Instead, it was an honest accident, though no less effective.
Once dry, I padded into my room, digging around in my suitcase for the few articles of clothing I owned that didn’t get hung in my closet. Other than exercise and sleep clothes, the most casual thing I had were chinos. Rummaging through my workout clothes, I fought to find something suitable. My running shorts all had a three-inch inseam—a dubious choice, depending on what she had in store for me. The chances of me needing to cover my legs were high, so I picked out the best I had.
A pair of gray sweatpants.
Hopefully she didn’t ask me how much they cost.
I stepped into them with a vague sense of warning. I was going to pass out from heatstroke wearing sweatpants. This was a first—I’d never had to get dirty to win a contract—so I hadn’t considered bringing anything more casual. But without any better options, all I could do was go with it.
A knock rapped at the door, and I strode across the room to answer it.
When I whipped it open, Jo’s fist was raised like she was about to knock again. Her face shot open like a firecracker had just gone off in her hand, and that hand pressed the words Get The Frack Out into her breastbone.
“Jesus,” she said. “Who’d you think that I was, the police?”
“Are you always this dramatic?” I asked, turning into the house with the assumption she’d follow.
“Without question.” She paused. “You’re going to die of heatstroke in those sweatpants.”
“I was only expecting to pass out. Should I call the funeral home and make arrangements?”
“Ha, ha. Don’t you have anything else to wear?”
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, a shirt, for one.”
I shot her a smile over my shoulder. “You don’t really want me to wear a shirt.”
“Does that bullshit really work on girls where you’re from?”
“Every time.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t own a pair of jeans, do you?”
“Not one. It’s either this or running shorts.”
I couldn’t see her from the dresser in my room as I dug up an old Cornell T-shirt and grabbed my running shoes. The bed squeaked when I sat on the end to get my shoes on.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise.”
“A bad surprise.” I guessed.
“Probably.”
I could hear her smiling, which put a smile on my own face.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I’m just happy for a chance to prove you wrong, that’s all.”
“You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“That’s the key to success,” I informed her. “It’s fifty percent being sure of yourself.”
“And the other fifty percent?”
“Self-loathing. Every successful human lives by that ratio. Unless they’re a sociopath.”
“Hm. And I was so sure you were the latter.”
Once my last shoe was tied, I made my way back to her, pulling on my shirt as an experiment. When my head was out of the neck, I found success—Jo’s thirsty eyes slid down my body like they’d slipped on a banana.
I paused, smirking. “Did you get all that, or should I go back and do it again?”
The flush in her cheeks belied her scoffing. She turned for the door.
“Come on, let’s go,” she said.
“Am I driving or you?”
“Please. Your toy car is never going to make it into pastures. I’m driving.”
“Pastures, huh? Are we doing something with cows?”
“Nope.” She exited the house, not bothering to hold the screen door, which nearly hit me in the face.
I caught it, giving the back of her a flat look. “Sheep?”
She opened the door to her truck and climbed up on the rail, turning to me with a smile. “Nope.”
“You’re not even going to give me a hint?”
“You want a hint? Really?”
This time, I gave the front of her a flat look that was met with a smug smile.
“All right, fine.”
She disappeared, digging around in the back of the cab for a wad of white material. I frowned. And when she threw her burden at me with both hands, I caught it, though it’d partially come unfurled in transit. My eyes widened as I realized what it was.
A beekeeper’s coverall.
The satisfaction on her face shouldn’t have been legal.
“Get in, asshole. We’re going to save some bees.”
9
Good Vibes, Bad Vibes
JO
We bumbled and bounced up the long dirt road that led to Wyatt’s ranch house. I wore a smile. Grant tried to cover his suspicion, his gigantic hand hooked in the Oh, shit handle and a beekeeper suit in his lap.
The sight made me want to cackle like a Disney villain.
This was a preferential reaction to the one I’d had when he answered the door shirtless in gray sweatpants. There was no logic behind the exponential hotness of a man in gray sweatpants. It was just a law of the universe and one I was very, very thankful for at the moment. Although I really was concerned about him heatstroking or passing out. There was no way I could get him back in the truck alone if he swooned.
When we reached the house, Wyatt came walking around from the back, turning the corner like a model for the promising future of FFA kids. Sunbleached cowboy hat, short-sleeved plaid with pearl snaps that was so tight around his biceps, I was pretty sure it would tear if he so much as opened a jar. Wranglers snug as all hell, boots worn and rugged. Rugged like his square jaw and strong nose and eyes that promised a deep and serious fucking.
Eyes that were locked on Grant and a smirk that backed that promise up, times ten.
Grant didn’t even flinch under his gaze. Instead, he held on to it with a smirk of his own, which left me wondering what happened when gay men waged the battle of the tops. It also left me wondering if Grant was as gay as Wyatt, and with my disappointment at the thought, the hope that he was bi.
I blame the python he called a dick. I’d been dicknotized.
I rolled down my window and hung out by my elbow.
Wyatt hooked his arm and shouted, “Come on—I’ll show you where I found them.”
With a nod, I settled back into my seat and waited while he hopped into his truck and backed out, and we took off down a trail.
Wyatt’s expansive cattle farm was left to him by his father. He’d learned to ride bulls here, and he had a wall full of rodeo trophies to prove his skill. He was the catch of the century, so long as you had the right equipment. Which sadly, I did not.
I glanced at Grant, smiling like I was teasing him. “Wyatt’s something else, isn’t he?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen many cowboys who look like that.”
“Wait until you see him in a slutty cow skirt and top.”
A laugh shot out of him, an honest, happy sound that surprised me. “I’m surprised he doesn’t catch hell around here. I mean, I’m assuming he’s gay.”
“He’s so very gay. And honestly, it used to be bad, but when you’ve won as many rodeo competitions as he has, a certain clout comes with it. He could ride down to Main Street in nothing but a red leather Speedo and red cowboy boots, and even Pastor Coleburn would be out whistling at him. Wyatt’s impossible not to love. And anybody who’d challenge his sexuality would be run out of town—likely bleeding—or at least shamed into shutting up.” I snuck another glance at him. “You interested?”