Something Irresistible

Chapter 1

Patrick Dillard wasn’t a particularly difficult man nor was he someone that enjoyed complainin’ a whole bunch.

Though, he’d be a liar if he denied how much he bitched and moaned when he learned that his old man hired someone to tend the ranch with him for the winter without sayin’ anything ‘til two weeks before Patrick was supposed to pick them up. His old man insisted it was necessary; he wasn’t gettin’ any younger and there was too much land for Patrick to handle on his own.

Patrick knew his old man wasn’t staying on the ranch for the winter, but he figured he’d be workin’ with one of the seasoned ranch-hands he knew.

Instead, he was gonna be workin’ with somebody he didn’t know and who was most likely gonna be inexperienced fresh meat that would carry on ‘bout havin’ to work in the cold.

By the time his old man told him that someone was comin’, it was too late for Patrick to do anything. Nash Colby, the worker Patrick’s old man hired, was on his way, and there was nothing Patrick could do about it.

Come Monday, Patrick dragged himself out of the house and drove all the way out to the nearest city—three hours outside of town.

Suncreek Ridge had petitioned years ago to not allow public transit anywhere near town under the guise of it doin’ more harm than good, but Patrick wished they’d at least allowed a one stop near the outskirts.

Grumblin’ about lack of space and city folks not knowin’ how to drive, he pulled into the parkin’ lot and waited in his old, rusted, blue pickup truck.

He tilted his hat over his eyes to block out the afternoon sun as it began to creep towards the horizon.

A loud, teeth grittin’ noise pierced Patrick’s ears, jerkin’ him awake just as he was about to doze off.

With a sigh, Patrick adjusted his hat then got out of the truck.

He watched people mosey off the bus like cattle being herded from the pen to an open field, spreading out of the orderly, single-file line they walked off the bus in.

“He’s about your age,” Patrick’s father had said. “Probably gonna be wearing a cowboy hat or somethin’ like it. Got blond hair—Hell, Pat, you’ll know ‘im when you see ‘im, quit your bitchin’.”

Patrick did know him when he saw him. Nash Colby—wearing a black cowboy hat with frayed edges—walked off that bus lookin’ like a sunflower plucked straight from a garden with his bright blond hair, dark eyes, and golden sun-kissed skin.

He was a tall fella, all leg with not a lick of fat on his bones.

Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off ‘im. Nash Colby was a pretty li’l thing.

Something hard and heavy formed in the pit of Patrick’s stomach when he realized he’d thought of another man as pretty.

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind, dismissin’ it as nothing more than a slip up—only women looked like that.

He walked up to the front of the truck, hoping Nash was sharp enough to know who or what to look for.

Sure enough, those big brown eyes landed right on Patrick.

As Nash’s gaze traveled down, a smirk formed on his pale pink lips, and cotton filled the inside of Patrick’s mouth.

He tried to swallow, but it only made it worse.

“You must be Patrick,” Nash said once he was within talkin’ distance. He offered his hand, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice how slender his fingers were. “Nash Colby.”

Patrick cleared his throat and took Nash’s hand, surprised to find it rougher than what he’d assumed it would be. “Just Pat’s fine.”

“Well, just Pat”—Nash stepped closer without releasing Patrick’s hand—“I must say, I wasn’t expectin’ someone so young and handsome to be pickin’ me up.”

Heat flooded Patrick’s face. He jerked his hand back. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those—”

Nash laughed and it sounded like church bells on Sunday. Comfort and sin twisted up into one ringing noise. “I’m a married man, Pat. I’m just yankin’ your chain, seein’ how you’d react. Let’s me know what typa person I’m gonna be holed up with.”

Relief didn’t find Patrick the way he thought it would when Nash said he was married; it only made the burnin’ in his face feel that much hotter. He shifted and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.” He cleared his throat again. “Well, we outta get goin’. Get you settled in and all that.”

Heart buckin’ in his chest like a caught bronco, Patrick turned on his heels and got into the truck, slamming the door harder than necessary.

The truck sputtered a few times before finally startin’ up.

Warm air blasted from the vents, causin’ the black tree hangin’ on the rearview mirror to sway.

A minute later, Nash joined Patrick in the cab, door squealin’ in protest as it was pulled shut.

“I reckon we’re a drive from the ranch?” Nash asked, settlin’ into his seat.

Patrick pulled out onto the road. “‘Bout three hours.”

Nash sighed, crossin’ his arms and closin’ his eyes. “Guess I’ll catch a nap on the way then.”

Conversation dead before it started, the ride into Suncreek Ridge was silent save for the rumble of the truck and the occasional car blowin’ past on the way to the city.

Every so often, Patrick glanced over at the man ridin’ shotgun who was every bit his opposite.

Nash was a spindly thing compared to Patrick.

His face was bare of facial hair while Patrick had a thick, dark beard.

However, the one thing in particular that stuck out to Patrick the most was Nash’s freckles.

Brown spots trailed down his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt, and for some odd reason, Patrick wanted to know just how much of Nash was covered in those fallen stars.

“You got a starin’ problem?”

Patrick snatched his eyes away, shame burnin’ hot in his gut.

“Cat got your tongue?” Nash taunted.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Nash chuckled. “I’m sure, cowboy. Your type don’t ever mean anything by it.” He pushed himself upright, stretching his arms above his head without touching the roof of the truck. “Least, not 'til a month or so in and there ain’t nobody but the two of us on that big empty ranch.”

Patrick flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I ain’t—”

“One of those.” Nash turned his head to look out at the window. “Never are.”

Patrick huffed through his nose, nostrils flaring like a bull. “Didn’t you say you were married?”

“Natty’s only my wife in name. But she’s as good a wife as any.” Nash leaned his head back, lookin’ at Patrick with a lazy grin. “Keeps me outta too much trouble.”

Patrick kept his eyes trained on the road, swallowin’ around whatever strange thing had bloomed in his throat. “Sounds like you ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

“Maybe.” Nash tapped his knuckle on the window as they approached The Broken Spoke, Suncreek Ridge’s only bar in town. “Wanna find out?”

Broken Spoke was stompin’ grounds for just about everybody in town, but with it being the only place that served liquor worth drinkin’, Patrick decided to take the risk.

He could use a stiff drink if he planned on makin’ it to the ranch without losin’ his head.

Before he was parked good, Nash was out of the cab and headed for the door.

Patrick swore, scrambling after the youngin’—though if he was old enough to be married, Nash probably wasn’t that much younger than Patrick.

Patrick was hot on Nash’s heels as he barged through the bar door without a lick of hesitancy.

Inside Broken Spoke, the air was warm and thick with the stench of tobacco.

Pool balls clacked against one another while low, croaky country music floated from the busted radio by the bar.

Shitty overhead lights bathed the bar in yellow.

Broken Spoke was the type of bar that people visited to get piss-drunk or to find a good, hard fuck after a few lonely months on the ranch.

Patrick preferred the mouth of a bottle over the mouth of another due to embarrassin’ himself one too many times after one too many drinks.

Patrick grabbed Nash by the scruff of his neck, making him tense and slow down to match Patrick’s pace. “Mighty strong grip you got there.”

“Now look here,” Patrick said, low and deep. “Don’t go embarrassin’ yourself or me, ya hear? You just work here, I live here. Don’t go makin’ a mess of things.”

A devilish smile quirked one side of Nash’s lips. “Now, I rather like when you talk all deep like that in my ear.”

Patrick shoved Nash forward with enough force to make him stumble.

Laughter, sweet yet still rough around the edges, met Patrick’s ear.

A few heads turned in their direction and Patrick wished he’d blown right past the bar.

Then, a hoarse feminine voice hollered Baby, and his heart dropped to his feet.

His cousin LeeAnne was walking their way, high ponytail swinging with every step.

She pulled Patrick into a tight hug. “How the hell are you, Baby? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. ”

His whole face felt like he’d worked fifteen hours in the blazin’ sun. Patrick set his jaw and gave a tight smile, tryin’ his best to let the nickname roll off his back—he knew it wasn’t worth the fight. “Good, how ‘bout yourself?”

She let go of him as she gave a similar answer. Nash wolf-whistled, drawin’ both of their attention. “Didn’t tell me you had a lady friend, Pat.”

LeeAnne crossed her arms as she jerked her chin towards Nash. “And who might you be?”

Nash removed his hat, bringin’ his arm down around his middle as he gave a small, stiff bow. “Nash Colby, ma’am.”

She snorted. “I ain’t no ma’am, but I appreciate the thought. And I ain’t Baby’s lady friend.” A fake shiver ran through her body. “He’s my baby cousin.”

She slapped a hand down on Patrick’s shoulder, which he promptly shoved it off. “I done told you to quiet callin’ me that. I ain’t gonna keep tellin’ ya.”

“Or what?” LeeAnne’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“Just lay off it, a’right?”

“Big ole softy this one.” She pointed her thumb towards Patrick. “Don’t pay him no mind when he starts. Ain’t nothin’ but hot air.”

Nash put his hat back on while lookin’ at Patrick. “Nothing but hot air, huh?”

Patrick scoffed. “We drinkin’ or are you two ladies gonna keep yappin’?”

“Like I won’t drink you under the table.” LeeAnne smacked the back of Patrick’s head. “C’mon first rounds on me.”

Havin’ grown up with LeeAnne, Patrick should’ve known better than to try and match her drink for drink.

LeeAnne could hold her liquor better than most men three times her size.

By the time they were ready to leave, Patrick was trippin’ over his own feet, and Nash wasn’t much better off.

There was no way they were gonna make it back to the ranch tonight.

Luckily, he’d taken care of the majority of the chores before he left to pick up Nash.

So instead of goin’ back to the ranch, they ended up at the bed and breakfast down the street from The Broken Spoke.

Patrick tried to recall how they managed to check in, but he couldn’t.

What he did know though, was the bed he was layin’ in was mighty comfortable, and he was awfully tired after all that drinking.

His whole body from head to toe was warm and heavy.

He wondered if Nash ran hot when he drank.

At the thought of Nash, Patrick realized he didn’t know where the li’l blond sumbitch had gone.

His head lulled to the left, and there Nash was, eyes closed and chest risin’ and fallin’ with slow, steady breathes.

Layin’ as close as they were, Patrick could make out all the fine features he couldn’t see earlier.

A faint scar on Nash’s right eyebrow, what looked to be old piercin’ holes in his ear, faint blond stubble across his jawline.

Patrick felt the urge to run his fingers across Nash’s jaw.

“Some starin’ problem you got, Baby.” Nash’s slurred words brought a new kind of heat to Patrick’s face. Nash turned his head, eyes barely opened when he looked at Patrick. A tired smirk graced Nash’s lips. “You sure you ain’t that way?”

“I…” Patrick swallowed hard, tongue tied in a fat knot.

Nash rolled onto his side then grabbed Patrick’s chin. “You blush such…” Nash shuffled close enough Patrick could feel the heat radiatin’ from his body. “…a pretty color, Baby.”

Whiskey soaked breath fanned across Patrick’s lips. His insides twisted up real tight. His dick, usually useless after three glasses of whiskey, stirred in his jeans. “Don’t call me that,” he protested weakly.

“Why?” Nash was so close Patrick could practically taste the Pall Mall Reds he’d smoked earlier. “‘Fraid you like it too much?”

Drinkin’ did a lot of things to Patrick, made him reckless and stupid at times.

He’d earned himself plenty of black eyes because he didn’t stop running his mouth when he should’ve.

He didn’t think he was gonna get a black eye with Nash though, and a weak little yes slipped out.

Nash ran his thumb across Patrick’s bottom lip then patted his cheek. “If only you were in your right mind.”

Nash sluggishly got out of bed and shuffled over to the other one that Patrick hadn’t noticed.

He watched Nash shed his clothes piece by piece: jack, boots, long sleeve shirt.

His jeans dropped to the floor with a soft thud, revealing skin tight boxers beneath.

His ass looked like a ripe peach wrapped in spandex—or whatever the hell those boxers were made outta.

Patrick’s cock strained painfully against the zipper of his jeans.

Nash sat something on the nightstand, a silver ring—his wedding ring.

Somethin’ vicious snaked through Patrick at the reminder that Nash was a married man, maybe not a faithful one, but a married one nonetheless.

And Patrick was layin’ there all pathetic, his dick harder than it had ever been for any woman.

He rolled over, wishing he had whiskey dick.