3. Juniper

THREE

"Go away," I say from the place that's become my home away from home for the last twenty-four hours. Clearly, the visitor isn't getting the message, or maybe I'm not speaking loudly enough. Either way, there's no freaking way I'll be getting up anytime soon. It's too early in the morning, and even after getting sleep on and off again, I still feel like I was run over by a Mac truck.

"Open up, Juni." No way. There's no way Lawson Johnson is singlehandedly beating on my front door while I'm puking my guts out. The man who remembers absolutely nothing, not one moment of our night together. And that just plain sucks. I should have known better. Lawson would usually make a comment about something as simple as me being alone with another ranch hand, even though I'm suturing their hand up. He'd stalk inside the clinic, grumbling about being unsafe even with his office just across the hall. He"d stand against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, a scowl on his face, and looking all too handsome. Where most of the Johnson brothers leave me alone, Lawson doesn't. He also didn't get the memo from his mother that women like to be taken care of. They also like having a scootch of independence without a man breathing down their neck.

"Juniper Cartwright!" I roll my eyes, lift myself up off the floor, my body protesting as I do, and flush the toilet. Meanwhile, I remain as quiet as a mouse, or as much as I can while flushing the toilet, washing my hands, and then brushing my teeth. Hopefully this time around, the gagging won't pick up again, yee-fucking-haw.

I do my best to avoid looking in the mirror. Yesterday, I gave myself my very own version of a jump scare. At least I got a good shower in, scrubbing myself from head to toe, before I got so tired I passed out until my stomach was ready to bring me back to kneeling on the tile floor.

"Alright, I'm using the key, then!" His voice echoes through my house, so I can only imagine what the outside world hears.

"Go away, Lawson," I say as I walk toward the door. I'm in a white tank top, a pair of too-short cotton shorts, and my hair is a rat's nest. After my shower, I didn't so much as brush or finger comb my hair. Sleep was the only thing on my mind.

"Juni, babe. Open the door. Mom sent me with provisions." Well, doesn't that just put me in my place. I told Catherine I'd be fine without anything, yet she wasn't going down without a fight and only allowed the subject change once I suggested she not come over here in order for her not to get sick. It seems today, she's sending the big guns, and damn it, now I"ll to have to deal with the man I've been trying to avoid.

"Fine, hold your horses," I grumble. My throat hurts, my body hurts, and I'm so tired that I could fall asleep standing up. Lawson Johnson is going to get the worst version of me and my house. Not a single thing is picked up. Shoes are littering the small foyer, blankets are tossed on the couch, there's a stack of mail that needs to be sorted, and the dishes in the sink are starting to spill over. I'm usually a complete and total neat freak, hovering on obsessive compulsive disorder when it comes to keeping a clean home. My skin crawls at the mess.

I quite literally get it from my trauma. A childhood where both parents were too busy worrying about filling the house to the brim with things. There wasn't a thrift store, garage sale, estate sale, or yard sale they didn't hit. Material items were more important than a clean house, fresh food, or loving parents. And that"s not even counting the money they'd spend on cigarettes and alcohol. I grew up eating what I could scrounge up and got a job as soon as I could. I'd work for free at some places in order to eat when I was too young to earn a paycheck. The second the ink dried on my high school diploma, there was no holding me back from doing better for myself and my future. A whole lot of years of college and hard work later, I traveled as a nurse, raking in the money as well as the experience while visiting every place imaginable I wanted to. Once I landed in Wyoming, I knew leaving wasn't an option. The scenery is too pretty, the people too nice, and when the Johnson ranch had a position to fill, I applied and have been here for a little over a year now.

I march my ass to the door, turn the lock on the deadbolt, and open the door with every last ounce of energy I can draw out of myself. What I'm unprepared for is Lawson walking through the door like he owns the place, hands full of reusable bags, his big body taking up the space inside my small home. It's really not fair how ruggedly handsome that man truly is. Even the way he walks has me standing stone-cold still, door open with my mouth hanging open. He's tall, way taller than my five-foot-five frame, yet we somehow worked together, and doesn't that just put a stick in my craw. I watch as he takes over my kitchen, dropping the bags on the counter before pulling out a plethora of items.

"Hello to you, too," I finally say since he can't so much as utter a greeting. Lawson looks up at me with his electric blue eyes, drawing me in, and now I'm mesmerized. He's not wearing his usual white cowboy hat today, allowing the top of his hair to flop here and there in waves, the sides faded closer to his scalp. He's slowly graying at his temples even though he's only in his late thirties. From what I've heard, Mr. Johnson went gray early in life too and now sports a whole head of more salt than pepper hair.

"Hey, Juniper," Lawson finally says. He's so damn annoying, yet he also lights my body up in flames. Sometimes I hate being a woman. There he is, standing there looking all hot and sexy, and here I am, looking like a complete and total hot mess. I watch as he keeps pulling out groceries from the bags I know are Catherine's. She has an unhealthy obsession with animals printed on items. Everywhere you look, there's a chicken, a cow, or a horse emblazoned on her muck boots, rain jacket, bags, and all other kinds of things. "You feeling any better?" A big tub of soup is set on the counter, then come a couple of varieties of drinks, Sprite and Ginger Ale, and crackers. God, Catherine Johnson is a saint. My stomach settles at the thought of hot broth and crackers. My throat will probably relish it, too. Acid from being sick hasn't helped matters.

"You look like hell." Maybe he's just now noticing my appearance, but no woman wants to hear what she looks like in a negative light.

"And you can see yourself out now. Tell your mom thanks." Just when I thought Lawson wouldn't be a giant jerk, he goes and shoves his big fat foot in his mouth.

"Damn it, Juni, that's not how I meant it." I'm still standing by the open door, crossing my arms over my chest, letting the warm humid air coat my body. After being inside the house for almost two days, sick and sleeping, the fresh air feels really good. I make a mental note once the big handsome lug is gone to sit on the back porch and munch on Catherine's goodies. Man, I wish it were her here right now instead of her son, but beggars can't be choosers.

"Then how did you mean it?" I throw my hands up in the air. A wave of queasiness hits me, and I immediately lower them, wrapping my arms around my waist. I close my eyes, breathe through my nose, and wait for the moment to pass. Thankfully, Lawson remains quiet. "Listen, I don't have the energy for this. I appreciate you bringing everything. I'm going to crawl back into bed now."

"Juniper," he calls my name, but running is my only option. I'm about to lose my cookies. I don't hear the heavy footfalls following me or notice his presence as I sink to the floor. All I want to do is crawl into a hole by myself and wait for this sickness to go away. Except I can't, because Lawson followed me. He's currently rubbing my back and cooing soft words. And now I'm not sure if I love him or hate him for it.