Except he wasn’t a jerk. The fact that he stopped everything before we could get to the next level, he did the right thing—eventually. And I can’t even blame him for not stopping me sooner, considering I crawled into his lap and—can I die now?
I wilt, dropping my head down to the table. I consider banging my head against the desk, but I already have a headache.
He could have said nothing. He could have taken me to bed and done everything I wanted and relieved his not-so-little problem and then used my horniness against me. Isn’t that how these people work?
My face burns with shame.
I can’t believe I propositioned a complete stranger—a paying customer and an evil overlord—and then kissed him.
The incoming message box dings, and I sit up and toggle over to my personal emails.
Reed. I click on it even though I would rather run away and deal with anything else. Even Archer.
Hey, Fin, we need to talk. I saw you at Veronica’s yesterday, but I was with Stacey and I didn’t want to chat in front of her. Call me.
My stomach swirls with anxiety.
Reed works for the tax assessor’s office, and he’s my ex-boyfriend.
We’re past due on property taxes. He’s guided me on how to challenge the assessment and has been working from the inside to defer the payments for as long as he legally could.
I’ve always known he couldn’t help me forever, but I continue to do my best to postpone the inevitable. Something will work out. It always does, right?
I thought I needed a little more time to make ends meet, but there is no end. It’s just a black hole of money being pushed into this place. Tension and worry twine together to form a knot in my gut.
I delete Reed’s email and avert my focus to the issue at hand. Anger is a much easier emotion to grapple with than fear, stress, and anxiety.
Archer. I’ve got to get rid of Archer. No problem. I’ll go over there right now and evict his ass. His hot, muscular, succulent . . .dammit.
The door connecting the office to the main house creaks open, and Jacob sticks his head inside, dark sunglasses concealing his eyes.
“Hey.”
“Good morning sunshine,” I yell at him as loud as I can.
He winces, pressing fingers to the side of his head. “I have a headache.”
“You don’t say.”
I have one too, and it has your name on it.
He slumps against the doorframe. “I think I’ll stick to scut work today.”
Typical. I don’t want to fight. I’ll harangue him, he’ll get defensive, we’ll argue, and he won’t even accomplish the menial tasks he intends to complete. I have enough problems to deal with. It’s easier to stick your head in the sand sometimes. It’s the way our family works: pretend nothing is wrong even when it’s all crumbling around us.
I proceed the emotionally healthy way: by changing the subject and grabbing my rifle.
“Oliver Fucking Nichols sent another one of his lackeys.”
“Why does he—?” He stops short, gesturing to the rifle in my hand. “You know that thing doesn’t work. It’s a replica.”
“It’s not to kill.” I shift it in my hands. “It’s to torment.”
“Oh, good, save the murder for when you really mean it. You want breakfast?”
“Yeah. In a minute. I’ll be back shortly.”
He waves me off before heading toward the kitchen.