Turns out manual labor is exactly as terrible as it sounds, and I have the blisters to prove it.
Day one: mucking stalls, which is a polite term for shoveling literal horseshit while wearing boots that cost me one “serious conversation” with my father about finances. The glamour of Manhattan is replaced by mud, sweat, and the distinct aroma of livestock.
Day two: more horseshit. Plus hauling feed bags that weighed approximately the same as a small human. My arms screamed. My back screamed. Parts of my body I didn't know existed screamed.
Day three: I developed a strategy.
"I think I'm getting sick," I announced at breakfast, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead like I was auditioning for a Victorian drama. "Might be heat exhaustion. Or that flu that's going around. Definitely shouldn't be handling animals in this condition."
Jake looked up from his coffee, expression flat. "You're fine."
"I'm really not—"
"You're fine." He went back to his phone like the conversation had already ended.
So I pivoted to plan B: strategic incompetence.
I mucked the stalls so poorly that Tommy had to redo half of them. Mixed up the feed ratios until Jake physically removed the scoop from my hands. Took twice as long as necessary for every single task, moving with the urgency of someone being forced to watch paint dry.
Jake watched this performance for exactly two more days before cornering me in the barn.
"We need to talk."
I leaned against a stall door, going casually and landing somewhere near defiant. "About what? My excellent work?"
"About the fact that you're deliberately sabotaging everything I ask you to do." He crossed his arms, and God, even when he was pissed off he looked unfairly good. "You think I don't see through this?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Really." Not a question. "So you accidentally mixed chicken feed with horse grain? Accidentally left the gate unlatched so Bear got into the henhouse? Accidentally used the hose to water yourself instead of the garden?"
Okay, that last one had been genuinely refreshing, but whatever.
"Maybe I'm just not good at this," I tried, but the lie tasted weak even to me.
"You're smart enough to be good at anything if you actually tried." He stepped closer, and I caught myself leaning back. "Here's how this works. You either do the job properly, or I call your father and tell him you failed your humility lesson. And we both know what happens then."
The words hit like a slap because he was right.
My father didn't tolerate quitters, and intentional failure was worse than simple incompetence. I'd played my hand badly, assumed Jake would be too uncomfortable with my presence to enforce real consequences.
Instead, he'd seen through me completely, and now I was trapped.
"You're a real bastard, you know that?" My voice came out rougher than intended.
"And you're exactly the spoiled brat I expected. At least I'm honest about what I am." He turned away, dismissing me. "Dinner's at seven. Don't be late."
I managed the next days with actual effort before my pride couldn't take it anymore. Jake was everywhere—correcting me, watching with those cold eyes, never offering a word of encouragement even when I genuinely tried.
Tommy at least attempted friendliness, showing me easier ways to handle the horses, cracking jokes that made the work bearable. But Jake remained stone-faced and silent, treating me like an obligation he resented with every fiber of his being.
By the evening of day seven, I was exhausted, furious, and done with his martyred routine. He'd left a revised schedule on the kitchen table—even earlier mornings, longer hours, additional tasks.
I found him on the porch, beer in hand, staring at pastures painted gold by sunset.
"This is insane," I said, slapping the paper against his chest. "You're working me like you're trying to break me. What's the point? To prove you can make the poor little rich girl cry?"
He didn't even glance at the schedule. "You need to adjust your attitude…"
"My attitude?" The laugh came out serrated. "You want to talk about attitude? Let's talk about yours. You've been a complete asshole since I got here. Cold, hostile, acting like my existence is a personal insult. Maybe you should learn that life isn't just duty and steel and walking around like you've got a stick shoved so far up your—"
"Watch it."
"Why? Scared of the truth? That you're alone out here on this giant ranch because you're too bitter to let anyone in? Too busy being the tough cowboy to actually have a life?"
The words hung between us like thrown knives, and I watched them hit. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or fury that I'd seen too clearly.
"You know nothing about my life."
"I know you're lonely." The words landed harder than I intended. "I know that coldness you wear like armor is exactly why you'll stay that way. At least I'm honest about being a mess. What's your excuse?"
Jake moved before I could process it—three steps that closed the distance between us. His body coiled with something that looked like rage but felt like something else entirely.
"You think you've got me figured out, huh?" His voice dropped low, dangerous. "You think because you've been here one week, you understand anything?"
My back hit the wall. Hadn't even realized I'd been retreating.
His free hand slammed against the column beside my head, and he leaned in until his mouth was an inch from mine, his breath hot against my lips.
"You don't belong in my world." His face was close enough that I could see the green flecks in his hazel eyes. "You don't belong in my thoughts. You're temporary. A favor to your father. That's all."
Something twisted low in my stomach. Something hot and electric that I absolutely shouldn’t be feeling right now.
"Then why does it bother you so much?" My voice came out breathier than I wanted. "If I'm so temporary, why do you care what I think?"
For a second—one suspended, crystallized second—something shifted in his expression. His eyes dropped to my mouth, but then he pivoted away like I'd burned him.
"Stay out of my way," he said, already walking toward the house. "And stop pretending you know a goddamn thing about me."
I stood there for a full minute, back against the wall, while my heart was doing something arrhythmic and concerning. The space where he'd been standing felt charged, electric, like the air before a lightning strike.
Sexual tension. That's what this was. Raw, undeniable, completely fucking inappropriate sexual tension.
I'd felt attraction before, but this was different. This was visceral. Dangerous. The kind of pull that made you do stupid things and justify them later.
Nope. Not going there.
Not with Jake Sullivan.
Not with my father's best friend who'd made it crystal clear I was nothing but an obligation.
I pushed off the wall, stalked to the house without another word, walked to my bedroom on shaking legs, and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Childish? Absolutely.
Satisfying? Extremely.
My heart hammered against my ribs, my skin felt too tight while I changed into sleep clothes with angry efficiency, scrubbed my face, braided my hair. Climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying the whole interaction on an unwilling loop.
His face against mine, his breath on my lips, his body close enough to feel the heat. The way he'd looked at me like he wanted to devour me and destroy me in equal measure.
An hour passed. Maybe more. I was determinedly not-sleeping when a knock sounded on the door—single, deliberate.
"Adison." Jake's voice, carefully neutral. "You skipped dinner. Everything alright?"
Everything is okay. Like he hadn't just pinned me to a wall and left me drowning in confusion and want.
I stayed silent, breathing carefully, pretending to sleep with the dedication of someone avoiding a conversation that could derail everything.
Another pause. Then footsteps retreating across the floor.
I opened my eyes, stared at the darkness, and acknowledged the truth I'd been avoiding.
Two months here was going to be significantly more complicated than I'd thought.