Page 62 of Just One Look
I meantuse meas inuse me to help you, but my inadvertently suggestive words leave a tantalizing buzz in their wake.
Jackson grapples with how to respond, the muscles in his throat tightening.
“Fine. You can help. But get out of those ridiculous clothes.”
“You trying to get me naked?”
He lets out a frustrated grunt, the sound shooting straight to my cock as my filthy mind does what it does best: imagining him making that sound while I rail him from behind.
“Fine. Stay dressed like that. I don’t care. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re covered in dirt.”
“I’m good. Don’t you worry.” I hand him the pitchfork but yank it away at the last minute.
Our eyes meet. Yesterday’s Mr. Professional demeanor struggles to contain the rage bubbling away inside him.
See, Jackson? You’re not the only one who can shake things up.
He lets out a grunt, rips the pitchfork from my fingers, and gets to work.
We fall into an easy rhythm. Jackson scoops, I clear. The only sounds are the scrape of metal, the rustle of straw, and theoccasional sharp “ugh” when the pitchfork clings to a stubborn clump.
It’s actually nice being out of the office and doing something physical. Wagner has a state-of-the-art home gym, which I use most days, but lifting weights and lugging oversized tires from one end of the mats to the other isn’t the same as doing something you can see tangible evidence of.
The suit wasn’t the brightest idea, though. Not because I’m worried about getting it dirty like Jackson thinks. It’s too restrictive, and the soles of my Allen Edmonds were clearly made for walking city streets, not mucking out slippery, muddy horse stalls.
I glance over at Jackson as we enter the final stall. Stepping inside, we’re greeted by Brandy, a roan mare standing tall on slender legs, her coat a mottled swirl of chestnut and white. A patch of white on her pastern looks newly healed, the skin still puckered from rehabbing an abscess. She arches her neck, offering a tentative nicker as we approach.
Jackson, as always around these majestic creatures, carries a measured grace, gently murmuring something as he brings a carrot stick to her mouth. Brandy’s ears pivot forward in attention.
I start clearing some of the loose hay on the ground, wondering what’s going through Jackson’s mind right now. I caught him off guard, that’s for sure. Is he pissed? Confused? Grateful for the help since he’d have a lot more work to do this morning if I weren’t here? I doubt it’s option C, but a guy can dream, right?
I mull over Ollie’s advice, thinking of a way to start another conversation about the possibility of something developing between us that doesn’t immediately lead to Jackson shutting me down. I’m so completely focused on that, I don’t notice him tossing a pile of soiled bedding toward the wheelbarrow. Hemisses, and I don’t turn fast enough to move out of the way, so the whole thing lands on my shoes.
And on my pants.
Some even makes it onto the front of my shirt.
Jackson notices. His eyes bulge as he drops the pitchfork and gasps, “Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”
I glance down to assess the damage. And yep, it’s as bad as I suspected—patches of hemp, sawdust, and horse shit are scattered all over me.
“It’s fine,” I say, wincing.
“It was an accident, I swear.”
It’d be all too easy to think it wasn’t an accident, but the sincerity in his eyes and the contrition in his voice make me believe him. Jackson may be hotheaded, but he isn’t downright cruel.
Rude? Yes.
Irritable? Yes.
Slightly violent? Also, yes. After all, he does have a history of going and punching rich assholes in the face.
But call me naïve, I don’t think he covered me in horse shit on purpose.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to figure out what to do next to make this shitty situation less shitty.
Unfortunately, what I do next is the exact opposite.
