Page 71 of Chaos

That deep timbre caresses my skin, making it prickle, and my next breath stutters. He must hear the slight gasp because his eyes dip to my lips, like he wants to see the noise being made forhimself, and I assume that’s why it tracks the slope of my throat too.

Before it gets distracted by the swell of my chest.

And I guess the excellent view his taller stature and my lack of a bra provide accounts for why his gaze lingers.

I let it go on for longer than I should—Ilikeitfar more than I should too—before tutting. “That’s not very friendly.”

Dark eyes blink twice, then return to mine. “How would you know?”

Before I can muster an adequate retort, a clearing throat draws my attention to the front door—where my brother suddenly stands, eyeballing the two of us curiously. “I didn’t know you were here,” he says to Finn, the words much more of an accusing question than the casual, throwaway statement he tries to make it.

Abruptly dropping my hair—when he wrapped it around his fist, I’m not sure—Finn steps back with a rough cough. “Looks like we had the same idea.” He nods at the Tupperware his boss is clutching before tilting his head towards the open door. “I was just leaving.”

Jackson makes a weird noise, his expression just as odd. As odd as the way Finn scurries past him, avoiding eye contact as he deigns to toss me a, “See ya, princess.”

I don’t watch him go—I watch Jackson watch him go, watch the thinning of his eyes, watch his mouth move to silently repeat that fucking nickname. When the sound of a truck engine roars to life, that narrowed gaze shifts to me. “Do I wanna know?”

Just to be a shit, I grin not-so-innocently. “Nope.”

Jackson grunts.

Sidling towards me, he drops my second lunch onto the island before resting his forearms on the marble. “I wanna talk to you about something.”

I sigh dramatically. “No, papa, I am not banging your precious ranch hand.”

“It’s Ruin.”

My humor falls. My face too. Fuck, I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked down to find my heart, pulsing and bloody and wrecked, at my feet. Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I croak, “Is he gone?”

I figured he was. I figured they wouldn’t waste any time, wouldn’t leave any room for argument. I figured that’s half the reason why I’ve been sequestered to the A-frame for the past couple of days, not just because of grossly overexaggerated injuries—all complaints aside, I’ve had papercuts more debilitating—but so they could get him off the land without me doing something rash.

Except my brother says, “No.”

And then he inhales deeply, exhales shakily. “Don’t make me regret this, okay?”

Jesus. Does this ominous shit run in the family? “Regret what?”

“He can stay.”

I think I might screech.

“But,” he continues, trying to maintain his serious, severe composure against the grin attempting to break through. “He’s not your pet, Lottie. He’s your job now. You help train him.”

Now there’s a word I don’t like. “Help?”

“You do have a way with him, Lot, but you’re not qualified. You don’t know what you’re doing. Ruin needs a professional. You know that.”

I do know that. I always did. I just didn’t want that professional to be somewhere else. “Not Van de Fuckface though, right?”

A big, belly laugh bursts out of my brother as he shakes his head before he sombers. “I need you to understand that whatyou did wasn’t okay. I know you had the best intentions, but you could’ve been hurt. Ruin could’ve been hurt. This isn’t a reward, okay, Lottie? This is a second chance. You do shit like that again, he’s gone and you’re on kitchen duty permanently. Got it?”

My fingers twitch at my sides with the urge to salute. “Got it.”

“Good. It’ll take me a couple of weeks to organize a decent trainer. Until I do, you’re Eliza’s sous-chef, okay?”

As much as I want to, I don’t dare argue. “Okay.”

Before I can talk myself out of it, I round the counter and lunge at my brother, wrapping my arms around his waist in a rare display of affection as I mutter words that are even harder to come by against his chest. “Thank you.”

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