Page 27 of Riding the Sugar High

Piece of cake.

“The farthest part of the property is for the animals. We have pigs, goats, sheep, chickens, cows...”

I bite my bottom lip to contain my excitement. The only cows and chickens I’ve ever seen were drawn on taco trucks, and I remember seeing sheep from a train ride abroad, but as much as I try to remember seeing a goat, no memory comes to mind.

“A few rabbits, horses?—”

“Horses?”

“Yeah. You know. Long faces.”

I definitely know what horses look like, but I’ve never seen one up close.

Gasping, I turn to him. “Wait—horses! Does that mean...Are you technically a cowboy?”

His brows descend over his eyes. “Uh, no. In no way at all.”

“But you have horses,” I protest.

“But I don’t ride them.”

“But you do have cows.”

“But I don’t use the horses to herd the cows,” he says through gritted teeth. “You know what—fine. Whatever. I’m a cowboy.”

I fight hard to contain a laugh, until I’m forced to hide a chuckle behind my fist. “Okay, cowboy,” I say as casually as I can. “Can I get a yee-haw?”

He turns to me, and though he doesn’t say it, I hear hisFuck youloud and clear.

With a satisfied sigh, I focus on the view, the fields morphing into acres upon acres of grass, and I nearly press my nose to the car window when I see the first white and black spots.

Livestock grazes contentedly in lush pastures—cows lazily chewing, sheep clustered together, and chickens scratching at the ground in pursuit of food. Through the open window, the farm seems to hum with the soothing sounds of nature—bells, bleating, the rhythmic clucking of hens.

It’s beautiful. Harmonious in a way that makes me feel at peace.

“On this side are all the big animals. See that red building? Those are the stables.”

“Where horses live,” I say with a tentative voice as I glance at him.

“Uh-huh. Cows are there, there’s ten of them. You can see Penelope sleeping.”

I follow the direction of his finger, and indeed, a spotted cow is sleeping behind a tall wooden fence. “Penelope?” I ask with an amused voice.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Do you know all your animals by name?”

“Yes.”

“Did you name them?”

“Yes.”

“Even Penelope?”

He scratches his neck as he awkwardly clears his throat. “Yes.” Then he mumbles, “It’s a name.”

True, but picturing this unpleasant, hairy, giant of a man naming cows and goats he rescued makes me wonder how much of his stone-cold attitude is nothing else but a show for everyone’s benefit.

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