Page 4 of My Cowboy Trouble
"I just got here. Like, literally just arrived. My suitcase is covered in mud, there's a demon rooster outside who wants me dead, and I'm wearing one shoe."
He looks down at my feet—one designer pump, one bare foot with chipped polish that had looked cute in the city but now seems wildly impractical—then back up at my face. Slowly. Taking his time.
"Better find that other shoe, then."
From somewhere behind me, I hear a crash. We all turn to see another guy, younger and not so confident—standing in a puddle of spilled coffee, staring at melike I descended from heaven instead of from of a rental car.
"You're... you're her," he breathes with wide eyes. "The new owner. You're so..." He went red. "I mean, welcome! I'm Billy! I work here, helping the other guys. You know, with the... the cows and... stuff."
Trent pinches the bridge of his nose. "Billy, clean that up. Asher, show her the place. Gavin, stop smirking."
"I'm not smirking," Gavin says, definitely smirking.
"And you." Trent turns that laser focus back on me. "Work starts at dawn. Every day. For thirty days. Think you can handle that, city girl?"
Something about the way he says it—dismissive, like he already decided I'd fail—makes my city-girl don't-fuck-with-me spine straighten. I've dealt with way worse than some grumpy cowboy with control issues. I've survived fashion week, PR disasters, and that one client who tried to launch an app for rating your ex's bedroom performance.
"I can handle anything you throw at me, cowboy," I challenge, hands on hips.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile, but not quite. "We'll see about that."
After I changeinto jeans and a T-shirt—which still probably scream "city girl trying to play country"—Ifind myself back in the kitchen with all three guys. And Billy, who drops things every time I look in his direction.
Poor kid.
"So here's how it's gonna go," Gavin says, boots up on the table like he owns the place. Which, technically, I guess he sort of does since he runs part of it. "You won't last a week."
My face gets warm. "Excuse me?"
"Five days, max," Asher adds, playing with a deck of cards he pulls from his shirt pocket. "You'll be running back to your fancy coffee and yoga classes before Sunday."
"I don't do yoga."
"Pilates, then."
"I don't—" I stop. I do actually do Pilates. "That's not the point."
"The point," Trent says, his voice cutting through the banter, "is that this ranch needs someone who's committed. Not someone playing dress-up for a month to get their inheritance. Not someone who thinks they can waltz into town and slum it with a bunch of cowboys for thirty days."
The dismissal in his tone, the nerve of it, makes something hot and defensive rise in my chest. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He stands, and Jesus, he's tall. "I know you've never worked a day of manual labor in your life. I know those hands have never held anythingheavier than a champagne flute. And I know that the second things get hard, you'll run."
The kitchen goes quiet except for the tick of an ancient clock on the wall. Even Billy stops dropping things.
"You want to know what I know?" The words come out before I can stop them, my voice rising with each word. "I know you've all already written me off. I know you think I'm some spoiled princess who can't handle real work. And I know you're all sitting there smirking, just waiting for me to prove you right."
"Aren't you?" Gavin asks, that cocky grin still in place.
Something snaps inside me. "I'll make you all eat those words. Thirty days from now, you'll be begging me to stay."
"Big talk," Asher says, shuffling his cards with practiced ease.
"You want our respect?" Trent steps closer, his gray eyes intense. "Earn it. Thirty days of real work, no special treatment, no giving up when things get tough."
"And when I do?" I cross my arms, channeling every boardroom negotiation I've ever survived. "When I prove I can handle anything you throw at me?"
"Then we'll eat our words," Trent says, his voice quiet but firm.
