Page 93 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Yeah, I'll mention it." Earl folds the receipt carefully and tucks it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks for understanding."
"Of course. We're all just trying to do our jobs, right?"
As his truck disappears down the drive, I allow myself a small smile of satisfaction. PR skills for the win.
"Well, well, well."
I turn to find Asher leaning against the barn door, that lazy grin spreading across his face. "Remind me never to bet against you."
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to watch you completely bamboozle that poor driver." He pushes off from the door and walks over to me. "That was impressive, darlin'. And probably illegal."
"It wasn't illegal. Misleading, maybe. Ethically questionable, definitely. But not illegal." I dust off my hands, pleased with myself. "Besides, Trent will pay the invoice when he gets back. Earl just needed to feel like he was covered."
"Still. That was some Grade A bullshit you just sold that man."
"It was strategic negotiation designed to achieve a mutually beneficial outcome," I correct primly. "They'regonna get paid, for heaven's sake. We're not trying to steal their damn feed."
"Yeah," Asher repeats, but he's looking at me with something that might be admiration. "Beautiful, creative bullshit that saved us from having to deal with a feed shortage."
"Thank you?"
"That's definitely a thank you." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his natural scent mixed with hay and fresh air. "You know what this means, don't you?"
"That I missed my calling as a con artist?"
"That you're starting to think like one of us. Like someone who belongs here."
The words hit me harder than they should. Someone who belongs here. Is that what's happening? Am I starting to belong?
Mere days ago, I would have stood by helplessly while someone else solved the problem.
But today? Today, I saw a challenge and met it head-on. Used skills I'd developed in my old life to solve problems in my new one. Adapted and overcame the day’s challenges.
"Maybe I am," I say quietly.
"Maybe you are what?"
"Starting to think like someone who belongs here."
Asher's smile becomes something warmer. "About time you figured that out. We've known it for days."
"Have you?"
"Darlin', you've been one of us since the day you told Sir Clucks-a-Lot to kiss your ass. Everything else has just been you catching up to what the rest of us already knew."
Before I can respond to that—before I can even process what he's really saying—Gavin appears around the corner of the barn, shirtless and sweaty from whatever work he's been doing.
"Problem with the delivery?" he asks, noting the scattered feed bags.
"Wasa problem," Asher corrects. "Our girl here handled it."
"Did she now?" Gavin looks between us with interest. "What kind of handling are we talking about?"
"The kind that involves creative interpretation of payment policies and strategic application of corporate fear tactics," I explain.
"In other words, she lied her ass off and got the job done," Asher translates.
