Change Rein (Willow Bay Stables #1)(33)

The clock on the nightstand reads eight-thirteen a.m., and even for a barn girl, that’s early for a Sunday morning. After slipping out of the bed, I pull one of his shirts over my head. Then I find my discarded booty shorts on the floor and put them on.

Quietly, I sneak out of the room, shutting the door behind me. Branson never sleeps in late, and the fact he is still out cold only shows how much he really needs it.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Something buzzes on the table by the front door as I pad across the hardwood floor. After turning over the lock, I open the door so whoever is on the other side doesn’t wake up my very sleepy and very satisfied man.

When my eyes land on that ever-present, stupid braid, I wish I’d stayed curled up on his chest.

“You.” Charlotte scowls, resting her hand on her hip.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her obvious statement. “Yup, me. Good morning. Can I help you with something?”

“What are you doing here?” Her tone is accusatory, and once again, her statement is particularly absurd.

I cock an eyebrow at her. “You’re a smart woman, Charlotte. I think you can figure it out.”

“You know we slept together, right?” She turns her nose up and smirks at me.

She backs up onto the porch as I shut the door behind us.

“I think I’ve been particularly generous where your lack of respect towards me is concerned, but I think it’s due time we cleared a few things up.”

She shifts from one foot to the other. I imagine she wasn’t expecting a lecture from a woman with bed head wearing men’s clothing when she came by this morning, but it’s what she’s gonna get.

“One”—I hold up a finger—“I know you spent a single night. Let me make that clear—one night with Branson a while back. He told me after the first week, and it was my decision to keep you employed at Willow Bay. He left that right up to me.”

She gapes at me.

Yeah. How ’bout that, Equestrian Barbie?

“Two”—I lift a second finger—“I think we can cut the you-don’t-know-what’s-going-on-between-us bullshit. It’s been almost six weeks, and you see us together nearly every day. Branson is my boyfriend and your boss. Should you wish to keep your job, I suggest you remember that, as it’s not a line he’s willing to blur, and neither am I.”

She tugs at the strands of her braid.

“Lastly, it is a Sunday morning well before an appropriate hour to be showing up at your boss’s house. So, unless there is an emergency that either he or I am currently unaware of, I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds to get off this porch. And I don’t want to see you here again unannounced. Are we on the same page, honey?”

“Y-yes,” she stammers.

Smiling brightly, I squeeze her shoulders like adults do to children. “Glad to hear it.” I gesture towards her car. “Have a nice day.”

The normally confident woman suddenly seems so nervous, and I have the urge to yell, “Boo!” to see if she screams, but I don’t. Instead, once I’m satisfied she’s leaving with no intention of coming back, I walk back into the house.

It’s still quiet, which means my altercation with Charlotte didn’t wake Branson up. In the kitchen, it takes me a few minutes to find everything I’m looking for, but once I do, the heavenly smell of coffee permeates the air as it brews.

Taking advantage of my time alone in the house, I wander through it, soaking up the masculinity and warmth. I could live here. The idea pops into my head without warning and I stumble a little as I consider it. I suppose that’s where we are headed, neither of us being the type to date simply for the sake of dating.

My hand runs over the back of a brown, worn, leather couch as I wander into the living room. There’s a large TV on the wood mantel of the stone fireplace, flanked by more of the floor-to-ceiling windows that also run along the back of the house. To the left of the couch is the matching loveseat, and to the right is a large armchair. The room might feel empowered by testosterone if it weren’t for the hints of warmth that are sprinkled across the space. Whether they were done by his own accord or his mother’s doing, I can’t be certain, but I like them.

The leather of the couch is offset by a series of yellow pillows, some solid and others with patterns that play off the color of the wood flooring. On the coffee table were fresh flowers, and throw blankets adorned the armrests of the various seating arrangements.

All in all, this room and the others in the house were exactly Branson: the perfect balance of masculinity, power, class, and most of all, happiness.

When I return to the kitchen, the coffee is ready, so I pour a mug for each of us. Then I pad back into the bedroom, where he’s still asleep, the morning sun making the strands of honey in his brown hair stand out.

After placing the coffee mugs on the bedside table, I lie on my stomach next to him so I can admire how gorgeous he is as I place a light kiss on his full lips. But also because, if I’m honest, my injury flamed up a little, thanks to our activities the night before.

He stirs at my touch, his face coming alive but his eyes not opening. “Why are you wearing clothes?” he huffs, rubbing a hand over my back.

“There was a knock on the door. I woke up,” I answer nonchalantly.

Opening one eye at a time, he frowns. “Who was it?”