Colt
Whit: No pressure, honestly. If you were serious last night, I know Jonas would love to go fishing with you today.
“Hey, any of you guys got a fishing rod I can borrow for the day?” Still tugging my sleeveless shirt over my head, I stroll into the bunkhouse kitchen, where a group of ranch hands are drinking coffee around the table. “Taking Jonas fishing and I don’t know if he has a rod.”
“He’s even your shadow on your days off now?” Rob snickers into his coffee. “Sure hope his mama’s sucking your dick for all this free babysitting.”
A few of the guys laugh, making jokes about me being a male nanny—manny—and not one of them offers up a fishing rod. I lean on the doorframe, letting Rob’s words hang in the air until the laughter has waned. Poor guy actually thinks he’s funny.
Tracing my fingers along the roughened-up oak doorframe, I say, “For somebody whose only relationship is with his right hand, you’re real fuckin’ worried about what I got going on.”
I ignore whatever bullshit Rob spouts in retaliation and step outside, letting the door click softly closed behind me. It’s warmer and the air feels lighter out here than in the bunkhouse—more sun soaked, less beer drenched.
Though a number of the guys who live there are older than me, I’m really starting to feel too old for this shit. Maybe it’s watching my closest friends and brother all find love or maybe it’s the constant nattering from my mom about finding a nice girl to settle down with.
Thankfully, a quick stop in at the big house is all that’s needed to acquire an extra fishing rod. Arguably, I should’ve gone there in the first place. Neither Austin nor any of the women working in the kitchen batted an eye at my request, and nobody heckled me for hanging out with a kid today.
Besides, what the fuck else was I supposed to do? Not like I could look the ten-year-old in the eye and say, “Sorry, kid. Tough luck, your dad’s apparently a real piece of shit. Not my problem, though.”
My mom would backhand me for screwing over that kid.
And the last thing I ever want to do is disappoint the person who means the absolute world to me.
Not to mention, I have an intimate understanding of Jonas’s situation, since I grew up with a dad who was almost always out of town for rodeos or cowboy work.
We were lucky enough to live in a separate house on my uncle’s farm, so Mom had some help, and I’m sure that’s really what saved her from losing her mind. Because even when Dad was home, he didn’t know how to manage a wife and two kids, and I don’t think he cared enough to want to learn.
Sure, my parents were—and still are—married on paper, but for all intents and purposes, my mom is a single mom. Which is why it wasn’t surprising that she insisted on moving closer to Wells Canyon when my brother, Beau, and I started working at Wells Ranch.
Whit mentioned having her dad and sister to lean on, but I also know her mom is sick, so resources are probably stretched a bit thin.
I couldn’t not offer to take the kid fishing.
I would’ve offered damn near anything when Whit’s eyes met mine—a pair of glassy emeralds filled with so much anguish it made my heart sink.
Betty, the traitor, makes the bold choice to stay behind with Odessa, even after I offer her a puppuccino.
Her loss. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I toss my stuff across the bench and turn the key on my trusty single-cab pickup.
She thunders to life, filling the sweet summer air with diesel exhaust, and I start down the dusty dirt road.
· · ·
While it was warm at the ranch, it’s unbearable in the town of Wells Canyon. Could cook an egg on the hot pavement. An awful day for catching fish, since they’ll all be as close to the cool lake bottom as they can get, but I won’t be the second adult to bail on this kid today.
After three short raps on the black front door, I step back and run a hand through my hair right as Whit appears.
Out of breath and with a few beads of sweat dotting her hairline, she says, “You’re early. Um, Jonas is still getting ready—come in.”
It’s a little after ten a.m. on a Saturday morning, yet I didn’t consider that Whit might not be wearing work-appropriate clothes.
I definitely wasn’t expecting a black sports bra and running shorts that skim the tops of her thighs.
Her hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail, and without makeup on, she’s all freckles and flushed cheeks.
Presumably, my early arrival interrupted her workout.
Whit steps aside to hold the door wider, letting me into the house, before turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she says, “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon after I texted you.”
My jaw sags and I realize I’m fucking panting at the sight of her walking away. I knew she was beautiful. But this…damn. There’s a natural sway of her hips that causes her loose shorts to flutter over her ass, exposing the intimate space where her thighs meet her ass.
I let the front door fall shut, still staring at her ass as she fills a glass of water from the kitchen faucet.
I can’t stand here eye-fucking her forever.
At least, not if I don’t want her to chop my balls off—which I fear she’ll do if she catches me staring.
So I do my best to pick my jaw up off the floor and form a coherent thought in my malfunctioning brain.
“Yeah, I was trying to beat the meat—” That was the coherent thought?! “Heat. I was trying to beat the heat.”
“Your shirt gave that away already.”
My shirt?
I narrow my eyes at her for a second, then glance down at my lucky fishing shirt. I’ve worn it so many times the design has faded, and I genuinely forgot to consider whether it was appropriate before putting it on today.
Master-baiter.
“It’s a fishing joke.” I wince. “The worm on the hook is the bait…. Get it?”
She takes a slow sip of water. “I understand the joke, thanks.”
This woman thinks I’m dumber than a goddamn rock.
Without a second thought, I slip my hands into the arm holes, preparing to turn it inside out and backwards again, when she puts a hand up to stop me.
“It’s fine. Jonas has been in trouble at school more than once for drawing dicks on things. A poorly executed masturbation joke isn’t going to be the thing that corrupts him.”
“Stripper shirt, not good. Masturbating, fine. Noted.” I scribble an imaginary note in the air. “I’ll go through my shirts and make a Whit-approved pile.”
A puff of air blows from her nose, and she leans back against the counter. The move hitches the hem of her shorts up the slightest bit. I allow a quick blink down at her lightly tanned skin before forcing myself to look away.
“Where do you find so many god-awful shirts?” she asks.
“Garage sales, mostly. I go with my mom sometimes—she’s a sucker for a good secondhand find.”
Her eyes skate over me, prickling the skin along my spine. She doesn’t rush to avert her gaze the way I did. Instinctively I straighten my posture, unsure whether to be intimidated or turned on by her assessment.
“Do they come with the sleeves ripped off like that?”
“Nah, this is custom.” I pick at a loose thread on my left shoulder.
I’ve taken scissors or a pocket knife to most of the T-shirts I own, cutting the sleeves off.
On some—like this one—I went so far as to extend the armhole halfway down the torso.
I run warm and like the draft it provides on a hot day. “So much cooler during the summer.”
“So much cooler,” she teases out of the corner of her mouth.
Jonas’s feet clomp down the staircase, pulling my attention away from Whit milliseconds before I get the chance to say anything stupid. He leaps off the third step from the bottom, landing with a heavy thud.
“You have everything you need?” Whit asks him. “Backpack with snacks? Water bottle? Sunscreen? Hat?”
“Yes, Mom.” He rolls his eyes, embarrassment cropping up on the planes of his cheeks. “Can we go now?”
Whit strides across the room, ponytail swishing across her neck, and I give myself one last opportunity to appreciate the curve of her waist, the fit of her short shorts, and her long, lean legs.
She zips the pocket of his backpack shut and gives his head a quick pat. “Have fun.”
He’s already darting out the door before I’ve had the chance to even say hello. Whit watches him bound away with an expression I can’t quite put my finger on—there’s a smile, but it’s muddied by sadness held in the divots forming between her brows.
I clear my throat.
Her attention turns to me. “Thank you for taking him. It means a lot to him.”
“Better than talking to myself all day. Don’t get me wrong—the conversations get interesting. Imagine the reality show Love Island, except I’m the only person there, and I’m at a lake instead of a sandy beach…and none of the women I’m talking to are attracted to me.”
One by one, the stress lines in her expression disappear. And Whit laughs. Whether it’s with me or at me, I don’t care. I want to hear it again. No less than every day.
“You have a pretty laugh,” I say before I can catch myself. “You should do it more often.”
“I laugh a lot, actually. Guess you should try to be funny more often.”
“Oh, ouch.” I clutch my heart, slowly backing away from her front door and toward my pickup. “See? Told you none of the women I talk to are attracted to me.”
Holy smokes, that laugh is even better the second time.
· · ·
Shrugging his backpack off his shoulders, Jonas stares at the glassy lake with a curious expression. “How are we going to fish without a dock or a boat?”
“I was hoping you brought a boat.” My answer’s blunt; my focus is on the rods, tackle box, and cooler I’m attempting to juggle. Sweat pools on my lower back, and I come away from licking my lips with salt on my tongue.
I always forget how gullible kids are. He might think he’s a badass adult in a tiny body, but Jonas is no different. “What? How would I have brought a boat?”