital sabotage. She’s locked me out of my email to make sure I “relax”.

The thought would be hilarious if it weren’t for the twitch in my left eye.

Leaning back in my chair, I kick my feet up on the table. Maybe I should paint this room. Maybe I should blow up and frame Carly’s list and hang it on the wall as a reminder of the slow-motion train wreck this vacation could become.

I should be annoyed at Marie, but mostly I’m impressed by how thoroughly she’s blocked my escape hatches.

This is my life now: cut off and trapped. The irony of running away to the countryside and feeling more stressed than I ever did in the city is not lost on me. There’s some kind of point here, I’m sure, but I’m too stubborn to see it just yet.

Shoving the chair away from the table, I get up and walk the length of the house again, counting my steps like I’m pacing a jail cell. Have I made a mistake buying this ranch? If so, at what point will I know?

It’ll never be too late to sell, assuming things don’t work out here. But the downside to that would be proving Carly right, and right now I feel stubborn enough that I might actually stick things out just so she doesn’t get to feel triumphant.

I turn back toward the list on the table as if it holds some kind of answer. This place could be a new start for me, but can I really slow down enough to let that happen?

The truth is, I’m tired of running, tired of pushing, tired of a life that only looks perfect on paper. The real question is whether I’m willing to stop. To slow down.

I stare out the window at my reflection and the velvety darkness beyond. There’s more work waiting for me tomorrow — the kind that involves actual labor and not just tapping on a keyboard — and it makes me smile despite myself.

Carly expects me to crack. I expect to prove her wrong. Or maybe it will turn out that she’s right. I’m not sure which possibility unnerves me more, but I’ll stick with it until I find out.