I lift my hand to wave at him as he passes by me, but instead of walking past, he grips my hand and tugs me along.
“Why don’t you walk me out?”
“That’s a great idea,” Nan says, making it clear she’s been watching us the entire time.
On unsteady legs, I allow him to pull me out the front door. My pulse kicks up several notches as he continues to hold my hand while he places the casserole dish on the passenger seat of the truck.
“It was lovely to me—”
Without a word, Ezekiel presses my back to the side of his truck as he lowers his head. My heart is a drum pounding inside my chest as I look up at him with wide eyes. Is he going to kiss me? I lick my lips in anticipation. Jesus, he’s going to do it.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans closer, his nose trailing up the column of my neck. The shiver that races down my spine has nothing on the goosebumps I felt earlier when he brushed his warm lips against my hand.
His soft chuckle fills my ears, but it doesn’t have the soft ring to it that his laugh did inside while we ate supper. No, this laugh is sinister, malevolent in nature.
“Silly little girl,” he rasps in my ear. “Did you really think I’d kiss you? I’d rather piss on an electric fence.”
I’m frozen in place, aghast by what he just said.
I open my eyes and pull my head back a few inches, certain I’d find his lips smiling at the not-so-funny joke, but instead of the sweet smile that played on his lips earlier, the sneer from when I first saw him is back.
Without another word, he backs up, moves me to the side, and climbs into the cab of the truck. He doesn’t even give me a second look as he places the pickup in reverse and drives away.
Did that really just happen?
I don’t know how long I stand in the middle of the yard gawking, but his taillights are long gone by the time Nan calls to me from the porch.Chapter 3Zeke
Dad doesn’t even lift his eyes from the TV as I enter the small cottage style home. Per usual, Mom is in the kitchen working on the dishes as I walk in to put the casserole in the fridge. Mrs. Nanette always makes too much to eat, and we benefit from her overcooking. Don’t get me wrong, we’re grateful, but her little doses of charity are hard to swallow down most days.
“Tater tot casserole,” I tell Mom as I close the refrigerator door.
“Glad you’re home, sweetheart.” Mom presses her lips to my temple, and I stand there and take it even though I want to lash out at her.
This isn’t home. Home was thirty miles east of here. I haven’t been home in four years, not since we lost our own ranch and were forced to work on someone else’s. Nanette Jacobson is a nice lady. She’s given Dad a job and pays him as much as she can, but her ranch is struggling, too. Droughts the last couple of years have made it hard for small-time ranchers to stay in business.
To say I’m bitter is an understatement. I’m no stranger to hard work, and working hard has always benefited me on the football field. My physique can’t be gained from the gym.
“How was supper? Did you finally meet Frances?” Mom asks the questions with a smile, but it’s clear she’s more interested in making small talk than actually learning something about Nanette Jacobson’s only granddaughter.
That stupid girl has done nothing but make my blood boil hotter and hotter with each minute I had to spend with her, and I don’t mean it in a good way. I’ve suffered through countless conversations as Nanette bragged about her granddaughter.
Frances is perfect.
You’re going to love her.
She’s the sweetest child.
She’s so smart. Top of her class. Hoping to go to Harvard or Stanford.
I hated the girl long before I met her. She really never stood a chance. But it wasn’t until Dad slipped up and mentioned how a relationship with the Jacobson heir would be beneficial to our own family that I got a bad taste in my mouth for her. He didn’t mean it in a manipulative or deceptive way, but just the suggestion of who I should date or be friendly with annoys me.
“Zeke?” I turn my head to find Mom frowning at me. “Did you meet her?”
I nod. “She’s lovely. Even prettier than Mrs. Nanette described.”
That’s not a lie either. The girl is positively gorgeous, but despite her mysterious gray eyes and shiny dark hair, despite her tiny frame and the hundreds of things I can imagine doing to her, I still hate her.
Frances Young is everything I’m trying to avoid, namely being locked down to Utah when all I want to do is get out of this flat, fly-over state. I don’t want to work on a ranch. I don’t want to spend countless hours in the sun, and I don’t want to be the focus of two families that are trying to shove me into the arms of someone they handpicked for me, especially some city girl who has probably never met a hard day’s work.