3. Ignacia

Chapter three

Ignacia

W e go out to the barn after I electronically sign the contract that Beau prepares in record-setting time, with all the scary clauses included. I don’t plan to default on my end of the deal. I’m not that kind of person, and I need the money.

I get the feeling Beau’s sharp blue eyes miss nothing. He looks at the barn like he has already realized it’s crumbling. I think he knows why I’m doing the hot bedding thing. He walks in after me, looks around, and freezes.

“It’s nice in here,” he comments.

He looks so out of place in his city attire. He looks like he’s going to a meeting where he hands someone their lunch and maybe their dinner as well, boss style. And I’m not talking about food. Rather, it’s him handing them their ass. There’s no doubt the meeting would take place in a super expensive all-glass high-rise building with at least ten other people in the room, their combined net worth higher than my calculator can count.

“It isn’t great yet, but thanks,” I reply.

“No. It’s tidy. I like what you’ve done with it.”

There’s still a thick layer of hay all over the floor. When I start fixing this place up, it’s all going to have to be dug out. The bales I have stacked up on the one side for the cats, their little houses their food dishes, and mats, all the garden tools, and half of the other junk that came out of the shop when I started cleaning it out.

When I got here, the shop was bursting at the not-so-great-metal-clad seams. I threw away the gross stuff, the crap there was no reason to keep. I recycled what I could, called a guy to take away the scrap metal, and donated the salvageables I didn’t need, but there were some things I couldn’t part with. A few bundles of roof shingles that match what’s on the roof of one of these buildings, although I’m not sure which one, old boards, some live edge lumber, old barn wood—all of that would find a buyer in a few hot seconds if I posted it for sale, but I want to keep it. My arts and crafts end with sewing, but don’t count me down and out yet. There’s also a collection of ancient, decrepit furniture in here—a dresser missing the back leg, a very warped, faded, water-damaged antique armor, a vanity missing the mirror, and two drawers.

It’s all a work in progress. When I have the shop ready to go, I guess I’ll be able to move everything in there. Like the barn, it’s a work in progress. It might not need a new concrete floor, but it does need repairs to the metal siding and roof. The big overhead door also barely stays on its hinges and scrapes the ground every time I try to move it.

Beau perches on the edge of a bale. They’re stacked up, so they’re the right height for him. I want to tell him not to ruin his suit, but I figure his clothes are his business. I feel like I’m on fire even just having him here, his frosted-over eyes roaming around the place, never fixing on me but still seeing straight through me. It makes my blood rush and my heart pound double time.

I pretend like he’s not here and call the cats instead.

“Mama? Baby?” Okay, so I inherited these cats. When Beau grunts at the names, I explain, “They showed up out of nowhere. I’m not sure if they were living here already and were just scared of me for the first month or if someone dumped them, or if they moved in from somewhere else. They weren’t that friendly at first, but they weren’t feral. Once I spotted them and started feeding them, it only took me a few months to win their trust.”

“Mama and Baby?” Beau quirks a brow.

“One is big and orange, and one is not so big and orange. They might not even be related.”

When the cats hear me, they come rushing in from under the far side of the barn wall. There’s no cat door, but there is a hole in the one board that serves as one. They don’t mind that I have a stranger here.

“Holy cow. That cat is a serious unit,” Beau exclaims.

I let out a surprised laugh and set down the food bowls. I have some soft cat food that I’ve mixed with canned salmon. They don’t get treats like that often, but I make a point to give them something delicious every few weeks. They do have dry cat food, too, but they hardly touch it. They’re outdoor cats, and they’re hunters. They love fish, but they also love a warm mouse. They honestly can take or leave my soft food offerings during the warm months. They like it much more in the winter.

“She is, I suppose.” What an odd term—unit. I like it.

Mama is huge. She’s one of the biggest cats I’ve ever seen. When I was first able to get close, I had to check her over like six million times to make sure she didn’t have balls because I’d also never seen a lady cat that huge before. The baby cat is maybe half the size. She’s also orange but more of a creamy color, not bright with white stripes like the other one. I honestly do doubt they’re even related, but who knows? I like to think of them as a mom and baby. It’s a sweet thought.

It makes me miss my own parents a lot, and my eyes get hot. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to cry in front of a stranger, especially not this man , so I rub my eyes and fake sneeze like barn dust and hay are too much for me at the moment, though I don’t think he’s buying it.

I take a seat on a bale a few feet away, and we listen to the cats eat.

Smack, chomp. Smack, smack, chomp.

I love the way this place smells and the quiet in here. I love these two animals who I can talk to whenever I like. I love their soft purrs, warm bodies, and usually non-judgmental stares. Once, I made the mistake of bringing the wrong brand of soft food when the store was sold out of their usual, and they gave me the freaking cold shoulder over that one. There was plenty of judgment that day.

“So, Beau…what’s your story?” I don’t mean to say that. I should stop talking. I’m okay with silence. I don’t know why that popped out like I’m one of those people who can’t just sit and be still.

I have to look at him now, and when I do, I find he’s already looking at me. His eyes are dark and unreadable, and his face is totally blank. Like, creepy blank. He’s doing that on purpose. “What do you mean my story ?”

Nothing. “Like your personal details.” Damn it . That’s the last place I want to go.

“I thought you said no details to keep things professional.” He doesn’t look offended, but then, he doesn’t look anything .

“Technically, I said no details about other people.” Technically , I should shut it. “I don’t mind giving you some details about me.” That’s great. Talk about myself. I have a whole freaking fake life I’ve rehearsed the details of. This is the me that people get to see. Even the ones I like and trust. It’s not them. It’s the only way I can keep myself safe. I basically wrote myself a whole new life and filled it with just enough silly details and flaws that people find it relatable and, thus, believable.

Beau gets this crease in his forehead without frowning or smiling. It’s like his forehead is the only thing expressing any emotion. His forehead looks like he doesn’t believe me.

His forehead looks like he doesn’t want to respond, but then he does. “I had a rather bad start in life that turned into a good start. I guess a lot of people would think it’s sad, but it just is what it is.” It’s so raw, and his voice goes so low that I know he’s not lying. He looks surprised, as though he just walked into a snare he didn’t see coming that’s set out in the woods. “I was adopted. Unwanted, but that turned around. The people who adopted me wanted me and loved me very much.”

Is it weird that he doesn’t call them his mom and dad?

There’s a brokenness near the end that tells me not to pry. I’m good at this. Normally. I sit here right now in silence, listening to the cats eat again. They’re still going hard at that salmon. Cat lips smacking is a thing Beau hasn’t been privy to. He notices the sound and turns toward it, a slight, odd smile on his lips. I like it. I think that’s what he looks like when he’s not trying to look like nothing at all.

“You have a good rags to riches story then. Do tell.” I cross one leg over the other, getting comfortable. I really do want to hear it.

Oddly enough, despite that frown line making a reappearance, I think he does want to talk about it. There’s something cathartic about telling a stranger things. But he presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything. I feel like he needs coaxing. I’m getting the vibe that he doesn’t want me to sit here silently or change the subject. He wants me to probe.

“You look like you don’t tell anyone, but you also don’t sleep in a stranger’s bed as a rule. So, why not? It’s not like this is real. It’s a break from reality. If you’re lonely, searching for a connection, or you want companionship, then I can do that. I’m no therapist, but I can be a friend who listens. I know you’re technically paying me, but that’s also technically for my bed rental. This is above and beyond. You might think I’m just good at this because it’s my job, but maybe that makes it easier. Do you want to tell me about your parents?”

“No,” he grunts, but it sounds a lot more like, “ No, but make me.”

I’m all too familiar with how pressing on a painful spot is sometimes necessary. Sometimes, it hurts, but then it brings relief. And sometimes, it hurts, but the pain feels good.

“Okay, how did you get rich then? We could talk about that.”

Grudging amusement looks good on this man. Never mind. Every single emotion, including no emotion at all, looks good on him. “That would involve talking about my parents.”

“It’s your call.” I twist my hair into a bun and let it fall. Then, I gather it up and start braiding it. It’s something I do when I need something to do with my hands. “We can just sit here and listen to the cats eat.” We have a good solid two minutes left before they come wanting pets or decide that we’re boring and go to walk the fields and roads and wherever other places they’re cat bosses of.

Smack, chomp. Smack, chomp.

“Aright,” he caves. I’m not buying his scowl. Underneath that is relief. Doesn’t anyone ask him about his life? Doesn’t anyone care enough to see the real person underneath? Maybe he’s scary to everyone else. I can see how he’d come across that way and how people would call him heartless. Just because he has a firm touch, I wouldn’t say he’s heartless.

Firm . Touch .

Jesus, look at me go off here, lighting up like a light bulb on top of this haybale. My lady bits are practically singing. I try not to look at Beau after having that thought, but I do, and of course, I imagine him without that suit on, giving a proper roll in some very legit hay right here in the barn. I also imagine myself licking his hard, lean body. He’d have a firm touch, alright. He’d please me exactly the way I wanted him to, and after, neither of us would apologize. It would just be good. We’d pick hay out of each other’s hair and laugh.

No. Don’t you even go there. Just no.

He swipes a hand over his face and leans forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “My mom only found my birth parents because I got sick when I was younger. I was twelve years old and healthy…until I wasn’t. No one knew what the hell was wrong with me. They thought I was dying. I’m not sure who she convinced, but she made someone see it was literally a matter of life or death that she gets my family’s medical records. She ended up finding out that my biological father was a diabetic. The doctors would have figured it out sooner or later, but I’d lost so much weight that I looked like a skeleton. Anyway, now I think they do more efficient tests, but my parents didn’t have a lot of money. They did what they could. My mom fought so hard for me. She was the one who taught me how to give myself my shots, figured out my diet, and got my sugar straightened out so I wasn’t always high or low, crashing or exhausted. She put so much effort into caring for me. My dad, too, but it was mostly my mom because he was working two jobs since she had to take off from hers when I got sick. I wasn’t even their kid, and they did so, so much for me.”

That takes me aback. He’s back on the expressionless route again, but I know he’s hurting. He has to be. I feel bad for bringing this up, but maybe it was the right thing because he’s here talking about it, and he wouldn’t be doing that if he wasn’t completely unwilling. I didn’t threaten or cajole. I just put it out there and waited. If he told me to go to hell or asked me about hay or cats or the farm, I would have talked about any one of those things instead.

“They adopted you. You were their child,” I insist softly.

“They were the kind of people who thought so, yeah,” he huffs, but that sarcastic sound has more to do with what’s coming. “And then, I did basically nothing for them when they got sick. All I could do was watch them die. I didn’t have the money to get them the care they needed. My dad’s insurance only covered a portion of the drugs he needed when he got cancer. Ever watch someone die from cancer? It’s terrible. It came fast for him. Four months. He didn’t have to suffer for years.”

“Jesus. I’m so…” I leave it hanging because saying sorry never makes anything better, and I don’t want to be so token. “I’m so sad that you had to go through that. That your dad suffered through it, and he passed.” What does he care if I’m sad? What is that going to do for him?

He turns to the wall and looks at a shovel with absolute disinterest. He’s not a robot right now, but his voice is so bland. It doesn’t fool me. This guy denies himself cookies, but I could see how much he wanted one. I’m not sure what kind of life he lives now, but his past hurt him, and he’s out here talking to a stranger about it instead of someone who could be there for him, caring for him.

That makes me sad. Again. Not that someone else’s sadness ever did anything for anyone else. It never made anything better, just like sorry is a pathetic word when all else fails.

I’m alone out here because of what someone else did to me, but it’s my choice. It’s not going to be forever.

I’ve always known money was just blah when it came to a lot of things. It can be fun, but what happens when the fun wears out and gets old?

“My mom went the same way. Cancer. But she fought for three years. I took every single job I could find, but I was still paying student loans, and the hospital bills were expensive. In the end, she wanted to be at home, and I quit all the jobs I was working so I could be with her. I had endless bills and debt collectors calling me all the time. So much unpaid everything. My parents had set a bit of money aside for their funerals, so I didn’t have to pay for those. They’re next to each other now, at least, though small fucking comfort, that is.

“The house had to be sold to pay off some of the debts, and when I was cleaning it out, that’s when I found out who they were. My mom kept the information in her safe in a token brown file folder. The kind you always see people keeping important stuff in on TV. It was just like that. I’d never gone in there before. Never had a reason. My parents didn’t keep money or fucking jewelry in there. They didn’t have any of that. I just knew they kept files, receipts they needed, passports, birth certificates, photos on a USB, and stuff you wouldn’t want to lose if your house burned down.”

“You contacted them then?” I ask.

“I did. That’s how I made my money.”

“I’m sorry….I’m not… how ?” I dig my nails into the bale. I didn’t realize I was sitting on the very edge of it until now.

“My birth parents had me when they were thirteen. Yeah, super young. But then, they stayed together, got married, and had two other kids. They never told anyone what happened. My mom’s family did the whole going away for a few months to visit relatives thing, so no one even knew about me except my dad, his parents, and my mom and her parents. They met with me and told me all of that, and they said they were sorry, but they liked their lives the way they were. My dad made a lot of money doing stocks, and he’d created a corporation to help other people learn how to get into trading. He had a public image to think about. They both did. So they offered me a quarter of a million dollars to stay quiet.”

“But you didn’t take the money?”

“No. Of course not. What’s two hundred and fifty thousand? I wanted a million.” Holy crap and a half, he’s so honest about all this. He’s decided he’s going to tell me, and he’s leaving out nothing, not even the heavy dose of self-depreciation. “If they were going to do the blood money thing, I thought I might as well make them bleed. Their offer was an insult.”

“Of course it was. Who pays their own child to stay out of their lives like they are a dirty secret? The child is a person!”

I want to jump up. I want to throw up. I want to get mad. The cats are done eating now. They’ve finished and vanished, and I wasn’t even paying attention. We could both use some cat love right now. Cats lower blood pressure, and I need mine lowered. I need mine seriously lowered. I half want to jump up and walk around this barn, venting, and the other half of me wants to lift these walls by hand and jack them up with my own body because I’m that pissed at hearing this. Pissed power. It’s a thing.

“No. I mean, well, yes, but I’d done some research on them before meeting with them, and I knew exactly what his net worth was, and it was far more than that. He could afford a million. When they gave it to me, I thought I’d be a real asshole and try and make my money the same way he did. It worked out for me. I guess I have the same talents.”

“That’s…”

“Horrible? Dishonorable? Yes, well, I was an unwanted child, born in shame. I guess it set the tone for the rest of my life. Apparently, there’s only so far that nature goes against nurture. My adoptive parents loved the hell out of me, and I was like a curse that came into their lives, nearly bankrupting them and then doing nothing but watching them die.”

“Holy shit, Beau.” It feels weird saying his name like that. Like I care, I’m so sorry about all of it, and I know how he feels, even though I don’t. I can’t even imagine. But I do want to make it better because who wouldn’t? We don’t have to know each other well, have been friends for a long time, or be something more than that to have a spark of humanity flare up between us. “Don’t say things like that. You weren’t a curse. You were just a kid. Did you invent chemicals that cause cancer? Do you decide people’s DNA? Cancer has been a thing for centuries. Did you personally cause all of that, too?”

He blows out a harsh breath, but it’s not in relief. It’s in anger. Something crosses his face that is half shadow and half hatred, and I don’t know who he feels it for. Someone else? His birth parents? Himself? The world, in general, for being such a cruel bastard?

“I could have found them before. My birth parents. If I had, then I could have gotten the money sooner. Maybe, with better treatment, my parents would still be alive. It was all such a fucking waste. When I got the money, I paid the debts, took the rest, and invested. I kept doing that, not even caring if I lost it all. I didn’t actually even give a shit whether I lived or died at that point or how I did it. One morning, I was dodging creditors, so in debt that I knew I’d never dig myself out, and then the next, I woke up and had over a billion dollars. I don’t even know where the years went in between those two mornings, but they happened. They did happen, and I did a lot of shameful, stupid shit in that time.”

“Did you hurt people?” For some reason, that matters to me. When I say hurt, I mean truly hurt. The kind of hurt that people don’t recover from, either emotionally or physically.

“No. I just lived the kind of way my parents wouldn’t be proud of. I straightened it out once I realized it was the grief eating me whole. I nutted up and talked to a few therapists. I’m not ashamed to say they helped me a lot. The guilt, though? That’s something that can’t just be washed away. Grief turns into scars, but guilt stays with you like a sickness.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt. What the hell? If he thinks we’re going to get naked now after confession time, he’s reading the room wrong. I mean, good lord, I’d be down for it, but I don’t think now’s the time. Plus, it’s not in the contract. I think nudity would have to be in there if it was going to happen. My heart nearly bursts out of my chest. I’m not going to be able to live through this. One second of those muscles and all that perfect skin and extra manliness, because, of course, he’s extra manly, is going to make me explode. Double plus, who unburdens themself like that and then just…strips naked? That would make sex a weapon, too. Or like a drug, taken to forget and feel better.

I know these are highly contentious, but when it comes to me, I happen to dislike weapons very much, as a rule, and drugs are a straight-up no for me.

He slips his arm out of the shirt, leaving it half on, and I let out a sigh when I understand. Right. It’s not about sex. This isn’t about nakedness at all. Duh. I’m the one who’s reading the room wrong. He points to the pump at the back of his arm. “I’m rich enough that I can afford things like this, so I barely even realize I have a disease at all, but it’s there.” With a grunt, he forces his arm back into the sleeve and neatly buttons the shirt back up. “That’s what the guilt is like. Manageable, but it will be with me forever.”

“Your parents knew.” I have to point that out. I’m sure he’s thought about this before. “They knew who your birth parents were. They would have looked them up. They would have known your birth parents had money. They could have done something horrible like contact them or blackmail them. They probably would have gotten the money then. But they chose not to.”

He blinks.

He looks like a trainwreck, like a storm and a gut punch hit him at the same time.

Okay, maybe he hasn’t thought about that.

He gets up, agitated, and walks around the barn, stirring up dust and straw.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper-yell, hating myself for using that word. Sorry. Ugh. Gross. “It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude. Of course, they wouldn’t have done that. They seemed like the best people.”

“They were.”

His back looks so strong. I watch him, unable to draw my eyes away. He’s definitely a magnet. A beautiful, damaged, tragic, hot-as-fuck magnet.

He’s also my client, so I need to get a grip.

He’s not that kind of client.

I can’t say enough times that the hot bedding arrangement isn’t sexual. It’s platonic. The contract we signed was just about the bed rental. It said nothing about us. Maybe what we’re doing right now isn’t even real. How would I know? My life is currently being dictated by what was written on ten pages of a document and signed by both of us at the end. It didn’t say anywhere that we agreed to exchange words of such emotional depth.

“Yeah, they were,” he continues. “I got so lucky, and none of it had anything to do with the money.” He lets out another raw-sounding exhale that is half sorrow and half anger. When he whips around, his eyes are so intense that I nearly fall off my hay bale. “I changed my mind.”

“About this?” Oh god, no. No, you can’t. He’d have to pay me out anyway. We have a signed contract, though I would never hold him to it. I’d never make him give me money for something he doesn’t want, but the thought of our time being so suddenly up makes me feel…agitated. I know it shouldn’t. This man just walked into my life unexpectedly. I’ve known him for all of a hot minute and a half here, so I’m being irrational and extra pathetic.

Okay, so maybe the hot bedding isn’t just about the money for me, either.

Maybe I’m lonely too.

Maybe hiding and not knowing how long you’re going to have to stay hidden and asking my parents and my sister—the only people who know where I am—not to contact me unless I reach out to them first in order to keep me safe, is really, really hard.

I notice the slightest softness in Beau’s hard face. Even that much is a surprise. I wouldn’t have said he was capable of it. Just that little inflection looks so good on him that my throat gets extra tight on top of the tightness already there because of his story and how his life has hurt him. I know what it’s like for life to kick the shit out of you. He might have come out on top, but I’m not sure how banged up his insides still are. I think he’s really good at hiding that in plain sight.

From one expert hider to another, that’s my not-so-professional opinion.

“About the cookies,” he corrects.

“Oh.” Right, I offered. And he refused. “Are you suddenly back on carbs and sugar?”

He doesn’t smile, but he does huff, and I think that’s about as close to a smile as anyone might ever get from this man. He better not smile at me full-on. Ever. I know for a fact that it would be so radiant and lovely that I’d have a cardiac arrest on the spot. Or my ovaries would. And finding out they have hearts, too, would just be a lot to take in.

“I want to watch you make cookies.”

Oh. That sounds…sexual. Exciting. Weird. Kinky. Strange. Hot. Amazing. He takes my hesitation and the way I turn my face down to hide how scarlet it is the wrong way.

“I’ll offer you an extra two thousand dollars to watch you make two different kinds of cookies. I’ll add it to an appendix in the contract.”

Our lives are now ordered by the stupid document. I have to remember that none of this is real. None of it. Not when he is so clearly ready to make everything about payment and paper.

“Alright.” I’d be silly not to accept. My pride has already taken an irrational and serious beating with the mention of the contract. Fair enough. I can play at not having feelings, either. Anyway, it’s a good way to spend some time. I’ll give him the cookies after, of course, even if he doesn’t eat them. Because technically, he bought them. “Whatever cookies you like, for two grand, I’ll sure as heck bake.”