Page 14 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

Rose

It’s my fourth day of work and I’m off to a late start, again. I’ve been at least an hour late every day this week.

This was stupid.

I should have said no to this job.

I should have known I can never have another normal night of sleep again. Or be the type to wake up at six a.m., work out, mix myself a green juice, and march out the door.

The way I used to be until senior year.

I started painting as a way of calming myself. Some people find comfort in warm milk; I make art. Only dozing off after pure exhaustion.

My body and brain must physically give out for me to fall asleep. Which happens around the two or three a.m. hour.

It’s why bartending makes sense. If I’m not sleeping, I might as well be making money.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a dark blue blouse, curse the damn snooze button, then yank on my boots. I almost forget to lock the door before breathlessly rushing out.

It’s still surreal being here. Especially when I’m hustling and bustling, getting dressed like I’m late for opening night of The Rockettes. But every time I open this creaky door, it’s like I’m walking out of my city apartment and onto a movie set.

The summer glow across the fields, the low rumble of tractors in the distance, the occasional faint neigh of a horse.

It’s so full of life—but not.

It’s steady. And I think I like steady.

For once, the world isn’t spinning too fast for me to keep up with.

No constant reminder of something I failed even before I started. For once, I don’t feel pressured to make sensible decisions in life.

A reminder of why I said yes to this gig. It’s like a big timeout. To think about things I did wrong.

Or things I can’t change.

I take a breath, bracing myself for an angry boss before walking into the Saddle Room.

He wasn’t angry yesterday when I raced in late.

In fact, he barely looked my way the last two days except when he was training me on something.

On Wednesday, after we had breakfast, I spent the afternoon going through old mail piling up on both Wilder’s and Dallas’s desks, then finished payroll for the previous week.

Thursday, Wilder was out all day on the ranch but left a list for me.

I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. Maybe he’s still mad?

Idiot. Of course he’s still mad.

The man was probably born mad and will die a grumpy old man.

And it would be a shame. Because I’m sure the universe meant that body for love .?.?. not bitterness.

I swallow as I reach the door.

Maybe if I just walk in like this is my regular time now, he won’t notice?

Maybe he’s not even in yet? I could easily pretend I’d been here all morning, right?

Wrong.

Sharp blue eyes flick to meet mine. But it’s barely a passing second before he looks back down to his papers. He’s standing behind his desk, leaning with his palms pressed against the wood.

I imagine it crumbling to the floor under the pressure. “You’re early,” he says, voice low and gruff. “I didn’t expect you in until at least ten, given it’s a Friday an’ all.”

OK. I deserve that.

“Figured I’d get a head start,” I reply chirpily as I set my bag down on the smaller desk he’d designated as mine. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up.”

He doesn’t look at me. “Skip breakfast again?”

I shuffle paper and don’t bother looking at him. “How else will I be eligible to become next season’s Miss City Girl unless I skip breakfast and live on coffee?”

I may need a little help waking up in the morning, but I’m going to earn this man’s respect if it kills me.

Wilder doesn’t respond, just nods toward the stack of papers on my desk. “You can start with supplies and vendors today.”

I peer over to his desk. “Are those this week’s timecards already? I can work on those after I’m done here.”

He grunts. “No, these are from last week. Payroll’s a mess. The guys are already grumbling.”

I frown. “That’s impossible, I totaled each one up twice to be sure.”

Granted, I failed Accounting 101, but who can understand the difference between debits and credits with the way Professor Levitz described it? The guy could say “Assets must equal liabilities plus equity” and “Let’s have a party” and it would sound like the same thing.

Wilder still doesn’t look up, punching into an ancient calculator. “Yeah, well, maybe you should have done it a third time,” he mutters.

I cock my head to the side, giving him a pointed look, which he’s determined to ignore.

Not on my watch.

Pushing back from my desk, I walk over to him and pull the card he’s looking at out of his hands. “What was wrong with this one?”

With a sigh, he plucks it back. “Brock worked the weekend too. He should get overtime. He was underpaid.”

Overtime. Right.

I look at the other stack, afraid to ask. “How many were wrong?”

He takes a moment, jaw tightening before he twists his head up at me. “I don’t know, Rose. I don’t know if the rates were right either.”

My chest heats with anger, even if I am the screw-up here.

But I swallow it down, putting on my grown-up shoes and leveling my tone.

“I’m sure there are better things you can do with your time.

This is why you hired me.” I reach for the stack and manage to break them out of his grasp. “I’ll just go through them again.”

He catches the other end of the stack and holds tight.

“Rose, there’s plenty for you to do. Leave this to me. There’s no room for mistakes when it comes to payroll.”

I’m infuriated. Sure, I made a mistake. But who wouldn’t in their first week on the job. Although I do feel bad that I short-changed his hardworking staff. I want to make it right.

“Wilder, let go. I want to fix it.”

“I admire that. But I’m already on it.” There’s an edge to his voice. Like he just wants me to get out of his space.

And maybe it’s his coldness that’s catching up to me now, but I am not backing down. “Let. Go.”

“Rose,” he warns with an effortless tug.

I tug a little harder. OK, a lot harder since there’s no budging from his side.

With a groan, I give it my all until they’re yanked out of my hand and I stumble forward—gasping as I crash onto him, his chair rocking under the impact.

My hands press against his chest as I find myself draped over his torso—and between his legs.

I feel him tighten .?.?. everywhere . Like I’m a bumble bee that might sting him with one wrong move.

“Jesus,” he growls low, a muscle flexing in his strong jaw.

I’m weightless against him. Lightheaded. And instead of scrambling off him, my stupid hands itch to touch him more while they’ve got the chance.

I release a shaky breath and say something quick so he can’t see right through me.

“Sorry, that was stupid.” I push to stand, but his strong grip wraps around my wrist, keeping me close. But it’s not intimate. It’s more laced with concern.

Deep blue eyes pin mine. “Why was it stupid?”

He holds my gaze, and I don’t want to break free. As awkward as this should feel, I don’t want to move. But I do.

Gently pushing off, I answer, “Because you’re right. It’s too important to make mistakes. And my pride got the better of me. You do it. I’ll .?.?. I’ll go grab coffee or something.” I pull strands of my hair out of my mouth.

He stares at me for a moment before nodding. “Good idea.” His voice is gruff as he adjusts in his seat.

“Do you, um, want anything?”

“I’m good.” His eyes drop to my midsection before he turns away. “You might want to .?.?. fix your blouse.”

I blink down and adjust my shirt—making a mental note to adjust my bra too after I walk out.

Then I think better of it.

What if someone sees me adjust my bra outside his office? What will they think?

One thing I’ve never been is subtle . I’m as blunt and awkward as they come.

So when I toss my messenger bag over my head and try to reposition my bra in the same instance, I’m sure I look like a one-woman circus act.

But it gets the job done. Sort of.

When I look over at Wilder, expecting to find an annoyed cowboy, I’m shocked to find his hand lightly covering the smirk on his gorgeous face as he watches me.

“Yeah, well, you try wearing one of these,” I mutter on my way out.

The Shack is charming in a way that surprised me the first time Wesley showed me around. It’s not all rustic summer camp cafeteria like I’d expected. It’s more like a mountain ski lodge.

The kitchen is warm with sheer curtains to allow the sun to soak through and round oak tables that feel more personal and intimate for smaller groups.

The walls are filled with framed memories. I’ve spotted my brother in several over the last few days. I never truly understood why he loved it here so much until I studied each one. There’s life in his eyes. And best of all, he’s doing what he loves: cooking, baking, and .?.?. peopling.

One thing we’re both decent at.

It’s why I wanted to be a therapist. Still do. But how am I supposed to look at people every day and tell them they’re going to be all right, when I don’t believe the same for myself?

It’s a lie.

Art doesn’t lie. It tells a story, lets you use your imagination.

But I don’t want to make it my life. I want it to be something I do without the pressure of monetizing it.

I want to paint when it feels right, not because it’s Monday morning and I need to sell seven pieces by the end of the week to make a car payment.

Maybe that’s not what being an artist is, but for a while, it might be. And I’m smart enough to know that I need to depend on something else.

Wes is one of the lucky ones. He found it instantly. And he found it here.

My brother storms out of the walk-in fridge with a fresh carton of eggs in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.

I take another sip of my coffee. “You know I’m on the clock, right? Just toss me another one of those cappuccino muffins and I’ll be on my way.”