Always On My Mind (The Sullivans #8)(7)

“That sounds great,” she said, though it was clearly anything but great, but instead of following him into the house, she added, “And if I do a good job with those chores, you’ll give me the job?”

Stubborn didn’t even begin to describe this girl. Working not to feel too much respect for her determination, he studied her carefully for a few moments. Her nails were long, and while there was dirt under then now, they were well manicured, and her hands were soft and smooth. He’d bet all one thousand of his acres that she hadn’t done a lick of cleaning in her entire life. With those legs, and that body, she’d probably spent it as some rich man’s pampered mistress.

“If you make it all the way through the list of farmhouse chores,” he said as easily as he could around the twisting in his gut at the thought of Lori in another man’s bed, naked and breathless as she came for him, “you can have the job on probation.” He turned away before she could see the reaction he was having to her.

“Probation?”

He shot her a look over his shoulder. “One hour at a time, Lori. That’s how we’ll take it before I know whether or not I can count on you.”

“You can count on me,” she said in a firm voice as she suddenly blew past him and into his living room. And then, suddenly, she was making a happy little surprised sound.

“Oh, look at her.” Lori rushed over to his mangy, ratty old former barn cat who was nearly done with her ninth life. “She’s beautiful!”

“Are you sure we’re looking at the same cat?” Frankly, he was amazed Lori had even been able to tell the thing was female.

“She can hear you, you know,” she said in a chiding tone, and then, “What’s her name?”

He wanted to remind Lori that she was gunning for the role of farmhand, not new best friend who would chat with him all day long. He liked his solitude, damn it. Still, he’d already figured out that not answering one of her pointless questions wouldn’t make her stop asking them.

“Mo.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your cat’s name is Mo?”

“That’s right.”

She turned back to the cat and cooed as she stroked it. “How could anyone call such a pretty little girl such an ugly boy’s name.” She scowled up at him. “One of the Three Stooges, no less!” Again, she focused on the cat. “You were waiting for me to come here, weren’t you, so that I could give you love...and a good name.”

Love. The word hit him hard right in the center of his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs. He thought he’d known about love once upon a time, but he hadn’t known a damn thing about what love really was. The only thing he knew for sure now was that his life was better off without it.

His voice was fiercer than it needed to be as he said, “You’re not going to rename my cat.”

But it was as though she couldn’t hear him...even though he knew she had because he was only a handful of feet away from her and the cat.

“I’ve got the perfect new name for you!” She looked so excited that the cat actually raised its tired head and blinked at her. “Sweetpea.”

Grayson refused to think any of this was cute. “Mo,” he repeated. “Its name is Mo.”

“It is a she. And her name is Sweetpea.” She bent over to press kisses to the cat’s head, then promptly started sneezing.

“You’re allergic to cats.” The statement came out as an accusation. He told himself he didn’t care if he was being too harsh with her. He didn’t want her here anyway.

“No, I’m not.” She sneezed again, but continued petting the cat. “Your house must be dusty.”

It wasn’t, but he said, “Good thing cleaning it is part of my farmhand’s job description, then, isn’t it? I’ll show you where the cleaning supplies are so you can get started.”

She seemed to deflate a little bit at the housecleaning reminder, but instead of leaving the cat’s side, she said, “How old is she?”

He’d worked with bulls for long enough to know that sometimes it was easier to wait for them to come to him than it was to try to shove them into the breeding chute. He leaned against the doorjamb and tried not to notice how pretty Lori looked sitting cross-legged on the floor petting the cat. When the sun streaming in through the window hit her hair just right, the glossy, dark-brown strands held as many shades of red as the leaves on the maple tree in the fall.

“Old.”

Her expression didn’t change at his terse response. She didn’t shrink back, or even look particularly irritated with him. Irrationally, it made him want to see what he could do to get a response out of her.

“How old?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, then, when did you get her?”

“I found her in the barn when I bought the place.” Since he knew the question was coming, he added, “Three years ago.” He looked down at the animal that had purred its way into his heart, even though he’d refused to have one again. “She wouldn’t leave.”

“You’re lucky she stayed with you.”

“Lucky?” He had to laugh at that, a rough and jagged sound that held no joy at all. “She’ll only eat wet food, she coughs up hairballs the size of tennis balls, and she sheds all over everything.”