Holiday Hire (The Cartwright Family #2)

Chapter 8

8

Phoebe

I t shouldn't surprise me Lance disregarded my need for space and showed up, but it does. He always does what he wants, yet I'm shocked he came all this way to see me.

Why is he here?

He's going to sabotage my chances of keeping my job.

I pace my room, then grab my overnight bag out of the closet. I toss some random stuff in it, freaking out.

I have two days. Well, maybe two full days. Who knows when Alexander's going to throw me off the ranch. Any remaining time is crucial for me to prove he needs to keep me as the boys' nanny. Now Lance is going to steal it.

He can't have it.

I need to get him to leave tomorrow morning first thing.

This is so like Lance. Disappear, take no responsibility for it, and disregard all my wishes. Then, when I least expect it, make some grand gesture that's supposed to make me forget everything that's happened.

I'm not falling for it this time.

More determined than ever to take the space we need, I exit the bedroom.

Alexander and Lance stand in the family room. In an arrogant tone, Lance asks, "So you guys do real cowboy stuff out here, huh?"

Alexander answers with disapproval, "Yeah, something like that. I assume you know nothing about it though."

Lance grunts. "No need to."

I've got to get him out of here before he ruins everything I've been working so hard for.

"And what exactly do you do?" Alexander prods.

Lance shrugs. "I dabble in my family's business dealings."

Alexander's eyes turn to slits. "You 'dabble'?"

Oh no! This is going to get ugly fast!

From what I've witnessed this week, the Cartwrights value hard work and getting your hands dirty. It doesn't matter how much money they have. Every day, they get up and work. Lance doesn't have the same values or work ethic. So I avoid looking at Alexander and hightail it to the door, asking, "Ready, Lance?"

"Have a good night. I appreciate your family giving Phoebe and me our private space," Lance says.

"Space. That's an interesting word lately." Alexander scowls.

My insides quiver. He thinks I'm leading Lance on, but I'm not. All I want to do is give us the time we need to realize what we both want so we can move forward. And I still intend to be with Lance after we've taken our space.

At least, I think that's what I still want.

Regardless of what happens between Lance and me, it's another checkmark for Alexander to toss me off the ranch come Monday.

I don't reply, and step through the front doorway. The door slams behind me, and I turn my head, glaring at Lance. I snap, "You don't have to disrespect their property."

"Disrespect their property? What are you talking about?"

"Slamming their doors."

"I didn't," he claims.

"You did."

He goes to his side of the car, and it hits me how I've become accustomed to Alexander opening the passenger door for me. It strikes me as odd, as it never used to bother me. Yet it's a blinking red light, reminding me of another thing Lance doesn't do for me.

Why am I with him?

We have too much history to toss us aside without taking time to think.

Who cares if he opens my door? I never did before.

We just need space, I tell myself.

Lance starts the car, then leans over. He puts his hand behind my head and tugs me close to him, giving me a kiss, but I pull back.

"No kiss for me? You're not excited to see me when I flew all this way?" he accuses.

"I told you we needed space. This is my work environment. I only have until Monday to prove that I can make a positive difference here, and I need to focus on earning my place."

His eyes widen. "Monday? I thought you said you would be here for two months."

I reprimand myself for admitting my situation to him. It's just another thing I have to explain, and he won't understand it.

"Well, which is it?" he pushes.

I confidently assure him, "I'll be here for two months."

His eyes narrow. "Then why did you say Monday?"

I swallow the lump in my throat. This is all going in the wrong direction. I don't need this right now.

"Phoebe, answer my question," he demands.

My chest tightens. I admit, "I'm on a trial run. The family wants to make sure I'm the best person for the job. I came out here for a few days to show them how I'd interact with the kids and that I knew what I was doing."

He grunts. "So you're wasting your time?"

"No!" I protest, wishing I hadn't spilled the beans. I want to stay on the ranch more than anything. I want to prove to everyone that I belong here and that I'm qualified to take care of Wilder and Ace. Plus, I really like everyone—the kids and the entire family.

"The thought of you living as a country bumpkin is amusing," Lance says insultingly.

"The Cartwrights aren't country bumpkins! Plus, they've been very welcoming, and it's been a nice change from California."

Lance snorts. "You must have inhaled too much cow manure. You'll be back home on Monday, and I came all this way for no reason. You should have been honest with me, Phoebe."

Insulted, I glare at him, seething, "How dare you say that to me."

He chuckles. "Jesus. When did you get so uptight?" He takes off down the driveway.

I don't answer him, more irritated with him than I was when I left California. I shake my head, twist my fingers in my lap, and try to calm down.

He turns down another driveway. The orange glow from the lights on the fences looks beautiful, but I can't even appreciate it right now. He mutters, "Where is this place? How does anyone live somewhere this desolate?"

The guesthouse comes into view, the windows bright from the inside lights, and the front porch as decorated as the main house. Yet I'm so angry, I can't remember what guesthouse they put us in. I inform him, "It's right there."

He pulls up to the house, and Stallion House is lit up and displayed above the porch.

Lance mockingly says, "Jesus, it's straight out of Little House on the Prairie ."

"Why are you here, Lance?" I demand, offended he's being rude about the Cartwrights and their property. There's nothing out of date or simple about the ranch or guesthouse.

"I told you, to come get you. This is absolutely ridiculous. I know you want some attention, so I'm giving it to you."

I gape at him.

He adds, "Time to end this game."

My rage boils. I hurl out, "What are you talking about? I don't need attention. I need space. We need to work on things. We need to think about what we both want and need. Then, we can decide what we want to do."

"Meaning?"

"If we still really want to be together!"

Tension builds as Lance leers at me. My insides quiver harder. I finally said what I'm afraid might happen.

He asserts, "I don't need time and space, Phoebe. We're meant to be together, and you know it. So tomorrow, you're going to get your shit, then we're going to get on a plane, and we're going to go back to Pismo. We'll get married. You don't need to worry about working. Everything will be fine." He parks the car and gets out, going directly to the house.

Once again, I'm reminded how he's never opened my door. Not that I can't do it myself, but I didn't realize how nice it was that a man actually thought about you enough to do it—even when I'm just the nanny.

I open my door and get out, taking my bag with barely anything in it inside the guesthouse.

Knotty pine walls, brown leather furniture, a vase of fresh fall flowers, and a huge set of bull horns adorn the space.

He snickers. "Man, this is as country as country gets, isn't it?"

"What is wrong with you?" I scold.

"Nothing's wrong with me. What's wrong with you? You've been here a few days, and you've forgotten your roots," he replies scornfully.

Every ounce of hurt and anger erupts within me. I roar, "I haven't forgotten anything! I haven't forgotten how you disappear for days at a time! And I haven't forgotten how you used to want to spend time with me, and you no longer do!"

"I flew across the country to come get you."

I scoff. "You didn't fly across the country. You flew across several states. Let's be honest."

"You're an ungrateful person, Phoebe. You give me no credit for making things right between us and then you act like you're perfect."

"Don't you dare blame me for this! I didn't stay out for countless days and ghost you!"

"Oh, go cry a bit more. And for God's sake, grow up!" he roars.

I take several large breaths, trying to stop trembling.

He claims, "You're overreacting, just like you always do."

I ponder his statement. Am I overreacting? Shouldn't I give him some credit for coming all this way?

Lance looks at me with puppy-dog eyes and lowers his voice. "Are you trying to tell me you don't want to be with me at all?"

His question and expression tug at my heart.

He adds, "Are you going to throw away our love and all the years we've been together?"

I blink hard. I'm so confused. If Lance could be the Lance he used to be, I'd say no in an instant. But I remind myself that I don't know who he is anymore.

His voice sounds scared and full of hurt when he asks, "You don't want to be together anymore?"

"No, that's not it," I reply, unsure of what I want but also fearful of making any big changes.

He arches his eyebrows. "Really? Seems to me that that's the message you're trying to give me right now."

"It's not."

"How is it not?" He crosses his arms, leering at me, and it's almost as if I can see fumes coming out of his ears.

I try not to wither beneath the weight of his stare. I normally do. The moment he gives me that look, I normally back down. But maybe I'm changing.

I close my eyes and try to slow my rapidly beating heart. He steps closer to me, puts one hand on my cheek, and his other hand around my waist. He tugs me into him.

His expensive cologne flares in my nostrils. It hits me how different it is from Alexander's scent. I don't know why I'm thinking of him or how he smells, but something about Lance's cologne is suddenly too sweet...too preppy...too clean.

What is wrong with me?

Why am I thinking these things?

"Come on, Phoebe, you know we're meant to be together. Stop playing this game."

"I'm not playing a game."

He presses his lips to mine, but I push him away.

"You still aren't going to kiss me?" he asks incredulously.

I cry out, "You're not listening to me."

He angrily shakes his head. "What am I not listening to, Phoebe? It's clear that you'd rather be here, hundreds of miles away from me, with strangers."

"It's not about that. I'm working," I declare.

He snorts. "You're nannying, and that's ridiculous."

I glare at him. "Why is that?"

"Nannies are for second-class citizens."

I jerk my head back. "Excuse me?"

He points at me. "You heard me. And you don't need to work. You'll have your own nanny when we're married and have kids. You don't need to be the nanny."

"What exactly is wrong with nannying?" I question.

He makes a frustrated noise. "Oh, Phoebe. You've always been so innocent and naive. You're willing to do things that you don't have to do, which is comical."

His statements infuriate me further. "I am not, and there's nothing wrong with me nannying. Plus, I like these children. They're nice and sweet, and I like the Cartwrights. They treat me really well."

"Before they toss you on your ass on Monday?" he throws out.

I freeze. I hate how his question might be the truth.

I'm barely able to breathe, and I curl my fists at my sides. Somehow, I find the courage to hold firm to what I want, ordering, "Lance, you need to go tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, we'll go. I have our tickets already bought. We're definitely not staying in this place all weekend," he replies.

My voice shakes when I say, " You are leaving. I'm staying."

He scoffs. "Stop being dramatic. This game is over, Phoebe." He steps closer, puts his hand under my chin, and roughly pushes my face back so I'm looking up at him. His other arm tightens around me, and I can't move. For the first time in a while, I'm scared.

"Ow, you're hurting me!" I whine, flashbacks of the last time I was scared he might get violent on me, darting in my head.

He seethes, "You listen to me. Tomorrow morning, you're getting on that plane with me. We're going back to Pismo. We're going to get married, and you'll be my wife. You're going to bear my children, and you're going to do what I say. You understand me?"

"You're hurting me," I repeat, tears filling my eyes and my neck throbbing.

He stares at me for a minute, then releases me. "This game is over." He steps into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and mutters, "Thank God they're hospitable enough to have drinks here." He cracks open a beer and downs half of it.

My mind races, wondering again why I'm with him. But then all the memories of the first year we were together pop up. It was the happiest I had ever been, and at a time I needed love in my life after everything happened with my family.

I know that man is still in there somewhere.

Isn't he?

Maybe it was all just a show.

No, that's who he really is, I tell myself, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He spins on his heel, paces, then opens a door. "Not that big of a room, but it'll do for the night."

My irritation grows.

He continues, "Now, we haven't seen each other in a while, and you've been a bad girl, so get over here. I missed that pretty little mouth of yours." He unbuckles his belt and drops his pants.

My stomach turns. I shake my head. "You're disgusting."

"Now I'm disgusting. So you don't want to be with me?"

"I didn't say that, but you're acting disgusting. I'm not your whore."

"I didn't say you were. Although, a whore would give me less trouble than you."

His comment is the final straw. I glare at him one last time and announce, "I'm not going to tell you again. I need space, and this is my place of work. You have no right to be here unless you're invited. Tomorrow morning, you're leaving, and I'm not staying here tonight. I'm going back to do the job that I was hired to do. A job I love. And I'm going to stay here for two months."

He proclaims, "No, you're not. You're going to get fired on Monday. You just told me."

My anger toward him flares. "Why don't you have a little faith in me?"

He grunts. "You're not meant to be a nanny, Phoebe. You're meant to have a nanny. Now, squash your ridiculous ideas, and let's move on with our lives."

I blink hard, remaining silent, and flee toward the door.

"Phoebe," he shouts.

"Bye, Lance." I open the door and step out.

"Phoebe, get your ass back in here," he barks.

I don't obey him. It's dark, but I already know my way around the ranch. The orange lights help guide me as I maneuver myself down the road and back to Alexander's house.

When it comes into view, I hurry toward it, hoping Alexander has left the door unlocked, which he normally does. It took me a day or so to get used to the fact that they don't have to lock the doors here. The ranch is one of the safest places I've ever stayed. But still, I'm hoping I can get inside without waking him up.

The closer I get, the more I realize I won't have to. He's sitting on the porch, gripping a beer bottle. The six-pack is on the table next to him.

I climb the steps.

He asks, "What are you doing here?"

I can't tell if he's angry at me. I blurt out, "I'm sorry. I didn't invite him. I take my job seriously. Please don't hold it against me."

He studies me momentarily, and I try not to quiver, but my lips and insides won't stop. I might break down and cry.

His face softens. He grabs a bottle, asking, "You want a beer?"

Surprised, I meekly reply, "Sure."

He opens it, then orders, "Here, take it."

I cautiously step forward and grab the bottle, then I sit in the seat next to him.

In a disapproving tone, he asks, "So that's your boyfriend?"

"Yes. No. Yes. I don't know," I admit.

"Why aren't you with him now?"

I shrug. "It's complicated."

"What's so complicated about it?"

A million thoughts go through my mind. When nothing forms a coherent sentence, I finally reply, "Can we not talk about it? Can we just... I don't know. Can we talk about something else?"

He pins his intense gaze on me.

"Please," I beg.

He hesitates, then says, "Okay. Then tell me why you want to be here so badly. It seems like you've got a life back in California. Texas is pretty different from there."

I take a long swig of beer, then answer, "I told you I want to continue being your nanny. The boys are great, and your family is too. Plus, I like it here."

He doesn't say anything.

We drink our beer in silence.

After a few moments, he asks, "Don't you miss California?"

I briefly consider his question and then shake my head. "No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

For some reason, I start to laugh. "Yeah, I don't know. I can't give you any reason. All I know is I don't miss it, and I like it here."

My answer seems to appease him. We don't say much more. I finish my beer and get up.

"Where are you going?"

It's my turn to stare at him, and all I can think about is how different he is from Lance. "I'm going inside to go to bed. I'm your kids' nanny. And even if you kick me off the ranch come Monday, I will do my job while I'm here."

Disdain swirls in his tone when he says, "What about your boyfriend?"

I lift my chin and square my shoulders, replying, "He'll be leaving tomorrow morning. If he doesn't, just kick him off the ranch." I step inside the house, leaving a shocked Alexander on the porch.

As I try to sleep, a mix of guilt, relief, and more confusion than ever about where Lance and I stand, haunts me.