Page 67 of The Best Kind of Bad

Endless emails.

The social media beast has released its grip on me, too. I only post when I feel like it. Neat clouds. Pretty wildflowers.

Aside from a baby shower here, and a church reception there, my baking orders have been pretty light. The next wedding isn’t for a week, so that’s left me with plenty of time to go through Gus’s things. And I’ve been helping Dusty with odd tasks.

I especially like helping him irrigate. We get up early to open the gates on the pipe, letting cold, clear groundwater cascade down the crop rows. Then we go out in the afternoon to switch rows. And again at night.

I’ve started to learn the fields based on the time of day. Sunrise and the quiet birdsong.

The energy-sapping sun at midday. And the lazy sunsets at night.

I like it better than I could ever have imagined.

Maybe Tia was right, maybe I’ve got country girl running through my veins.

It helps to have such a sexy partner.

Dusty works hard.

Like, damn hard.

It’s not a stretch to see what Uncle Gus saw. Dusty is honest and hardworking.

But, he knows when to take a break.

When he invited me to his buddies’ annual lake trip, I almost said no.

I’ve only had brief interactions with his friends, but they don’t strike me as my kind of people.

They’re like oversized jocks with cowboy boots.

I tend to stick to the art nerds and music lovers.

But the idea of camping with Dusty was compelling enough to overcome my reservations about his friends.

And it turns out, his friends have at least one thing to recommend them, they come with boats.

Josh brought a fishing pontoon, and Bo brought a sleek speed boat that might be my new favorite thing.

I think it’s his favorite thing, too. Right behind Andy.

He guns the boat across the water, ignoring backhanded complaints from his girlfriend about upsetting the lake’s biome. Apparently, she isn’t just a bird lover; the fish get in there, too.

They’re a bit of an odd couple, but at least the running commentary is amusing.

Almost as good as watching the boys water ski. Which they are ridiculously good at. Because… of course, they are.

My water-skiing career began and ended with one sad belly flop an hour earlier. I’ve been perfectly content to sip a beer and watch Dusty show off. What can I say? I’m a sucker for beautiful things.

And his sheer athleticism, the raw strength, is a thing of beauty. Bo swings the boat wide, and Dusty cuts a sweeping arc behind him, reaching out with one hand to brush the water’s surface. He swings the other way, sending a fan of water spraying into the air. Bo eventually slows down, and Dusty sinks below the surface. He swims back to the boat, climbing inside with a big grin on his face, chest heaving from the exertion. He sidles past Bo, coming to sit next to me.

Shaking his head like a dog, he showers me with cold water before tugging me against his wet skin with a laugh. I protest, of course, but it sounds weak even to my ears. Because being pressed up against that body is not something you complain about.

I hand him a towel and watch him soak up the beads of lake water perching on his tanned skin.

“God damn, I like this bikini,” he murmurs, tossing the towel aside.

“You’ve mentioned that. But you can keep saying it.”

---