Page 74 of The Runaway and the Rugged
With one final scoop, I scanned the stall one last time before stepping out into the hall of the stable and sauntered down to where Garth was.
“Hey, slowpoke, you almost…” The words died on my tongue the moment my eyes landed on his bare, muscled torso. Muscles flexing with each jab of the shovel, my mouth fought to stay open.
Holy, fuck.
Luckily he hadn’t noticed me eye fucking the hell out of him, and I was able to get a few more seconds of admiring and drooling in before he turned and caught me standing in the doorway.
“Finished,” he grumbled, stalking past me to go hang up the shovel.
I was still recovering from the sight of him shirtless, and just when I thought I could keep my cool, he reappeared, this time with a backward ball cap on his head and a water bottle pressed to his mouth. Throat exposed, my gaze traced a deliberate trail down his neck, lingering on the dark curls sprinkled on his chest, before sliding over the glistening dips and curves of his abdomen.
Garth Calhoun was all man.
Older, wiser, sexier, I couldn’t tear my eyes away even if I tried.
He finally pulled the water bottle from his mouth and held it out for me to take.
“Thirsty?”
Yes.
A million times yes.
With a hesitant hand, I grabbed the crinkling bottle and brought it up to my mouth. He probably figured I’d hover it above my lips, wary of germs and all that, but I was feeling selfish. I pressed it softly against my lower lip and tipped it back. The water was cold, fresh, and had a faint trace of Garth on the rim.
And just as I had watched him, he did the same with me. Eyes locked passionately onto my throat, he dipped them down my body in a slow, meticulous manner. It was the first time he had done it so openly, so freely. It made my thighs twitch involuntarily.
As I went to lower the bottle, the familiar voice of Greta materialized from the doorway of the stable, cutting through whatever trance both Garth and I had been sucked into, eliminating the moment entirely.
“Garth, I need your… Oh!” She gasped openly, her stare falling on Garth and his chest, then over to me. “Didn’t mean to interrupt whatever’s goin’ on here.”
“You’re not!” I responded, and at the same time Garth said, “Nothin’s goin’ on.”
Great.
Now we sounded suspicious too.
“You’re not,” Garth clarified. “We just finished up. What do you need?”
Greta appeared flustered, her cheeks turning the same shade mine did whenever I was ready to sink into the floor.
“I… well, I needed to…” She paused, shaking her head with a furrowed brow. “Shit, I can’t remember what I came in here for.”
“Must not have been that important then,” Garth stated before walking over to the hook on the wall that held his shirt. One arm after the other, he pulled the green shirt over his head and down his torso.
“How’s ranch life been treatin’ you? Sorry I haven't been around to check on you. I’ve been swamped with scheduling everything for the ranch since no one else wants to deal with it.”
She was referring to her brothers.
“It’s okay, no worries. But it’s been good. Different, but so far I’m realizing it’s the change I needed,” I admitted, feeling Garth's gaze heavy on my back before it disappeared altogether.
“I’m glad you’re adjusting well. I’m sure it's a one-eighty from livin’ in New York, but I promise you, nothin’ beats this.”
More like I was living on a different planet, but I didn't say that. I simply nodded.
“And nothin’ beats chicken wing night at The Lonely Barrel.” She chuckled, then lifted her eyebrow in question. “You up for goin’ out tonight?”
“Chicken wing night?” Garth threw himself into our conversation. “Isn’t the only reason you go because it’s dollar draft beer night too?”
