“Hmm?” Jane looked up.
Brock swore.
“Can you make coffee already?” he barked at a startled Jane, whose face managed to say everything she didn’t as it crumpled before him.
“Of course. Anything else, sir?” she asked in a dead voice.
Shit.
What the hell was wrong with him?
A nagging voice in his head blamed her—but she was just the unlucky target and it didn’t help that every time he locked eyes with her he thought of her soft mouth—of trailing kisses down her neck.
Or just pinning her against the wall.
But in a sick twist of fate, the only woman who’d managed to spike his interest in years was off limits. At least to someone like him. Someone who didn’t get to choose his own path.
Repression. That’s what was happening. He’d spent so many years being a yes man that he was finally cracking, saying things he didn’t mean, snapping, and then dreaming about kissing the scowl from her lips.
She’d probably slap the shit out of him.
And he’d deserve it.
“No.” He finally found his voice. “Actually,” he smirked, “Why don’t you make breakfast and coffee while I kick the ass out of the house and make sure he’s the only animal that escaped during the storm?”
Jane grabbed a skillet and slammed it onto the stovetop. When he cursed she offered a polite smile. “Headache?”
He glared.
Smile still in place, she lifted her chin. “How do you like your eggs?”
He frowned.
And then frowned harder.
“I have no damn clue.”
“Well,” she said, making her way to the fridge, “that’s helpful. Are you going to fire me if I guess wrong?”
“And if I do?” he challenged, suddenly realizing he liked the way her eyes lit up when she was angry. “What then? Will you leave?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“Why are you being difficult?”
“Because I finished a fifth of whiskey by myself last night, because this damn house has living breathing ghosts, but mainly because you look too damn good, and I’m suddenly discovering that this house has a way of shredding every ounce of self-control I possess. So unless you want to find yourself naked and in my bed, I suggest you do your job and stay the hell away.”
With that, he stomped out of the house. Luckily for him, the ass trotted after him as if they were playing a version of Follow the Leader.
That had gone well.
He let out a frustrated curse.
Great. Now Jane probably thought he was going to jump her in the night. Her shocked expression hit him in the gut, twisting like a knife.
At least he’d been honest with her about how attracted to her he was.
Hopefully she’d stay far away. How hard could it be to just do her job and ignore him?
Furthermore. Why. Was. She. Here?
His grandfather had been vague.
For some reason he still felt puppet strings digging into his skin, and he couldn’t shake the suspicion that Jane was just another way his grandfather was manipulating him.
Desperation filled him.
A desperation to be free.
And to not let his grandfather win.
And yet…
Where would that leave him?
Another funeral?
Another obituary?
Another ghost.
The donkey made a strangled noise and kicked dirt into the air once they reached the barn. Brock let out a frustrated sigh.
The door to the barn was completely open. A horse neighed and then trotted out toward him.
“Buttercup!” He smiled. “Come here, girl.”
The horse stopped, swished her tail, then turned away and trotted off.
“Well, at least I have you, Fred.”
There was no response.
He turned around.
“Fred?” Where the hell had the ass gone?
A gaggle of geese walked by, followed by a few chicks. Just then, he heard the cock.
Like in some horrible Western movie, the rooster stared him down from the other side of the barn, where light filtered in from the hole in the roof like a spotlight on the scene.
“Just you and me, eh?” Brock wondered if the fact that he was talking to the cock meant he was just as insane as his grandfather.
The cock kicked the dirt.
Brock did the same.
And then, the damn thing charged him.
Unsure of what to do, Brock stood his ground, until it started flapping up in his face.
He swatted it away and when it still wouldn’t stop attacking him, he ran back to the house to get a gun. He’d just come barreling through the kitchen door when he slammed into Jane, sending the skillet and eggs she’d scrambled all over the floor.
“Son of a bitch!” Brock yelled.
The rooster crowed.
Jane’s eyes widened as she locked on to what he assumed was the cock behind him. “The door’s open.”
“I’m going to kill it.” Brock jerked the screen door shut just before the rooster slammed into it, throwing a fit.
A few feathers went flying.
“Question.” Brock turned to Jane, who was brandishing the frying pan like a weapon. “Can you eat cock?”
The words were out before he could take them back.
“Are you asking about me, personally? Or people in general? Because I’m sure, given your reputation, you already know the answer to that question,” Jane said in a cheerful voice.
Brock looked heavenward and then turned around. “I meant the rooster.”