Page 27 of CowSex
“Yeah, was. She died when I was eighteen, my grandad when I was eleven.”
She clears her throat.
“Look, I’m not exactly sure how much I should be unpacking here. Will I need to be looking for somewhere else once the weather sorts its shit out? Am I staying or going?”
Deflecting, she looks back towards her room.
I scratch and tug at my beard. “Unpack, Gracie, we’ll deal with that once this storm clears, but let me help you.”
She steps aside and lets me into her room.
Her room.
Because I have a feeling in my gut, that’s what I’ll now always consider it to be.
“Go for it, Cowboy, but keep your hands to yourself and your eyes off my knickers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
GRACIE
“YEE-HAW!IHAVE A COWBOYin my bedroom, Bullseye.” I don’t say the words aloud, but in my head, I shout them, and I sound just like Jessie fromToy Storywhen I do it.
I watch as he lifts my suitcases up onto the bed, shifting the clothes I’ve already pulled out to one side.
I hadn’t noticed until after my shower, but the double doors I thought led to a cupboard, actually open to an entire dressing room. There’s a whole twenty-foot wall of hanging space, lots of drawers, a full-length mirror, and a really cute dressing table that has all these glass and ceramic type perfume bottles on it, the type that has the old-fashioned puffer thing that you squeeze. Most look art deco in design, but some could be older.
They kicked started my designer’s brain this morning, which was actually this afternoon, and I even sketched a few things awkwardly with my bad hand.
It’s the dressing room I watch Carmichael the Cowboy head off to now, and I take in his big body as he moves.
He’s built, but more like an athlete than somebody who works out at the gym. He has wide shoulders, a narrow waist and hips, and legs that look toned and muscular under his jeans. But it’s his forearms and his arse that I can’t keep my eyes from.
Forearms aren’t everyone’s thing, but they’re definitely mine. His are covered in a fine layer of dark hair; I know this because today, like last night, he’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
Today’s colour is grey, charcoal really, and he’s wearing it untucked. He’s tall, I’d guess around six feet one or two and it only just comes past his waist. If he was to stretch up for something—which I hope he does, and I hope I’m around to witness it—I’ll be able to see his happy trail, and as I stare at his retreating back, thick legs, and fine arse while thinking this, I feel my toes curl inside my UGG boots.
He returns in a matter of seconds with a pile of pink, silk-covered padded coat hangers, which he dumps unceremoniously on the bed.
One of the cases is already undone, he flips it open, and my heart literally stops in my chest. Before I even see it, I know exactly what is sitting right on top of everything that’s in that suitcase.
I could react. Slam the case shut. Blush. Stammer as I make excuses. Instead, I choose to own the situation.
“Whoa there, Cowboy. You might not wanna spend too much time looking at Vance. You could end up with an inferiority complex if you do.”
He steps back from my case.
“What in the ever-loving fuck—what is that thing?”
I lean forward and pick up the item that appears to have my host so offended.
“Cowboy, meet Vance.”
His eyebrows draw down tight and low over his eyes as he turns his head towards me, “Vance? What the fuck is a Vance?”
“Vance is my limited edition, black leopard print, Swarovski crystal Womanizer. He’s my life partner.”
“Limited edition, Ovski what?”
