Page 9 of Taming the Billionaire Cowboy
The shower is as unsatisfying as I expect it to be. The water pressure is terrible, and the heat only lasts for a few minutes before giving out. I mentally add getting a new water heater to my to-do list.
Wrapped in a towel, I survey my new surroundings. There are a few pieces of furniture that I bought from Mack along with the house, but since I haven’t really moved in yet, the home is lacking character. I’ll need to order some art, put some personal touches up here and there.
For now, though, a heavy silence settles in like an unwelcome guest. Even the hum of the fridge is subdued, as if it too is unsure of my presence.
I trail my fingers across the rough wood of the kitchen table, thinking about Carly. There’s a directness about her that’s both appealing and infuriating. I admire her grit, but I don’t need to prove anything to her. It’s not like the work I’m used to is any less demanding. And I already plan on not over-extending myself here. This is supposed to be an escape from the grind, a chance to figure out what I’ve been missing.
Still, the fact that she expects me to fail is gnawing at me like the goats. I could easily call her for advice, but the urge to prove her wrong is just as strong as the desire to hear her voice.
I make myself a quick meal with the groceries I picked up on the drive over, and eat it at the kitchen table, the quiet becoming more oppressive. My thoughts drift back to the office, to the constant demands that seemed suffocating at the time.
But this is worse, not better. Here on this ranch, the wide-open space feels like a void I can’t possibly fill. I’ve spent plenty of hours and nights by myself — I’ve been living alone for years now — but something about this flavor of alone feels unbearable.
My phone sits on the table, tantalizing. I reach for it, hesitate, and pull back. It’s the same push and pull I felt when Carly was here — wanting to be close, wanting to resist.
It’s been a long time since anyone has surprised me, and it’s unsettling. The more I try to push her out of my mind, the more she lingers. Her confidence and stubbornness intrigue me, though I tell myself to stop thinking about her.
Running my fingers through my still-wet hair, I stare at the kitchen wall. I can do this. And maybe, if I say it enough, it will actually be true. Eventually, I’ll discover that zen that the doctor and my assistant insist I need. I’ll bounce back right as rain and return to Houston a new man.
When I finally cave and check my phone, I see that nothing’s changed. Or at least nothing I can see, thanks to Marie’s program of digital sabotage. She’s locked me out of my email to make sure I “relax”.
The thought would be hilarious if it weren’t for the twitch in my left eye.
Leaning back in my chair, I kick my feet up on the table. Maybe I should paint this room. Maybe I should blow up and frameCarly’s list and hang it on the wall as a reminder of the slow-motion train wreck this vacation could become.
I should be annoyed at Marie, but mostly I’m impressed by how thoroughly she’s blocked my escape hatches.
This is my life now: cut off and trapped. The irony of running away to the countryside and feeling more stressed than I ever did in the city is not lost on me. There’s some kind of point here, I’m sure, but I’m too stubborn to see it just yet.
Shoving the chair away from the table, I get up and walk the length of the house again, counting my steps like I’m pacing a jail cell. Have I made a mistake buying this ranch? If so, at what point will I know?
It’ll never be too late to sell, assuming things don’t work out here. But the downside to that would be proving Carly right, and right now I feel stubborn enough that I might actually stick things out just so she doesn’t get to feel triumphant.
I turn back toward the list on the table as if it holds some kind of answer. This place could be a new start for me, but can I really slow down enough to let that happen?
The truth is, I’m tired of running, tired of pushing, tired of a life that only looks perfect on paper. The real question is whether I’m willing to stop. To slow down.
I stare out the window at my reflection and the velvety darkness beyond. There’s more work waiting for me tomorrow — the kind that involves actual labor and not just tapping on a keyboard — and it makes me smile despite myself.
Carly expects me to crack. I expect to prove her wrong. Or maybe it will turn out that she’s right. I’m not sure which possibility unnerves me more, but I’ll stick with it until I find out.
CHAPTER 6
CARLY
By the time I pick Bradley up from my mom’s, head back to our small duplex, clean up the dishes I left in the sink this morning because I was in such a rush, make a quick dinner and get it on the table, I feel like I could collapse.
But I know I won’t. Hell, I probably won’t get one wink of sleep tonight with all the animals on my mind.
Bradley digs into his spaghetti as if he hasn’t eaten for weeks. I admire his gusto, but it’s hard for me to stomach more than a few bites. I keep thinking about what might be happening on the ranch… or maybe not happening. There are so many animals there. It seems likely that Oliver skipped over someone and forgot to feed them.
Bradley’s legs swing beneath the table, each forkful of food accompanied by stories and questions. “Guess what, Mom?” he asks in his squeaky, high-pitched voice.
I smile, twirling spaghetti on my fork. “What?”
“Grandma let me make an omelet. And I didn’t burn it.”
“You’re already a better cook than me,” I say, still forcing that smile. I want to be present with him, but it’s hard with so much on my mind.
