Page 85 of Never Bargain with the Boss
I arch a brow. “Your powers of observation are astounding.”
“I mean, you’ve hung around longer than I thought you would,” Miller informs me.
I huff out a laugh. “I’d say thanks, but I don’t think you meant it to be a compliment. I know an insult when I hear one.”
He purses his lips, unsurprised at being busted, but probably not expecting to get called out on it so bluntly. “Nothingpersonal, I just figured you’d be too soft to deal with them. Most of the nannies are. That’s why they ended up crying and quitting when Daddy Warbucks was mean to them.”
Not touching the Daddy Warbucks nickname with a ten-foot pole, I deadpan, “So, you’re calling me hard?”
He shrugs in a ‘shoe fits’ kinda way. “Then I decided you were too smart to put up with the bullshit.” He waits a beat, like I’m supposed to jump in with gushing appreciation for being called smart. When I stay silent, he finishes his thought, “Yet here you still are.”
Yep, there it is.
“And now, you’re calling me stupid.” He flashes me an irritatingly smug, one-sided smirk, showing zero remorse. Fine. Apparently, we’re doing this. “Does this work for you? Like ever, when you try to hit on women?” I ask point blank, my tone as flat as my itty-bitty titties. “’Cuz I gotta tell you, drier than the Sahara over here.” I wave my hand over my general crotch region, which is buried beneath the blanket, “and feeling a major case of the icks.”
I wave my hand his way in a ‘go away’ motion, crinkling my nose like Miller himself is the cause of the smell in the barn. I’m not being rude. This is kinda our deal. He’s an asshole, I act bitchy, and in the end, we tell each other to have a good day. It’s not friendship, but it’s something.
“I’m not hitting on you.” At my look of severely dubious doubt, he insists, “I’m seeing Shana.”
“Sure you are, buddy.” He might be. I don’t know, but I’m not rushing to make him feel better when he’s slinging shit at me.
He glares, acting like he’s the one who’s been insulted, and maybe in some alternate universe, his pissy attitude would have an effect on me. But it’s nothing compared to Cameron’s frown-glare-scowl spectrum, so Miller’s bounces off like nothing. “I’m just trying to figure you out,” he explains, sounding exasperated.“Their situation sucks bad enough that they go through nannies like most people go through paper towel rolls. But you’re different. You’re sticking around.”
I start to tell him to ‘fuck off’ because its none of his business, but he verbally runs right over me, saying, “It’s good for Grace. She likes you, but it’s more than that. She’s less anxious, more confident, and doesn’t seem as heavy-hearted as she used to be. Whatever it is you’re doing, I want to figure it out so that when you’re gone, I can try to do it for her. Or fuck, maybe do it for some of my other students. I’m a damn good teacher and an even better rider, but even I’ve got shit I can still learn.”
I blink, completely shocked into silence. Of all the places I thought Miller was going with this conversation, self-improvement wasn't on my long list, much less the short one. Hell, I wouldn’t have thought he possessed enough self-awareness to know he has areas of potential growth, given he’s typically all bluster and cocky arrogance.
But I don’t detect any hint of bullshit in him right now. At least not about this, so I decide to take him at his word, believing that he’s simply observed something he could improve on and is asking genuinely. “Just love them. That’s all it takes. Love them so much that you want what’s best for them over everything else.”
“Pshhaw. That’s it?” Miller asks mockingly, sounding way more like himself again. “I thought you were gonna tell me to give ‘em cookies, or threaten them with extra chores, or some shit like that. I don’t get paid enough for love and all that bullfuckery.” He pulls his hat off, taps it on his leg like he’s getting dust off though there’s not much on the felt to begin with, then sets it back on his head, pulling it down low so I can’t see his eyes. He’s acting brash, but he heard my suggestion. I think he might even take it to heart himself because he’s right. He’salready a great teacher, which shows he does care, even if he likes to hide it for some reason.
“Grace! Let’s hit the stables. It’s colder than a polar bear’s ass in here today,” he hollers as he walks toward the ring’s gate. She leads Pegasus easily, both of them following Miller, and I settle in to wait for her to finish her chores.
At home, she goes upstairs for a quick rinse to get the horse smell and sweat off while I start pulling out ingredients for dinner. I’ve chopped an onion and two bell peppers when the doorbell rings. Cameron didn’t say he was expecting anyone today, but it might be something he or Grace ordered online, especially with Christmas only a few weeks away, so wiping my hands on a towel, I go to open the door.
I really wish I hadn’t bothered. Because as soon as I open it a crack, I see that it’s not a delivery person, or even a Harrington making a random visit. It’s Austin.
I immediately try to slam the door shut, but it gets stuck on his foot where he’s slipped it over the threshold. I know it has to be hurting him, but still, I push harder. “What the hell are you doing here? Leave now.”
Damn it, I wish I still had my boots on, but I took them off when I came in, and right now, I’m only armed with fuzzy socks. They’re cute, with neon hedgehogs on them, but not nearly as effective as my boots would be at stomping Austin’s foot.
He plants his hands on the door and shoves. I’m no match for his strength and instantly stumble back a couple of steps, sliding in my now least-favorite socks. With the door open, he walks on in like he owns the place. He even whistles as he glances around, taking in the sparkly chandelier, the fancy marble floor, and then my hate-filled glare.
“Rye, that’s no way to greet your old man.”
“You are not my old man. Get out, Austin,” I order, injecting every drop of venom I possess into the command and pointing back at the open door.
He ignores me completely, the way I wish he had all those years ago and all those years since, and walks on past me. I swear I’m about to jump on his back, spider monkey-style, and start wailing on him, but a single word stops me.
“Riley?” Grace is standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at Austin and me with a look of concern on her face.
Fuck. I don’t know what to do.
Because as much as I’d like to, I don’t think I can technically beat him over the head with the brass candlestick from the console table and claim self-defense. But he also has no right to be here.
Why is he here?
I try to gauge the situation as best as I can in the span of a single heartbeat. The instinct that’s screaming the loudest is the most obvious one—protect Grace. I need to get her away from Austin, away from any danger, and the best way to do that is to play every single damn card I have at my disposal. As far as defenses go, I’m not sure 52-card pickup is ideal, but it’s what I’ve got right now.