Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(14)

“Dude. We can’t put them back in.”

He shrugs, not looking sad about it. “I guess we’ll just have to eat them.”

I try not to laugh. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he did it on purpose. “Guess so.”

We move his chair over to the stove, and I read him the riot act about hot elements, telling him that his dad will bury me in a hay field somewhere if I let him get burned.

He giggles and tells me I’m hilarious.

I’ve never felt cooler than I do hanging out with a five-year-old.

Especially when he sits across from me at the table, pats his belly with sticky chocolate fingers and exclaims, “You might be better at cooking than my dad!”

I point my fork at him. “I cannot wait to tell him that.”

His little blue eyes go comically wide. “You can’t tell him that. He’ll be sad.”

“Don’t stress, little man,” I reply, trying not to melt over how sweet it is that he’s so worried about his dad. “Your dad will be able to handle the loss.”

He sighs deeply and gazes at me expectantly. “What now?”

“Anything you want.” I grab my plate as he picks up his and hands it to me.

“Anything?”

I peer down at him, one brow shifting up. “Almost anything.”

“One of the kids at school said that he and his dad drove really fast down the back roads and threw heads of lettuce out the window and watched them explode on the road.”

I stare at the little boy, all earnest and genuine. It’s like he doesn’t even realize what majorly hillbilly shit he just asked me to do.

Goddamn, small towns are weird.

“It’s day one. Are you trying to get me fired?”

“You can’t get fired. We like you too much!”

“Who is we?” I ask, loading the dishwasher. And I freeze momentarily when his response is, “My dad and me.”

I will not burst his bubble by telling him that his dad does not, in fact, like me. He just needs my help and is stuck between a rock and a hard place.

A hard place where I’m literally his last and only option.

I shrug. “Okay sure, why not?”

Hillbilly shit it is.





I take the top off my Jeep, and we cruise to the grocery store blasting some of my favorite ’80s hits. Luke cackles maniacally from his seat in the back when I do my best Billy Idol imitation.

I rolled my eyes when I saw the booster seat already installed in the back seat. I told Cade I could handle it, but he went into my vehicle while I was sleeping and did it anyway.

Control freak.

In town I easily find the grocery store. I took a bit of a detour on my way out to the ranch and gave myself a pep talk. I considered turning my ass around and heading back to the city where I could stick to what’s comfortable, but I’ve never been one to say no to new experiences. So I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and got a lay of the land so I wouldn’t be totally useless without someone showing me around.

“How many are we getting?” I ask Luke, who is strutting through the grocery store like a tiny king. Cowboy heir to the deer antler throne. Or something equally rustic.

“Ten,” he replies decisively.

“Ten? That’s a lot.”

“It’s just the right amount.”

I stare at the section of iceberg lettuce before us. If we take ten, we’re clearing out more than half of what’s here. “Five.”

His head shoots in my direction so quickly, little brows furrowing. He instantly looks like his dad. “Seven.”

I press my lips together so hard it almost hurts. This kid is too smart. “Five, final offer.”

A little spot on his jaw pops, and I am dying. He is a miniature Cade. Take away eye color and the resemblance is uncanny. Hilarious. “Fine.”

“You’re going to be bored after three,” I supply, while reaching for the first head of lettuce.

“I am not!”

I turn and quirk a brow at him. “Luke. I may be new here, but I’m going to tell you what I told your dad. Mind your tone. You and I aren’t going to talk to each other like that. Or I’ll put you back to bed for a nap.”

His baby blues widen. “Naps are for babies.”

“Agreed. But if you act like one, I might get confused.”

He sighs heavily and offers me a brief nod before reaching for another head. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for apologizing. That was very not-baby-like.”

A smile touches his lips and I mirror the expression. I feel like the two of us just came to some sort of understanding.

When we turn to leave, I’m met with a far less friendly glare.

“Who are you?” a woman asks, hand propped on her hip with a grocery basket in the opposite hand. The way she draws out you reminds me of the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland puffing out smoke O’s. But all she’s blowing at me is bad breath.

Not a fan of the way she’s glaring at me either. Up and down with a little sneer on her face, like I’m yesterday’s roadkill.

Regardless, I smile sweetly—a little too sweetly—and say, “I’m Willa.”

The woman sniffs, the tip of her nose wiggling. I’m having a hard time placing how old she might be. The mini skirt and rhinestone sneakers make me think young, but the heavy makeup flaking in the creases on her forehead makes me think older. It’s a fascinating dichotomy.