Page 60 of My Cowboy Trouble
"I'll take her," Asher offers, appearing from nowhere with that ninja stealth of his. He's wearing his going-to-town clothes—jeans that actually fit instead of hanging loose, and a button-up shirt that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. "I need to negotiate with Carl about the lumber prices anyway."
"Negotiate or blackmail?" Trent asks.
"Negotiate is such a harsh word. I prefer 'aggressive bargaining.'"
"I'm coming too," Gavin announces,strutting into the kitchen shirtless because apparently that's his default state now. His jeans are slung low enough that I can see those cut lines that disappear into his waistband, and I have to look away before my brain short-circuits. "Can't let you two have all the fun."
"It's a feed store, not Disneyland," I point out, trying not to stare at the scratch marks I left on his back two days ago. They're healing, but still visible. Still mine.
"Everything's fun with the right company." He winks at me, and I try to ignore how my body responds. Like Pavlov's dog, if the bell was a wink and the response was wanting to climb him like a tree.
"Fine." Trent hands me the list with the resignation of a man who knows he's lost control of the situation. "But actually get what's on here. No more boots. And don't let Gavin convince you we need a llama."
"That was one time," Gavin protests, pulling on a T-shirt that's probably a size too small and does everything to show off his physique.
"Three times."
"The third one was an alpaca, totally different."
"How are they different?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Alpacas are fluffier. And they hum."
"They hum?"
"Like little fuzzy meditation monks. We need one," Gavin says. "I've been thinking about taking up meditation."
Trent snorts. "Yeah right. We don't need an alpaca."
"But think of how calm we'd all be with a hummingalpaca around," Gavin argues. "Very zen. Very peaceful. Might help with all this sexual tension."
The kitchen goes silent. Leave it to Gavin to address the elephant in the room by riding it around and giving it a party hat.
"To the feed store," Asher says after a beat, grabbing his keys. "Before this gets even more awkward."
Fifteen minutes later, we're in Asher's truck heading into town, Billy in the backseat and me sandwiched on the front bench seat because Gavin called "shotgun" and then claimed the middle was technically shot-gun adjacent. His thigh is pressed against mine, warm and solid. Asher's hand brushes my knee every time he shifts gears, and I'm trying very hard not to think about how this seating arrangement reminds me of other activities. Specifically, activities that involved a lot less clothing and a lot more moaning.
"You okay there, darlin'?" Asher asks, noticing my death grip on the dashboard.
"Fine. Great. Love feedstores."
"You've never been to a feedstore," Gavin points out, his hand landing on my thigh like it belongs there.
"I'm very enthusiastic about new experiences."
"We know," they say in unison, and my face burns.
"That's not what I meant."
"Sure it isn't," Gavin says, his thumb tracing circles on my thigh. "Remember that new experience with the?—"
"Gavin!" I slap his hand away, but I'm fighting a smile. “Billy’s in the back,” I whisper.
"What? I was going to say fence post. Your mind went somewhere else entirely."
"My mind went nowhere."
"Your red face says otherwise," Asher observes, turning onto Main Street. "You're thinking about the hayloft."
