Page 18 of Swift and Saddled

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, not thinking too hard about the fact that she was using the Chicks against me. “I didn’t mean—”

But Ada didn’t let me finish. “The kiss last night was hot, but it didn’t mean anything. I was bored, and you were there. It should’ve never happened.” Okay, ouch. I didn’t know why that hit me so hard, but this woman threw words like Gus threw punches.

She was right: It was just a kiss.

Even though it didn’t feel like “just” anything. To me, anyway.

“And it’s never going to happen again. This is strictly professional. Do you understand?” Ada’s eyes were cold, and her voice was sharp. Compared to the laughs I got from her last night and today when I told her about the raccoon guy, this felt like a swift kick in the stomach.

But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

She was right. She was here to work, and I needed her to do a good job.

So I nodded and said, “I understand.”

And tried to ignore the sound of my heart cracking.

Chapter 9

Ada

My opinion on this had recently changed, but I was now convinced that it was much easier to hate your boss than it was to be attracted to him—especially when he literally looked like he’d just stepped out of every woman’s cowboy fantasy.

For the past week, I’d successfully avoided being alone or having to interact with Weston beyond questions about the project. Luckily, he woke up earlier than me and did whatever it is that cowboys do for the first few hours of the day before stopping by the project site. Usually he’d find some way to be helpful, but other times he would just check in before going back to work.

Even though I was seeing less of him than I had during my first day in Meadowlark, I wasn’t able to avoid him entirely. That was impossible.

And as the weeks went on, it would only get more impossible. At the beginning of a project, Evan took the lead. I basically became a part of his crew during this time—doing demo, framing, and construction—but it was also my crunchtime for making sure we had the materials to put on top of the foundation that Evan and the crew were creating once it was ready.

I also had to worry about keeping up with my socials. I posted stories every day, three photo posts and one video post per week during projects. It could get overwhelming, but I didn’t see it as a chore. My job as I knew it existed because of the community that I’d built around my page, and I loved sharing my work with them.

There were people out there who thought I wasn’t a “real” interior designer because I didn’t go to school for it. I wondered what those people would think about me if they knew Ididgo to school for it—I just didn’t finish.

Like any space, the internet had its share of assholes, but I was grateful that they were minimal on Home Is Where the Hart Is. And my community seemed to like me. I ignored the little voice in my head that told me it was only because they didn’t know me.

A few days ago, I’d posted a photo that had Wes in it. It was unintentional, and he was just in the background, staring up at the house with a smile, but it took less than five minutes for me to start getting comments that said things like “Save a horse” and “That cowboy is hitting different.”

I tried not to be annoyed by it.

And right now, Weston was wearing a white T-shirt that might’ve been slightly too tight and swinging a sledgehammer into the wall between two of the bedrooms.

He was letting out these little grunts that were making me wonder if someone had accidentally jacked up the thermostat.

Being physically attracted to him was…weird. It wasn’t something that happened to me often. I could look at someone and know that they were good-looking, but if any other man I’d been attracted to had been letting out mini porn grunts, I’d probably have wanted to punch him in the face.

Not Weston, though.

“Ada, you good?” Evan said next to me, and I realized I’d been staring at Weston.

“Yeah, sorry. What’s up?” I asked. Evan and I had been working together for a little over a year, but I felt like I’d known him my whole life. He wasn’t really my friend, but he was more than a co-worker.

He also knew more about me than anyone else, but not because I’d told him. Evan’s husband, Carter, worked with my ex-husband, Chance. It’s how we met, so when everything with Chance went down, Evan knew all about it.

We didn’t talk about it, but I knew Evan would be there for me if I needed him, and his being in Wyoming was proof of that. This was my first job outside California, and most of my jobs had been in the San Francisco area. When I told Evan about Wyoming and the project timeline, I didn’t know if he would come, but he did.

And I was grateful.

“Nothing,” Evan said. “I just wanted to make you aware that your staring is about as subtle as a gunshot.” His eyes moved to Weston and then back to me.

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