Page 62 of Cabins Cows Critics
“You aren’t calling me that in your review, are you?”
I bite my lower lip.
He chuckles. “You did, didn’t you?”
“How about you read it for yourself,” I say, and we continue along the path to my cabin.
When we get there, Wendy’s stuff has already been removed, and Sally-May has dropped off a fresh basket of baked treats. I grab my laptop, pull up my almost finished review, and hand it to Connor. He sits on a chair by the window, and I grab a blueberry muffin from the basket and move to watch from the end of my bed. I pull a chunk of the top off and pop it into my mouth, hoping that eating will help to keep myself from analyzing every movement of his face as he reads.
Watching someone read your work is weird. I submit everything online for my job, so I don’t usually get to see anyone’s reactions, except sometimes I’ll be out with Wen when it posts. She subscribed the second she found out what I didfor work, telling me that friends support each other always. I remember thinking, How does she know we’ll be friends, but I guess she saw something I hadn’t yet, because we’ve been best friends since that day we met.
Connor closes the laptop screen and turns in the chair toward me.
“Your review is great,” he says, standing and walking over to sit beside me on the bed. I turn toward him.
“I still have to finish it, but now you know, it’s more about the magic of this place than the cowboys who manage it all,” I say, and he nods, but it’s like he’s holding back something. “What is it? I can take feedback, please tell me.”
I actually hate feedback. I hate not getting something right the first time. It’s why I spend so long on a story before submitting it, and my stomach is almost always in knots waiting for the thumbs-up from my editor that signifies no edits are needed. I’ve gotten pretty good at anticipating what he wants to see in the pieces, too, which means I almost always get the thumbs-up without any rewrites. But right now I’m not worried about what Connor might want me to change. I have to know what he’s thinking. I need to.
“Is the cuddle cove really your favorite part about this place?”
I lay my hand on his thigh.
“No,” I say, and his gaze locks on mine. “You are. But I can’t put that in my review.”
He smiles, and it’s like all the tension leaves his body.
“Do you want to know why I really ran away?” he asks.
“I don’t need to, but if you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”
He goes on to tell me all about the television show, moving to pace the room as he explains the way it was all so rehearsed. I shift to sit back against the bedhead as he tells me about his coming out and his grandfather’s reaction. An angry fire rises inme when he tells me that part, but I stay silent, letting him get through it all.
He asks how it was for me, and I feel bad explaining how different my experience was from what he went through.
“I always knew I was gay. At least I don’t remember a time that I didn’t know. I didn’t even really have to come out, not in the way that a lot of people do. I was eating breakfast at the kitchen table one morning, sitting beside Dad while Mom cooked bacon on the stove. Suddenly, I just blurted out, ‘You know that I like guys, right?’ and Mom turned from the stove and chuckled, ‘Of course we do, honey. Do you want some bacon?’ and that was it.”
A pang hits my chest at the memory.
He sits beside me. “I’m sorry you lost them.”
“Thanks.” He brings my hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the back of my hand. “I’m sorry you had such a hard time with it.”
“It wasn’t all bad. I mean, the part with my family, yeah, that sucked, but I’ve travelled all over the US since then and met some really great accepting people.”
“Can you tell me about them?” I ask, and he smiles for the first time in far too long for my liking.
We talk about all the places he lived in after running away from the life he was born into, and we laugh together when he tells me about the time he lost his clothes to a bear while he was washing in a river.
“I would have loved to have seen that.” I chuckle.
“I thought you knew you don’t need a bear to see me naked, all you have to do is ask.”
“Oh, I’ll be asking,” I reply with a flutter rising in me. “But tell me more about where you’ve been first,” I say, and he shifts a little to the side to face me as he tells me story after story about the small towns he passed through, the people he met, and theexperiences he had. Who knew hearing the guy you’re sleeping with being railed in the back of a truck would be such a turn-on?
It’s not all happy times and hookups. Every story ends with him having to run again because someone has recognized him, and when he finishes retelling the story of the night of the epic storm that brought him to Beaker Brothers Ranch, I look over and find the warm orange glow of the rising sun filtering through the cabin window.
“We’ve been talking all night,” I say, and he turns to check the window.
