Wishful Thinking by Alexandra Bullen Page B

painting?”
    Jaime led them into a clearing in the woods, where the trail of seashells ended and a rambling dirt path began. “Whenever she feels like it,” she muttered, pushing a few spindly branches out of her way. One snapped back and nearly caught Hazel across the face. She ducked quickly and walked hunched over until they were officially out of the woods.
    At the end of the path, a hulking red barn asserted itself against the clear blue sky. The oversize front doors were pulled open, revealing two rows of horse stalls and an indoor-outdoor pen, where a dozen sheep and goats were quietly grazing.
    “Listen,” Jaime said, and stopped short. “I know Rosanna said you’d be helping her out some in the studio, and believe me, I have no problem with that. But as long as you’re with me, your business is
here.”
Jaime pointed emphatically at the barn. “Got it?”
    Hazel swallowed. Had she really traveled back in time just to play farmhand to some grumpy little brat?
    But this was what Rosanna had told her to do. For now, she had no choice. And being close to her mother would make it all worthwhile in the end.
    “Got it,” she mumbled to Jaime’s back as she followed her into the barn.
    The smell of manure and dry hay stung Hazel’s nostrils. The closest she’d ever come to farm animals was the chicken coop at Roy’s sister’s lake house. She had been in charge of feeding them in the mornings and, after an unfortunate incident with a disgruntled laying hen, suffered nightmares of being pecked to pieces for weeks. Now she eyed the cranky-looking goats with suspicion as Jaime took a quick turn and started up a narrow staircase inside.
    “Where are you going?” Hazel asked. “I thought our business was in the barn.”
    Jaime kept pounding up the rickety steps. “Up here,” she said, opening a small door at the top and stepping inside. “The animals are Maura and Craig’s department. I don’t do livestock, even if it
is
a gentleman’s farm.”
    Hazel looked back at the horses in their stalls, their wide eyes dark and unblinking. “A gentleman’s farm?”
    “No killing or food production of any kind. It’s all very civilized,” Jaime said, motioning for Hazel to follow her intoa small office at the top of the stairs. “Which doesn’t make it smell any better in here, but you get used to it.”
    Hazel glanced around the office. It was a dark room, just big enough for a desk, a chair, and rows of beige-colored filing cabinets. Across the room was a second door and Hazel peered though it, down a long, narrow hallway.
    “That’s where the barn crew shacks up in the summer,” Jaime explained. “There’s always room, if you’re interested.”
    Hazel’s nose wrinkled and she shook her head, feeling lucky that she’d been assigned to the guesthouse. Even if it did mean more quality time with Jaime.
    “Take a seat,” Jaime commanded, standing with her arms crossed in front of the cabinets. Hazel sunk into the tall rolling chair.
    Jaime reached forward and tugged out one of the top drawers. Inside, color-coded folders were arranged and labeled alphabetically. “Billy broke the treadmill again,” Jaime said, quickly flipping through the files. “I know the manual is in here somewhere, but I haven’t had a chance to find it.”
    Jaime reached both hands into the cabinet and lugged out a fat folder, overflowing with yellowing manuals for what looked like every single electronic device the Scotts had ever purchased. She dropped the folder in Hazel’s lap, sending the chair rolling backward until Hazel was wedged between the desk and the wall.
    “Have fun, Blondie,” Jaime cooed as she wiped the dust from her hands and started back down the stairs.
    “It’s Hazel,” Hazel shot back, slapping the file onto the desk.
    Jaime popped her head back around the corner, dark ringlets bouncing around her forehead. “What was that?”
    “My name isn’t Blondie, it’s Hazel,” Hazel repeated. “And