by Sosie Frost
“Go order another white. You can giggle all the way to the bedroom.”
Micah glared at me. “Well, you got one thing right, cowboy. I am going to fuck you. Hard.”
“Don’t get my hopes up, sweetheart. You’re already doing favors for Samson and everyone else in town. Spread some love my way.”
“You’re not serious.” She crossed her arms. “Forget it. As long as I’m in this town, you are never getting that barn.”
“You don’t mean that…” I followed her as she marched to her car. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot. Hell, we didn’t even get off at all—yet.”
“In your dreams.”
Oh, she’d be stuck in my head all night. “Come on. It was just a mistake. I’m sorry. I bet we can still be friends.”
She frowned. “You think?”
“I think we could be even more.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Micah’s words were the slap across the cheek she wished she could give me. “Believe me, Julian Payne. We will never be anything more.”
“Never say never, princess.”
“Never.” She dared me with that single, slow word. Fuck, she was adorable when she was pissed. “Never.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Micah.”
“You’re lucky that’s all I’m breaking. I never want to see you again.”
Wasn’t going to work for me. “I’m going to get my barn, princess.”
“You’re going to make an enemy for life,” she said. “Your application is denied.”
The little tart sauntered away, heels clicking against the sidewalk. She signed my hypothetical application with a flash of her middle finger and never looked back.
That was fine. She wanted to play rough? We’d play rough.
I was getting my barn. No skin-tight dress, perky tits, or perfect hips would stop me. If she wanted to go to war, then we’d be getting down and dirty in the trenches.
And she’d love every minute of it.
3
Micah
I’d brewed a cup of tea, taken all the children’s aspirin from the office first-aid cabinet, and wolfed down a quick salad that was anything but the requisite last meal a prisoner deserved before facing the execution squad.
Tonight, they’d announce my death with three simple words.
Butterpond Monthly Meeting.
Tonight was a special night for the residents of Butterpond. A time when they’d stand me before a squad of township busybodies who thought the municipality shared the same executive duties as the White House.
Once a month, the floor opened to the disheartened and irritable citizens who felt taunting, jeering, and generally mocking their elected and appointed representatives would more readily fill potholes and mow easements. Meetings were three-hour extravaganzas of grievances between neighbors and a public venue for the more outspoken to speak about the causes which troubled them—mostly issues of dog residue, a petition to limit one birdfeeder per household, and a yearlong property dispute aggravated by the placement of a neighbor’s garbage cans.
The agenda should have read Small-Town Schizophrenia—A One-Act Play, but no one in Butterpond ever paid attention to the scheduled order of events anyway. Meetings had become a blood-thirsty, survival of the fittest, comedy of errors, beginning not with a gavel against the podium but after Widow Barlow cracked Councilman David’s knuckles with her cane.
I wasn’t an optimistic person, but I still hoped this meeting would end early, before Mayor Desmond had an opportunity to settle matters like men with Sheriff Samson in the parking lot.
Only one thing could make the night more of a pain in the ass.
And he didn’t even knock outside my office. Just barged right in.
Julian Payne slammed the door behind him and glared at me with those dire green eyes. As if I were the asshole intruding on the precious few minutes I had left before I’d get clobbered by Roberts Rules of Order.
“Cowboy.”
“Princess.”
I crossed my arms. Great. Now I’d wrinkle the lovely red dressed I’d ordered from Ironfield. I’d paid a premium for the down-homey yet professionally approachable outfit. Ruffling the material would not soften public sentiment for me. Though a roll of twenties stuffed down my bra would have done more to bribe my way to job security.
“How’s it going?” Julian smirked.
“And here I thought this bad day couldn’t get worse.”
Julian’s teasing smile wasn’t meant to be inviting. He patted his hands against his jeans. Dusty, but not dirty. A streak of grease swept from his mid-thigh towards his temptingly tight ass. The white t-shirt was clean, stretched over his muscles. The thin material outlined his tanned abs and pecs.
It wasn’t fair that this loathsome creature was also the sexiest man I’d ever seen.
“You wanna talk a bad day?” He pulled out the seat opposite my desk.
“Not particularly.”
He ignored me, scratching the dark scruff on his hardened jaw. “Got a call today from the property tax collector.”
“Oh?”
“Seems they’re interested in my deceased father’s past tax filings. Just want to ensure accuracy.” He leaned in, tapping my desk. “So I spent the morning buried in paperwork, wondering to myself…there’s no way some little pain in the ass from the zoning office called the tax collector in retaliation for a simple misunderstanding, is there?”
He’d called me a whore. That wasn’t a misunderstanding, it was a declaration of war.
“The county always strives for accuracy,” I said.
“You had me audited?”
“All accounting issues are the prerogative of the tax collector.”
“Oh, princess, you just made a big mistake.”
I didn’t have time for this. I shooed his hands away from the seven different multi-paged reports I had neatly arranged on my desk—reports I had to print ten different times from a copier that jammed every three sheets of paper because the council had yet to learn how to open an email attachment.
“Just send Janice a proof of payment,” I said. “She’s harmless.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Twenty minutes till the meeting was not a time to start with me. “We have nothing to discuss here.”
“You haven’t heard the best part of my day yet.”
“I’m not interested.”
Julian leaned back, kicking his muddy shoes onto my desk. “My day started when my sister guilted me into visiting my Navy SEAL brother in the hospital. Neither of us were happy to see the other. He kicked me out of his room with his one remaining leg after threatening to club me with his prosthetic. It’s a really advanced prosthetic, but I don’t think that new leg can walk his ass back to the Middle East. Fortunately, I made peace with the nurses before we were both thrown out of the hospital.”
I pretended to ignore him as I shuffled papers. “Sounds like a fun time.”
“Then I came home to news of an audit, which I should thank you for—I was looking for some bullshit to help fertilize my fields. I’ll just rip that letter up and scatter it over the corn.”
“Hope you have a bountiful harvest.”
“Hard to do that without a barn.”
Poor thing. “Yes, I’d imagine so.”
He flipped through the folders cluttering my desk then glanced to the overflowing cabinets bordering both walls. Plans, maps, and large-scale drawings littered every available space and ledge, including the once-organized bankers’ boxes that held old surveys and property lines I’d committed to scanning into a digital database. Unfortunately, the papers had crept beyond their temporary holding cells and now crowded the legal books and resource manuals I’d meant to organize.
“You know I have three other brothers?” he asked.
“Word spreads around the town.”
Julian frowned. “None of them want this farm. Not like me.”
He’d settled in, patting the a
rms of the chair. I gave up on my papers and sighed.
“Tidus…” He shook his head. “He’s the type who isn’t happy unless he’s in trouble. Know anyone like that?”
I stared at him. “Yeah. I’m getting quite familiar with that sort of man.”
“He’s never liked the farm—had problems with our dad for years. Just wants to sell, get the money, and leave town on some self-destructive binge.” He frowned. “And my brother, Varius. He used to be the minister.”
Hadn’t expected that, but I only nodded.
“Times got tough,” he said. “And Varius turned hard. Now, nothing’s worth saving to him—not his soul, not the farm. And Quint, my youngest brother. He’d tear the whole farmhouse down, plank by plank, if I hadn’t hidden the sledgehammer. Thinks the farm is the cause of all the bad blood.”
I shrugged. “What do they realize that you don’t?”
“Nothing. We’re all jackasses. No one knows what to do.” Julian smirked. “Well, except my little sister. She’s the type who thinks all we need is a little elbow grease and a song in our hearts, and the farm will get rebuilt with the help of all the little woodland critter assholes who keep trying to eat my only goddamned chicken.”
I hid my smile. “One chicken?”
“No barn.”
Right. “So why is your sister so optimistic?”
“Cause she’s the only one getting laid in the family.”
Christ, I could relate. “Sorry, cowboy. Can’t help you there.”
“You’re not helping me at all, princess.”
“My heart is breaking for you,” I said. “I put in the extra effort. You’re the one who screwed it up.”
He disagreed with a snort. “You won’t take my calls. Won’t answer my emails.”
And I was trying so damned hard to forget the bastard even existed. His constant calls, and the town’s obsession with the Paynes, made him impossible to ignore. Especially last night when I woke too early from an unsatisfying dream with his name on my lips and my hand in my panties.
I straightened in the chair, assuming an authority he’d ultimately question. “Our business was concluded.”
“When?”
“When you called me a whore to my face.” I stood and gestured him to the door, hoping he’d take the not-so-subtle hint.
Julian didn’t move. “You still mad about that?”
“Still mad that I took a chance to talk to a charming farmer at the bar? Still mad that I thought I could open up about my job and responsibilities and problems to a sympathetic listener? Still mad that that only man in this town who cared enough to talk about my profession assumed that I was selling my body?” I crossed my arms. “Yeah. I’m still mad.”
Julian didn’t apologize. “Take it as a compliment.”
“Being a whore?”
“That you’re so goddamned beautiful that just sitting at a bar you exude sex.”
I pointed to the door. “Get out of my office.”
Julian grinned. “Maybe I should roll you around in the mud again. Might loosen you up.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wanna walk around this town with a stick up your ass, then you better watch for splinters.” He winked. “Or ask around for something better to sit on.”
The insults kept coming. “You have no right to speak to me like that.”
“You want a pain in the ass, beautiful? Fine. You’ve only got yourself to blame.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re the only one preventing me from getting what I want.”
Great. A head as hard as his cock. “Sure, it’s my fault that three years ago the municipality passed an ordinance codifying the building and zoning regulations. I’m just enforcing the rules. Don’t shoot the messenger.” I scowled. “Don’t flirt with her either.”
Julian hummed as he stepped a little too close. “I’ll make it easy for you. I want my barn.”
“And I want an alt-rock band to play at the county fair, but guess what? We’re both getting Bupkis.”
He frowned, confused. I sighed.
“That’s a polka band that plays every year,” I said. “Point is, there’s nothing I can do for you. We’re both screwed.”
He met my gaze. “Maybe that’s just what you need.”
Oh, hell no. I must not have heard him correctly. “What?”
His eyebrow waggle was entirely inappropriate. “Know what your problem is, princess?”
“Right now, it’s you.”
“You’re strutting around this office on a power trip.”
No, I was strutting around the office on a pair of four-inch heels that would make my toes bleed by the end of the monthly meeting. “I think you’ve been in the sun too long, cowboy.”
“And you’ve been inside this building for too long, thinking you’re hot shit just because you have the authority to sign off on a little paper that determines a man’s livelihood.”
“You can assume what you want about me, but I’m adhering to the legal regulations.”
“A girl like you always follows the rules, huh?”
I gritted my teeth. “That’s my job.”
“Day in and day out. Following the rules. Playing it safe. Living by…what was it? A defined life plan?” He actually laughed at me. “You’re so fucking stiff I should toss some ice cubes down your shirt and serve you in a tumbler.”
“Very funny.”
“You have a sense of humor?”
“When appropriate.”
“Well, you either find it hilarious to deny me my application—”
I interrupted him with a nod. “—It’s getting that way—”
“Or you get some other delight out of it.”
I huffed. “Like what?
“You like the power. The control. You’re getting off on rejecting these applications…” His glance over my curves struck me like a spank. “If you get off at all.”
This conversation was over. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get off the instant you get out.”
“That eager, huh?” His voice warmed with a laugh. “Been that long?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your secret will be safe with me, princess. How long’s it been?”
I crossed my arms. “Since what?”
“Since the Queen of Sawyer County authorized herself to get laid by a mason?” Julian’s green eyes flashed impish. “Nailed by a carpenter?”
“You’re such a—”
“When did you last get those pipes cleared by a plumber?”
How dare he?
Of all the abrasive, inappropriate, vulgar things to ask.
I expected nothing less from a bastard like Julian Payne, but was civil discourse so offensive to this man that he had to reduce every conversation to sex?
“I am not answering that.” Could he even hear me through my gritted teeth? “Ever.”
His laugh rolled over me, hot and heavy. “That long, huh?”
“It makes absolutely no difference to your application.”
“Makes all the difference.” He faced me, leaning against my desk as if I’d invited his ass to plunk down in the middle of my life. “Don’t hate the world cause you’re not getting any.”
The prick. “And you’re such a Casanova?”
“No one’s complained.”
“And how many of Butterpond’s finest have you bedded, cowboy?”
“Not nearly enough to warrant that sort of hostility.” He shrugged. “I have discriminating tastes.”
“Yeah, right.” I narrowed my eyes. “Probably hard to roll in the hay when you’ve got no barn.”
He had no reason to brag, yet he did. “I make do.”
“Your hand doesn’t count.”
“Neither does your showerhead, princess.”
I seethed. “Like you know anything about pleasuring a woman.”
He grinned. “Like you’ve ever been properly pleasured.”
Asshole.<
br />
My chest tightened, but I accidentally broke the stare first.
Who the hell was this man to think he could barge into my office, insult my appearance, my lifestyle, my lovelife, and then expect me to do him a favor?
Julian Payne was a giant dick with no foreplay.
And he could kiss my ass.
I should have called security. Should have kicked him out myself—my foot, his balls, and all of Butterpond lining up for the monthly meeting to see it.
Instead, I thrust a finger into his chest and poked. Hard. “You know what I think?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“You’re damn right I am,” I said. “I will not be lectured by some home-grown, down-on-the-farm, one-dimpled pain in the ass who thinks he knows anything about my personal life.”
“Ouch.”
“That excess of testosterone must come from somewhere,” I said. “And I’m willing to bet it’s an empty bed at night.”
“That so?” he asked.
“I can’t imagine any woman dumb enough to share your sheets.”
“I don’t like my women dumb. But I also don’t like mouthy little brats who think a fancy office with a window entitles them to their mismanaged authority.”
And I was done with the jerk. “You’re not as cute as you think you are, Mr. Payne. You can’t waltz in here and demand whatever your wizened little heart desires because you’ve got a good smile and a farmer’s tan.”
This wasn’t a man whose vanity allowed him to be insulted. He held my stare as he yanked his t-shirt up over his pecs. That made it entirely too difficult to peek at his rippling chest and golden tan.
“No farmer’s tan here. The shirt comes off when I sweat. I’d demonstrate, but I doubt you could contain your lust.”
I laughed. “Oh, so now I’m worthy of the Julian Payne Sextravangza?”
“Hell no. You’re a pain in the ass little ice princess who should’ve gotten laid ages ago, before you froze yourself inside that shell.”
Like he knew anything about me.
Or how long it’d been since I’d scheduled time for physical intimacy.
Or any intimacy.
“This shell doesn’t crack for just any man,” I said.
“Just gotta bite hard, princess.”