Page 74 of Country Contract

“Maybe it is. Maybe you’re finally seeing the gloomy girl everyone says I am. You know vacation Harlow, not the real me.”

“Don’t give me that shit; go get your ass upstairs and get your shit together. I’m checking Cleo’s bowls and giving her fresh water.” Without another word, I storm off into the kitchen to check the bowls.

She wants to act like I don’t know her just because she’s feeling off. She had a whole four days of feeling off during her cycle, but this is different. Something isbothering her.

Cleo ambles over to me and rubs against my leg as I get her food and water.

“Your mama is in a bad mood. I’m taking her to my place tonight. If you’re good, I’ll get you more treats.” I say while putting her bowls down and going to the cabinet above the fridge for the hidden treats I had gotten her.

“What treats?” I’m already opening the bag as Harlow stands by the countertop, arms crossed across her chest, a Hill Farms canvas bag packed and slung over her shoulder.

“These are just some old treats I had for the barn cats,” I lie after giving Cleo two and closing the bag.

“When did you two get so close?” she huffs.

“When her mom had a raging period, and I was here every day taking care of her.”

“You didn’t take care of me. You kept me company . . . on paid time.”

I do my best to not physically recoil from her words. I know what we are, I know our agreement, and I know something is bothering her. Still, it stings that she would say it like that. My silence must speak for itself.

“I’m sorry. That was really shitty. Maybe I’m a little more off than I’m leading on.”

I nod as I put away the treats.

“I know, let’s go.”

We pull up to my place and take no time settling in. Harlow slips her boots off and leaves them at my front door, right next to mine. They’re both made for riding, but mine are scuffed up, old, and a lighter color; hers are sleek, dirty only on the sole, and black.

“I need to rinse off, make yourself at home.” Harlow has been to my place a few times, but not for extended periods. I mostly visit her over at the bunkhouse.

My shower is speedy, and when I get out, I see Harlowflipping through the pages of my sketchbook. A part of me grows self-conscious, but what better way to get her to open up to me? If I let her see some of the things I’ve put in that book, maybe she’ll show me a little more of what’s going on with her.

She opens to the page of the house I’ve been drawing consistently and stares at it. She’s wearing soft black shorts that cling to her thin legs, an oversized black crew neck sweater, and gray socks that go just below her knee. I never realized how many shades of black there really were until I met Harlow. She looks perfect curled up on my couch, flipping through something of mine, staring at the pages with a mixture of admiration and anxiety.

I clear my throat as I break the threshold into the room, wearing gray sweats and a plain white tee.

“Want something to drink?” I offer, but her eyes dart to the coffee table where a cup of water already sits. I settle next to her on the couch and look at the picture.

“This is the tree line farther south, right?” she asks.

I nod.

“You ever read one of those books where a girl’s parents pick her partner and although they fight it, they fall in love, and they live happily ever after?” Harlow’s eyes leave the pages of my book and look at me.

“Are you going to make fun of me if I say yes?”

I see a small smile start at the corners of her mouth, but it doesn’t last. She raises a brow, telling me that she won’t make fun of me.

“Yes. I think they can be sweet stories. I think it’s crazy when a partner is picked for you, and you have no choice. In the end, don’t we all have a choice? I can imagine my parents trying to set me up with someone, but it would be more of a general meeting to see if we clicked. There’s noway my family would push me into a marriage if I didn’t want it. I think it’s interesting how no matter what in those stories, they find love.”

“Okay, well that kind of shit happens in real life. My family is an example. My sister was introduced to her husband as some sort of sacrificial lamb, and now they’re in love. I know you know I have money, and trust me, I know I’m a lucky lil’ trust fund baby. I know I have the world at my fingertips, but it looks like that’s coming with a price.” Her tone has no mirth, it’s all edge and anger.

“My parents are setting me up with this guy in a business merger. I met him right before I came here. My father wants more financial gain, and this guy wants . . . I don’t even know what he wants.” She thinks for a second as if she’s trying to put together some of her thoughts.

“Are you about to ask me to be your fake fiancé so your parents get off your back?” I joke, thinking about another common romantic trope.

“What? No!” she says, turning her brows upward.

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