Page 4 of Wrangled by the Grump

Normally, I wouldn’t care, but a small part of me hopes the weather clears for the weekend. Fucking hell.

I need something—anything—to get my mind off Honey. I haven’t been able to make myself return to that bar to do what I usually do: find a meaningless hook up to drown out the loneliness. Haven’t touched another woman since Honey. Not felt the desire to do so in months. Part of me feels broken, even though it wasn’t something I partook in often. I just don’t know what kind of spell she’s cast over me.

I scrub my hand down my face as I take in the grey and orange washed scenery. The rain doesn’t come down hard enough to make it hard to see, but it’s an obstacle I keep in the back of my mind as I pull off onto the farm’s gravel drive. The farm spans several acres, backing onto hills and forest, ripe with enough pumpkins and other produce to last me a lifetime if it came to staying here.

When I make a turn towards the barn, I pull up short. A frown forms on my lips as I take in the truck parked where I usually stop. Fucking hell. I knew there might be some new hands coming on, especially with all the fall related bullshit, but didn’t anyone tell them not to park where I do?

For fucks sake. I put my truck in park and throw open the door. The breeze picks up, blowing rain into my face. I grab my baseball hat off the passenger seat, fix it on my head, pocket my keys and wallet, then slam my car door shut. As I stalk past the truck, I make note of the out-of-state plates. Who the fuck would come from Colorado all the way here?

Not someone looking for a job. The new hands that come on throughout the year are either transients or local kids looking for something to do outside of school. The boss doesn’t discriminate. I have higher standards though.

I walk around the side of the barn towards the side entrance, where we’ve set up an office to run the farm. I’m meant to spend more time in there than anyone else, but I hate locking myself away. Even on days like today.

Maybe I’m itching for a fight, and that’s why I throw the door open without a word, startling Benson who sits behind the desk—where he most definitely should not be sitting—and the person across from him.

“Uh, hey boss man,” Benson stammers, rising. “I was just⁠—”

“Save it,” I mutter, slamming the door shut. “You said they could park in my spot?”

“Uh, well⁠—”

The person, who wears a bright orange, yellow and white beanie like a fucking candy corn, scoffs from the chair. “This is about a parking spot?”

I’d recognise that voice anywhere; the lilt of amusement, the promise she’ll get under my skin and I won’t be able to stop her. My heart stops as she shifts to look at me.

Honey has a fuller face, her button nose a little wider than it had been months ago, though I don’t know if I’m misremembering her face because of the low lights and the hazy bathroom, or if she really has changed somehow. Her eyes are still the same shade of grey, like the dark skies hanging over us, and her hair…

Her hair is still that same honey-blonde I dream about running my fingers through.

“Benson, leave,” I mutter, sparing him only a look. “She and I need to have a word.”

His eyes drop to her only for a moment before he’s rushing through the door that leads into the barn. Honey huffs again and sits back, crossing her arms. “What a brute.”

“You finally came looking,” I reply, unable to move. “Thought you were gone for good, Honey.”

“Well, I would have been. But I have a damn good reason for being here, so don’t start with me.”

I quirk a brow, amused and a little peeved, but I finally take that first step to round the desk.

And almost wish I hadn’t.

Blood rushes in my ears as I take in the roundness of her stomach. She’d been curvy when we met, more plush than bone. I’d enjoyed that feeling of having her pressed against me. Her thickness had been one of the reasons I’d been drawn to her.

But she’s not just curvy now; there’s a noticeable swell to her middle not even a blind man can deny.

“You’re pregnant.” The statement comes out in a low rush before I can stop myself from opening my dumb mouth.

Emotions rush through me so fast I’m not sure what I feel. At first, fear. It’s an undeniable splash of ice water in my veins, and it forces me to drop into the now unoccupied desk chair. Fear isn’t the only thing making me sick. There’s dread, too.

It’s been a long time since I wanted kids. Since I thought I could be a family man and have it all. The wife, the picket fence, and the three children running around. Nuclear family kind of bullshit.

I gave up on that. Just never seemed right.

Until now.

Because with the fear and dread comes a possessiveness I’ve never felt before. Every ounce of me screams to get up, take her away, and never let her out of my sight again. Every thought I’ve had, all the annoying obsession I’ve felt towards the woman sitting across from me, comes back tenfold.

“You’re pregnant,” I state again, gripping the chair’s armrests. “And it’s mine.”