Page 12 of My Cowboy Trouble
"You want to lift with your legs," he says, drawing the words out that are tickling my ear. "Bend here..." His hands guide my hips down into a squat. "And drive up through your heels."
We lift together, his hands never leaving my waist, and the bale is somehow lighter. Or maybe that's just because all my focus has shifted to the way his thumbs are tracing little circles on my hip bones.
"See? Easy." His voice has dropped to a rumble that I feel more than hear. "Just need the right... technique."
"Right. Technique." My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
We move three more bales together, truthfully with him bearing nearly all the weight. Hey, Trent said to move the bales. He didn't say how to do it. Getting help is pretty damn good problem solving if you ask me.
I don't mention that I see one of those hand-truck thingies over in the corner that would probably work just as well. This method is borderline fun.
And wouldn't you know, each time Asher's hands linger a little longer, his chest presses a little closer. By the fifth bale, I'm not sure if I'm sweating from the work or from the way he's basically wrapped around me.
"I think I've got it now," I say, stepping away before I do something stupid like grind back against him.
"You sure?" He's got that lazy smile that says he knows exactly what he's doing to me. "I'm happy to keep... helping."
"I'm good. Thanks. I'll just grab that hand truck over in the corner."
"Smart girl. That's how we usually do it."
Oh for cripes' sake. "And you're just now telling me this? After you just felt me up and shit?"
He backs away toward the door and shrugs, the shit-eating grin on his face leaving my legs wobbly. "Fine. Next time I won't help you," he says, throwing his arms in the air.
"Well. Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do," I say, reminding myself not to burn bridges. It's way too soon for that nonsense.
"Anytime, darlin'." He tips his hat and saunters out, leaving me alone with a billion more bales to manage.
Like I have time for this shit.
It takes me three more hours to move half the stack,although the hand truck is a lifesaver. My back hurts, my hands are raw even through the work gloves Billy mysteriously left for me, and I'm pretty sure I've sweated out every ounce of water in my body.
But I did it. Well, half of it. That counts for something, right?
Wrong.It counts for nothing, according to Trent, who takes one look at my half-moved hay and assigns me to stall duty as punishment.
"But I already did stalls yesterday!"
"And you'll do them every day until you get it right." He hands me a pitchfork that's seen better decades. "Twelve stalls. Better hurry—lunch is in two hours."
The first stall isn't terrible. I've apparently built up some immunity to horse shit. It's stall number four that nearly breaks me.
The smell hits me like a physical force. It's not just horse shit—it's something else, something that makes my eyes water and my stomach revolt.
"Jesus Christ, what died in here?"
"That'd be Whiskey's stall." Gavin's leaning against the doorway, grinning like Christmas came early. "He's got digestive issues. Vet says it's dietary, but I think he just likes making people suffer."
"Your horse is broken."
"He's not broken. He's quirky." Gavin watches metry to breathe through my mouth while scooping. "You missed a spot."
"I missed a—" I turn, ready to swing my shovel at his head. Instead, I step backward, right into the pile of manure. My foot sinks in up to my ankle. "Oh my God. Oh my GOD."
Gavin loses it. He's laughing so hard, he has to hold onto the doorframe to keep from falling over. "Your face! Princess, your face!"
"Stop calling me princess!" I step out of the horse shit and nearly fall face-first into the stall. Gavin catches my arm, still wheezing with laughter.
