Page 10 of Rent a Mob Boss

And that some part of me, the part I’ve been arguing with since last night, has already decided the answer.

4

DORIAN

The farm is called Sweetwater Stables, and I’ve already decided I hate it.

Not the farm itself—white fences, green fields. There’s a woman named Deb in a fleece vest who’s been very patient with my five-year-old for the last twenty minutes. I can’t pretend it’s all negative.

I hate it because I’ve been standing in a barn, checking my phone every ninety seconds, and every time I check, there’s nothing new. That’s somehow worse than bad news. Tristan told me he would call when he knew more, but he hasn’t called. That means the car with no plates is still out there, lurking around in my business. Meanwhile, here I am, watching my daughter introduce herself to an animal she’s already claimed with her whole heart from a set of pictures online.

“That’s him,” Lillie breathes, her hands clasped over her chest like some heroine from an old movie. “That’s Poptart. Daddy, that’s actually him.”

The pony is a small, brown thing with a white splotch on its nose and an expression of profound stupidity. It’s chewing. It has been chewing since we walked in. I have not seen it stop chewing once.

We picked him out last week. Rather, Lillie picked him out, and I signed for him off a listing Ms. Beaumont found online, back when the whole thing was an abstraction. A photo, a price, a delivery date. He’s paid for. He’s ours.

The plan—the plan a less distracted man would have confirmed three days ago—was that Sweetwater would deliver him to the house this afternoon in their trailer, and all we had to do today was come meet him and sign the last of the paperwork.

That was the plan. There’s a saying about the best-laid plans of mice and men. Only now do I truly understand it.

“So here’s the thing.” Deb winces, and I know before she finishes that the day is about to require something of me. “The trailer’s in the shop. The axle went yesterday—it won’t be back until Tuesday, at the earliest. I did try to call, but I only had the office line on file, and…” She spreads her hands. “I figured worst case, we hold him here, and you send a hauler when it suits you. He’s happy as anything. He’ll keep.”

Tuesday.

I should’ve caught it. There’s a version of me from six months ago who reads every confirmation twice and would have known the delivery was uncertain before we ever got in the car. But that version of me isn’t spending his nights thinking about unmarked cars or his mornings thinking about a girl in mismatched socks, and so the detail slipped, and now I’m standing in a barn watching it all land on my daughter.

The light goes out of her eyes, the shoulders drooping, the terrible dignified quiet of a five-year-old absorbing a disappointment. She has decided she’s going to be brave about it. She hasn’t argued. That’s the part that gets me every time. She just nods and says, “That’s okay. Tuesday is fine.” It’s not fine, though. It’s four days, which to a five-year-old is a geological age.

Something in me refuses it.

I’m not going to reschedule this for her.

“How big is he?” I ask.

“Sir?” Deb asks, as if I’ve lapsed into a different language.

“Weight, height. Whatever the relevant figure is.” I’m already looking out toward the SUV. I insisted on driving—this is a special moment for Lillie, and I didn’t want it tainted for her. We do, however, have a car full of security waiting behind the SUV. What will they think when they see this? Probably that I’ve lost my mind.

They don’t have a five-year-old.

“He’s a mini horse,” Deb says slowly, as if I don’t know. “Maybe two hundred, two-fifty pounds. Why do you⁠—”

“Would he fit in the SUV?”

The barn goes silent. I’m fairly sure even the pony stops chewing.

“Mr. Moretti?” Quinn whispers. She looks alarmed, to put it mildly. “You can’t put a horse in your car.”

“He isn’t a horse. He’s a pony.”

“My point stands.”

“He’ll fit.” I’m looking at the animal, and I’m looking at my BMW. This is only a matter of logistics. “Fold the rear seats down. He’s the length of a large dog. People transport large dogs all the time.”

“People transport large dogs in crates, not loose in the back of a…” Quinn drags a hand down her face, and I catch the exact moment she gives up. Roughly at the same time she looks at Lillie, who has come fully back to life and is now looking up at me like I personally hung the sun. “I guess we’re doing this,” she says.

“We are doing this,” I agree.