Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“Fine?” As in, I was completely respectful, and we didn’t sleep together? Or fine, as in, we were tangled up in my sheets together, and my performance was mediocre at best?
“Yes. Everything was fine. Entertaining, even. Never had an experience like it, and I’m in a little bit of a new experience phase.” She grins, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. It’s firm, it’s friendly, it’s torturous. “I think you worry too much, Tad Hanson.”
An entertaining experience?
Are we talking put a clown nose on my face while I do a jig entertaining or very pleasurable, gave her a million orgasms with my tongue entertaining?
Before I can process it—before I can say another dumb fucking thing—she glances at her phone, clicks her tongue, and immediately slings her purse over her shoulder. “Shoot. I’d better get out of here. I promised Norah I’d watch Autumn while she’s on a conference call. It was good to see you, Tad.” She gives my shoulder another little squeeze before offering a wave to Josie. “Bye, Josie!”
“Bye, Breezy!” Josie exclaims with a smile.
And just like that, she’s gone, her fancy boots finishing their floor-clacking with a final punctuation mark just as the door closes.
Josie slides two steaming cups toward me and props her chin on her hand as she assesses me closely. “You always this twitchy before noon?”
“Coffee jitters,” I mumble, grabbing Randy’s and my coffee from the counter.
“You drink coffee before coming to my coffee shop?”
“Sometimes,” I lie with a shrug.
I like my coffee and my relationships simple.
This morning, I only managed that for one, and truth be told, it’s not the good one. I’d rather have foam fucking hearts in my damn coffee.
…
My sheep are out again, and that’s par for the course on the Hanson sheep farm. My brother hates it; I think it gives us something to do.
As we have many times before, we agree to disagree.
Crosby and a few other woolly assholes toddle toward the road, another three head for Bennett Bishop’s fence line, and my big girl Mabel stands there, chewing on hay and staring at me like she can’t believe her sheep friends are acting a fool while Randy and I wave our arms like idiots trying to get them to respond, knee-deep in crusty, refrozen snow.
She’d be rebelling right along with them if she weren’t pregnant, but she’s tired and fucking over it entirely right now. Frankly, since this is my fifth trip through the field, my breathing ragged with overexertion and laser beams shooting out of Randy’s eyes, I’m feeling a little pregnant myself.
I juke and weave as Randy sends the flock in my direction, forcing them back through the gate and into the smaller, still-secure fenced area near the barn. I follow the group in with a loud yell and wave of my arms to assure we don’t have any runners turn back, but Nash makes a break for it anyway.
“Dammit!” I scream as he scoots past me, belly-flopping in the snow in a failed attempt at a grab, but thankfully, Randy’s behind me as a second line of defense.
“Back in,” Randy snaps, grabbing Nash by the neck and wrestling him inside until he can get the gate closed enough to create a pinch point. His knee drags in the snow as Nash takes off to rejoin his buddies, and I laugh at our matching outfits.
Randy doesn’t find the mud and melted snow quite as entertaining. “I swear, one of these days I’m gonna sell this whole fucking flock behind your back.”
“And then what?” I grunt, shooing an onery Crosby away before he can start chewing on the one area of fence that’s in good shape.
“I’ll find some fucking peace. Maybe retire somewhere tropical. Never touch a fence ever again.” He shrugs. “Anything but fucking this, Tad. Anything but this.”
Normally, I’d be laughing and tossing out smartass remarks, but there’s a small part of me that feels bad every once in a while for trapping Randy in purgatory with me. I guess, because of Breezy Bishop getting me all discombobulated this morning, this is one of those times.
“You can leave, you know. I don’t need a babysitter.”
He snorts, and I, of course, take offense.
“What? What’s that sound mean?”
“It means you absolutely need a babysitter. How the fuck would you have gotten home the other night if it weren’t for me?”
I sigh. I want to go to war—lash out and shit. But his bringing up the other night so organically is too good an opportunity to pass up.
“I guess I wouldn’t have. I don’t fucking know.” I pull my gloves off and tuck them into my back pocket, wiping sweat and melted snow from my forehead. “Did everything…go okay?”
“Did everything go okay?” he repeats, confused. I can’t blame him. I don’t really even know what I’m asking myself. “I mean, you were drunk. So, that wasn’t ideal. But Breezy’s Range Rover got stuck in the snow, and we did our best to help her out.”