I turn back, ignore her, and keep on going.
Her laughter floats on the air before disappearing into the wind, but that stupid image of Caden and me remains.
Iglance at the clock hanging on the wall opposite my desk.
It’s five fifty. Time to wrap it up so I’m not late for dinner.
We eat at six sharp, and if we’re not at the table, Mrs. Potts, our housekeeper and Natalie’s caregiver, will give us hell. We might pay her, but she rules the roost with an iron fist and never lets us forget it.
I quickly review the things I haven’t checked off my list yet. I’ve got a couple hours left before I can call it a day, but that’s to be expected. Family businesses aren’t nine-to-five jobs. I put things in order quickly so I can hit the ground running after dinner. Then I glance back at the clock.
Shit. It’s five fifty-eight. I’ll have to run to make it.
Two minutes later, I’m slightly breathless as I swing through the door that leads into our large, farmhouse kitchen.
Mrs. Potts tugs at her apron in a huff. “You’re late, missy.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not. I’m right on time.”
I slide into my chair as my watch hits six, grab my napkin, and look up.
Right into Caden Landry’s amused blue eyes.
I’m so surprised by his presence that I forget to guard myself and blurt, “What the hell are you doing here?”
The corners of his mouth tug.
“I was invited.” His voice is a long, slow drawl, dripping like thick honey over my skin.
Everyone at the table—except for Natalie who’s preoccupied with something on Gwen’s phone—is watching me with avid curiosity.
I straighten my shoulders. “Oh. That’s nice.”
He chuckles.
I clear my throat. “Are you settled in?”
He shrugs. “Never got to the cabin, but I’m sure I’ll find my way there eventually.”
Gwen perks up, reaching for the iced tea pitcher in front of her. “I’m sure Cat can walk you there after dinner.”
I grit my teeth and force my expression to remain impassive. I smile politely at the nightmare across from me. “Of course.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll find my way.”
Good. The less time I spend with him the better. “Great. I’ll give you the keys.” I pick up a fork. “You’ll need to stop by the office tomorrow to fill out paperwork so I can put you on the payroll.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Why do I feel like every time he speaks, he’s mocking me? Maybe it’s because I’m hyperaware of him. I remind myself this too shall pass. In a week, his presence will be no big deal, and this on-edge, prickly feeling will go away.
I’ll treat him no different than I treated Burt, our last farm manager.
Mrs. Potts puts down a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes before plucking the cell out of Natalie’s hand. “No phones at the table.”
My niece opens her mouth to object, but when she sees Mrs. Potts’ face, she closes it.
Mrs. Potts huffs and removes her apron from her ample frame before addressing Natalie. “I don’t want any sass from you when it’s time for bed, young lady.”