Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44297 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44297 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
I give myself a breath before following because goddamn, her body is womanly, the curve and sway of her hips hitting me like a sucker-punch. I’ve always liked my women with some meat on their bones, and Joelle sure has filled out nicely.
She’s standing in the kitchen now, arms folded tight, although her stance doesn’t feel defensive. She’s shielding her chest from me and maybe protecting herself from the weight of whatever memory walked in with her.
“This place hasn’t changed,” she says quietly, eyes flicking to the corners, taking everything in. “Same chipped counters. Same creaky floorboards.”
“You remember that?”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “I used to sneak out of my room at night for Oreos. Thought if I stepped too hard, you’d come out and bark at me.”
I almost smile. “I probably would’ve.”
She huffs a dry laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. Only nerves.
“You’ve got a good memory,” I say.
“I try not to.” She shrugs. “I didn’t exactly feel welcome here.”
I lean back against the counter, arms folded, aware of how it makes my chest and biceps flex. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But that didn’t stop it from feeling like it was.”
She looks away, and for a beat, neither of us speaks.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and toss it to her. She catches it one-handed, barely, and opens it with shaky fingers. She takes a long gulp, draining half the bottle. “Thanks.”
“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever need to come back.” She exhales and shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “Life doesn’t always go to plan.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
She nods, eyes flicking to the window, then back to me. “The ad said live-in. I figured I could work in exchange for room and board and a little extra. Just for a while.”
“And the kid?”
She goes still, like she didn’t expect me to know. Then: “Staying with a friend. For now. But he comes with me.”
I nod slowly. “You ever worked on a ranch before?” She might have lived here once, but she didn’t lift a finger outdoors.
“No. But I can clean. Cook. I’m a fast learner.”
Her voice trembles, but her chin’s high. Still proud.
“Any experience with livestock?”
“No.”
“What can you cook?”
“Whatever you want. My momma taught me the basics, but I follow recipes. I bake.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Cookies. Cakes. Fresh bread. All the things a cowboy needs to keep going.”
I raise a brow. “I need a lot of fuel.”
She nods, her gaze sweeping over my body, assessing, and damn, my dick perks up in response.
Down boy, is my first thought, but I dismiss it. This woman used to be something to me, but she isn’t anymore. My dad’s dead. Her momma? Not sure. We’re nothing more to each other than people with a little shared history. Uncomfortable history.
“There are three other men on this ranch. And we bring in other workers when we need them,” I say.
“I can handle it.”
“I bet you can.”
Her lips part slightly, maybe in surprise, maybe in protest, but she remains silent.
“You want to look around?”
“Sure.”
I lead her through the house, pointing out rooms, letting her see the dust, the wear, the things we’ve let fall behind. Her eyes don’t miss a thing. The chips in the paintwork, the laundry that needs folding, the boxes of my dad’s junk we never parted with. She’s making a list in her head, cataloguing the difference she can make.
We reach the back porch, and she steps ahead of me to stare out at the land.
“You’ll get used to the quiet again,” I say.
“I already like it,” she replies. “I missed that part, at least. No one watching. No pressure to be something I’m not.”
She turns to me, her arms at her sides like she’s forgotten what’s happening beneath her shirt. It’s damp on both sides now, and her nipples are hard and outlined, leaking milk in large rings.
I swallow.
“Joelle,” I say, low and thick.
She stiffens.
“You know you’re leaking, right?” I let my eyes drift, and her shoulders tighten. She crosses her arms over her chest and avoids my gaze.
“I haven’t nursed for a while. I’m trying to wean.”
“You’re in pain?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I’m managing.”
I shake my head. “It’s not going to dry up immediately. You can’t just switch it off. It doesn’t work like that.”
She exhales, biting her lip, probably wondering how the fuck I know.
“It’ll go away if I wait it out.”
“If you don’t taper down slowly, it builds. You’ll get engorged. Skin’ll go tight, hot. Might spike a fever. Worst case, you get mastitis. That's an infection, Jo. You’ll need antibiotics. Might end up in the hospital.” I shake my head and rub my chin, the bristles there rasping against my work-calloused fingers.
She presses her arms tighter and makes a soft gasping noise, maybe pain or embarrassment.
I step closer, careful not to spook her, wondering what the fuck I’m even doing. I should offer her the job, but I don’t want to saddle us with a worker who can’t keep up with the pace or isn’t fit for purpose. I need her to work a few days on trial. We have to be sure she’s what we need before she brings a baby out here—because if she isn’t, sending her away could leave them both homeless. “Can you stay three days… enough to work out if you fit?”