Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Who’s she?” one of them asks. “I’m Ava, by the way. I think we’re gonna be friends.”
The other adds, “Can we keep her? I’m Mack. I’d come shake your hand, but I am literally covered in shit, so…”
I wave to them. “Nice to meet y’all.”
Colton put out his cigar in the car, but it’s still clamped between his teeth. I watch him chew on it as he stares me down. More like squints at me, his gaze shimmering with annoyance.
“You think I don’t get action?” He chuckles. “How about you do some observin’, Dallas, and then let me know what you think, yeah?”
“I was asking about the chaps.” I nod to his legs. “I imagine those protect your legs?”
He tilts his head, making the sinews in his neck pop against his tanned skin. “Look at you, already learning.”
“But why do your legs need to be protected?”
“Observe, Dallas. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”
He turns around so that his back is facing me. Then he bends down, literally showing me his ass as he lifts a bale of hay off the floor and starts walking away from me.
Colton is doing this on purpose. Doesn’t he know he already got a rise out of me with the chaps and the gloves?
Maybe that’s why he’s giving me a front row seat to the perfectly delectable, perfectly juicy shape of his thick, well-muscled ass.
I roll my eyes when I notice there’s a round canister tucked into his back left pocket. All the guys I went to college with were obsessed with chewing tobacco. It’s a disgusting habit—the smell, the spitting, the black debris it leaves behind on everyone’s teeth—but I’m not at all surprised Marlboro Man here sticks a wad of dip in his lip on the regular.
Gross.
Only it’s not gross when he drops the bale to finally greet his employees. He shakes each and every one of his employees’ hands. He even says a gruff “Mornin’” to a few of them, doling out instructions in a way that’s authoritative but also…gentle somehow? There’s a worn-in quality to his style of leadership, like he’s been doing this since, well, forever.
Colton is a prick to me. But he might actually be a good boss to these people.
“Bryce, Tanner, y’all put out some hay bags in the paddocks. Ava and Beck and I will turn out the horses in a bit here. Then we gotta get this place in tip-top shape. Remember that buyer’s coming in from Kansas City around noon, so I’d greatly appreciate it if y’all could do what you do best and make everything shine. Ava, meet you at the arena at noon to talk about that race?”
Ava nods. “You think he’s gonna take Starlight too? She’s fast.”
“That’s the hope. We’ll let you work your magic.”
A voice thunders from behind me. “But I’m the one with the magic hands, right?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see another cowboy approaching. He’s also dressed in a hat, gloves, and chaps—the whole cowboy kit and caboodle.
My stomach dips at the familiar handsomeness of his face. He looks startlingly like Colton, with thick, dark hair, heavy scruff, and a sharp jawline. Only difference is this cowboy’s eyes are hazel, more brown than green.
Is there such a thing as too many hot cowboys on one ranch?
I feel like I’m on an episode of some weird dating show where the contestants are all cowboys and they’re all wildly, unbelievably attractive.
He smiles when he sees me.
“I’m here to rescue you from my brother.” He takes off a glove and holds out his hand. Like Colton, he’s a head taller than me and twice as broad. “Beck Wallace, Colt’s better-looking younger brother.”
My smile is involuntary. Beck’s energy couldn’t be more different from Colton’s. He’s warm. Genuine.
Well, I guess Colton is genuine too. A genuine dickhead with an ego the size of this state and not one but two disgusting tobacco habits.
I take his hand and shake it. “Lainey Brown. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beck. You’re the restaurateur, right?”
Another tidbit Dale shared with me on our introductory call: Beck was part of the investment group that recently opened Hartsville’s very first farm-to-table restaurant, the Homestead Hen.
Colton must be the black sheep of the family. Did something happen with his wife? What about his kid? I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that he’s a walking, talking rain cloud.
Beck’s smiling ear to ear now as he pats his stomach. “I like to eat, yeah. I see Dad’s been bending your ear.”
“He just loves bragging about y’all. It’s super cute.”
We drop hands, and Beck shoves his back into his glove. “When Billie told me Dad sent you off with that one”—he nods at Colton—“I knew a rescue mission was in order. I’m happy to show you around today if you’d like.”