Fools (Licking Thicket 3)

That was probably true. The Suds Barn paid for shit.

“Especially now that you own part of the Summer Honey store,” she added.

“I don’t own part of the Summer Honey store,” I said, lowering my voice so no one could hear us. “And please don’t say that again, or I’m going to have every damned woman coming up asking me for free samples.”

“That’s not what I heard, Dunn Johnson,” she said in a singsong voice. “I heard you were a regular beauty baron around these parts. They paid you in stock when they first started buying your milk, and now it’s worth a mint. That’s why I think you should hire that interior decorator guy to do up your farmhouse for you. Colin, I think his name is. He mostly does restaurants, but I heard he used to be the designer to the stars. And he lives right here in the Thicket!”

She looked around to make sure no one was listening. “And he’s… gay.”

I stared at her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You know. Interior decorator? Gay? You know they’re better than anyone at colors and such. He’ll make your farm a showplace. The Beautification Corps would. Just. Die. They would keel over in their hot pink garden clogs when they took a tour of our… your farmhouse.”

Her stereotyping was not attractive. “Gay men are no more qualified to decorate my house than straight men!” I may not have been gay… or whatever… very long, but I did know that much.

Just then Tucker came walking around the corner with Carter. Carter, being his same old annoying self, jumped into my private conversation. “Beg to differ, big guy,” he said lightly. “Name me one straight male interior decorator around here.”

I glanced at Tucker for help, but he just shrugged. “I know Colin Richards—used to be Colin Kearns—but he’s gay,” he admitted. “He’s married to that contractor who did Gracie’s extension. Ryder.”

“Ohhhh, Ryder Richards,” Jenn added with a longing sigh. “He’s superhot. And rides a motorcycle.”

I remembered my sister and Tucker swooning over the big, muscled man last year when she had the work done on her house. I couldn’t help but let out a frustrated growl. “I’m leaving. Gotta meet with a guy about a cow.”

“Toodles!” Carter called with a wave.

Jenn called after me. “Pick me up Friday at seven!”

I raced home and got back to work. And if I spent a little extra time with a certain pig, it wasn’t anyone’s business but mine.

Hours later, I was rode hard and put away wet. Bottle-feeding the calves had been like trying to capture slippery walruses with a tiny pair of tongs. Every time I got a hold of one, another one distracted it until they were all wiggling out of my hold.

Some days were like that. It meant my body was aching, and I had a giant bruise blooming on my shin from where one of the little bastards had kicked me but good. I spent extra time in the shower trying to work out the kinks. The hot water slammed against my tight muscles until I groaned.

“Someone started without me,” I heard from outside the shower stall. I glanced over and saw Tucker’s blurry form through the steam.

“Get in here. I got cracks and crevices that need scrubbing.”

His low chuckle made me smile. I smeared away the steam on the glass door with my hand and watched him undress. As soon as he caught me looking, he turned it into an incredibly frustrating slow striptease.

“Cut that shit out,” I muttered. “Get your ass in here before the hot water runs out.”

His body was amazing. The man worked out religiously and used running as a stress reliever. The curves of his quads and calves had always drawn my eyes. Lots of times he’d run to my farm and arrive sweating and panting, shirtless in tiny running shorts. He’d double over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, and I’d sneak glances at his defined shoulders and arms, his slender muscled back and the shallow ridge of his spine leading down into the back of his shorts.

He was beautiful. I’d always thought of him as healthy and attractive, but I’d never really let myself think of him as sexy. But he was. I think I’d always noticed without really realizing it. Two years ago, there’d been a particularly hot weekend in August where we’d practically lived in our swimsuits at the fishing cabin. We spent most of the day floating in giant tubes tied to the dock with a third tube holding a cooler of beer. One of the suits he wore was a teeny-weenie bikini one that I’d made fun of, but… I’d also kinda… felt that hot, weird way you feel when you accidentally see the pale, creamy skin of a woman’s inner thigh when she moves just so in a skirt. Like… a dangerous, exciting, illicit little perk had just been granted to you anonymously from the universe. His butt had looked amazing in that suit, and I’d snuck a few peeks at the bulge in the front too.