Wrangled

“Well, that’d ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it? Didn’t I promise you somewhere quiet? With drink-drink? This is both.”

“Stop calling it that. No one on Earth calls it ‘drink-drink’.”

“I do.”

He drives his big truck around to the back of the main house, where a small guesthouse is connected by a long covered walkway that passes a large toolshed and a swing set. He cuts off the engine with the truck parked nowhere in particular, simply stretched out diagonally on the gravel wherever he apparently pleased, then shoves open his door and lets himself out.

I have no idea what’s about to go down in that house of his.

But I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

5

The Middle of Somewhere

I step out onto the gravel and shut the door behind me. The noise of distant crickets touches my ears. I swat away at a bug, then wonder if it was ever there.

I don’t miss the Texas outdoors.

Why did I ask him to take me away to someplace? Shouldn’t I have been more specific?

“Over here,” he calls out, having made his way to the door of the guesthouse.

I follow him, unable to stop looking all around me, as if afraid some wild coyote or prairie dog is going to leap out of the dark. “You really live out here in the middle of nowhere, huh?”

“It’s somewhere to me,” he answers as he unlocks the door, then pushes his way inside.

I step inside with him and find myself in a kitchen. A round table sits by the window with three mismatched chairs, a vase of flowers perched on top. A light was left on in the kitchen, which illuminates a doorway leading into the living room, into which I follow Chad as he starts flipping on lights here and there. A plaid-upholstered couch sits in the center of the room, a thick, flannel blanket thrown over its short back. Mounted on the wall is a small TV with visible cords and wires that messily run off somewhere, as if the person who installed it didn’t bother to run them through the wall. A potted plant sits on a tiny mail-covered table by a nearby window, through which a porch light brightly shines.

“You just gonna stand there like some stray cat I let in?” Chad taunts me, then gestures at the couch with a chuckle. “Come on in, make yourself comfy.”

“Cat?” I smirk at him, my ears probably flattening exactly like a cat’s as I stand there in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. “No need to be rude, Mr. Hospitality.”

“I ain’t known for my hospitality.” He whips off his cowboy hat and tosses it on a nearby armchair. “I’m known for my quality livestock, my killer looks, and my wrestling legacy I left behind at Spruce High.” He passes by me and goes for the fridge, which he promptly yanks open. “You like beer?”

I stare at his thick and tapered back, hugged by his tight, sleeves-ripped-off plaid shirt. My eyes drift down to his ass, which is clenched dutifully by those exquisitely-fitted Wranglers.

And my eyes don’t dare peel away as his butt dances in the most distracting, inviting, and excruciating way while he reaches into the back of that fridge to grab what might be the last two of his beers.

The sight of his jeaned buns is enough of a reward to make the long trip out here—and his occasional and totally-uncalled-for attitude—completely worth it.

I wouldn’t mind if it takes him ten whole minutes just to get those beers.

It takes him three and a half seconds.

He kicks shut the door, then turns around and extends a beer toward me, his blue eyes striking mine. “Here ya go, partner.”

I take the bottle, my gaze glued to his. “Partner?”

Chad snorts, then struts over and leans against the frame of the archway opposite me. He doesn’t look away from me once, his beautiful face appearing amused by all my little reactions to his humble abode. When he smirks at me, he reveals those cute, tiny dimples at the corners of his pillowy lips. With a small magnetic opener he grabbed off the fridge, he flips off the cap of his beer, then brings the bottle to his lips for one long, thirsty drag.

His eyes never break from mine as he gulps, gulps, gulps.

His Adam’s apple dances as he chugs the whole bottle down.

I just stare like an idiot, mesmerized.

He finishes his bottle, then lets it hang loose, gripped at the neck and dangling from his fingers. Then he licks his lips, which are still curled with the slightest hint of mischief in them. “Must a’ been mighty thirsty. Fuckin’ tasty beer.” He nods at mine. “Ain’t you gonna drink yours? Or you just gonna keep starin’ at me like your ass has never seen a man chug a beer before?”