Chapter Seven
But Does He Smell Like Cow Shit?
“ H e did what?” Abby screeches, her messy, dark bun bouncing as she leans closer to the screen. “Say that again. Slowly .”
“No, thanks.” I scoff, shooting her a glare. “I’d rather forget the entire situation instead.”
“Ah.” She nods. “So we’re still firmly planted in the land of denial. Got it.” She gives me a big thumbs-up. “Super healthy of you, babes.”
“I know, right?” I agree, propping my phone up on a stack of books.
Abby sticks her tongue out at me. I flip her off. She cackles.
Shifting from the couch to the entryway of my temporary home, I grab the next cardboard box, one of far too many stacked against the wall. Unpacking feels like some kind of personal torture to me. I don’t even own that much, but somehow, every box I open feels like it's multiplying behind my back.
“But seriously,” Abby begs, lip jutting out in a dramatic pout.
“Please, just at least describe the manhandling to me. In great detail, leave nothing out. I promise I won’t ask you anything else.
And if I go off camera and on mute, just ignore me, but don’t stop talking about that sexy cowboy of yours. ”
“My life is not diddle-material, Abigail,” I shoot back, tugging the tape off the next box. “And he is not my cowboy. He’s a client.”
Just thinking about Kade Archer and his stupid arms and giant man-paws sends a full-body shiver up my spine. The man is far too attractive for his own good, and way too cocky for everyone else’s.
“Whatever.” She huffs, flopping dramatically onto her bed. “Tell me and I’ll be your best—”
“You already are,” I interrupt.
Abby groans, long and loud. “Stop being such a prude.”
“You can’t goad me into talking.”
“You’re withholding vital information,” she accuses, propping her chin on her fist. “And we promised never to keep secrets from each other.” Her voice dips as she hits me with a wounded look that smacks me right in the chest. “Are you seriously going to go back on our unbreakable vow of friendship so soon after abandoning me?”
I gape at her, bubble-wrapped frying pan suspended mid-air. “Low blow, witchling.”
“Sorry, ginger tits.” She’s not. “Did it work, though?”
Of course it did.
I blow out a breath and glare up at the popcorn ceiling, already resigned to telling her all the gory details. Truth be told, I’m dying to talk about it. But talking about it will make it feel like it’s a thing , and I’m desperately trying to avoid that.
“Georgie?” Abby coos, clicking her tongue. “Come back to the land of the living. Mama’s waiting.”
“He slapped his hand over my mouth, Abby,” I say—deadpan. “In front of his mother .”
Her eyes go wide with gleeful horror. “Shit just got real. Continue.”
“It was so unprofessional. And rude. Annoying. Chauvinistic. Assholery—”
“One, that’s not a word.” I glare at her, and she grins. “Besides, it sounds hot as hell.”
“He dragged me down the street like a caveman and said—and I quote—‘ If you open your pretty mouth and say one more word, I’ll find a way to shut you up.’”
“Correction. Super hot.” She’s practically panting. “What did you do?”
Grimacing, I shrug. “Called him an asshole, elbowed him in the stomach, and stomped on his foot.”
“Georgia!”
Yeah, that wasn’t my finest moment.
“What was I supposed to do, Abbs? I was working!”
Not really .
I’d just finished my research at the coffee shop, where I’ve been going daily to use their free Wi-Fi. The ambiance is quiet, but not too-quiet, and the coffee is safe for my stomach.
When I ran into Kade, I’d been on my way to check out the bookstore a few shops down, but after everything that happened, I rushed to my car and took off.
Wound up parked in front of Heart Springs Emergency Clinic, and spent an hour debating walking inside under the guise of my job, just so I could poke around and ask questions about past patients.
It was stupid—probably fifty shades of illegal—and only my growling stomach pulled me away before I made a choice I couldn’t take back.
“This is perfect.” Abby beams and claps her hands. “I love this for you so much.”
I groan, tip the box upside down, and start pulling apart the mass of gluten-free baking products to the sound of Abby planning my non-existent wedding.
Despite the midnight, alcohol-soaked decision that led me to finally pursuing Heart Springs after years of waffling, I did do my research—something I’ve learned to rely on ever since I was diagnosed with celiac disease.
There’s no cheat day. No “ just a bite .” Just strict cross-contamination rules and a whole lot of label reading.
That’s why I had to pack all my dedicated products and supplies—the ones I’ve spent years, and way too much money, accumulating. This shit’s expensive.
“So, I’m thinking spring. Small, intimate. Say, a hundred people?”
“A hundred people isn’t intimate.” I cock a brow, watching her write something down. “Are you being serious?”
She cackles and lifts a notebook, showing me a full page of black-inked scribbles.
“Dude, we’ve only met twice! We don’t know each other. He’s rude, impatient, condescending, and he has no clue how to use his big boy words. I’m also ethically bound from being with him.”
“You said you’re only covering. You’ll be off the case soon.” She waggles her brows.
“Just because I’ll be off the case doesn’t make it okay,” I mutter. “There is no future for us, so pick a new dream to hang your tits on.”
“And yet,” she says, voice all sing-songy, “you’re still thinking about how it felt to have his hand over your mouth and his arm wrapped around your waist. Admit it.”
I freeze, a package of King Arthur flour clutched in one hand like a weapon. My cheeks burn so hot, I know she can see my guilt from across the room.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.” She bats her lashes. “Tell me, does he smell good?”
I swallow. Hard .
Because he does smell good—when he’s not soaked in alcohol.
“Oh my god! He smells like leather, doesn’t he? Leather and sweat, with a slight hint of cow shit. It’s masculine as fuck, huh?”
“Cow shit?”
“Of course. All cowboys smell like cow shit. They try to cover it up and shower it off, but it’s in their pores and DNA. The combo—” She kisses her fingers. “Chef's kiss.”
“He’s not a cowboy,” I say automatically. At least, I don’t think he is. “And he smelled like my coffee.”
Actually, Kade smelled fresh, like rain and sunshine, mixed with something spicy.
“Does he live in the country?” I nod as she lifts a finger, counting. “Drive a truck?” I groan, but nod again. Another finger. “Kind of covered in dirt, even though he’s clean?”
I shrug, but she ignores me, flicking up a third digit.
“Here’s the big one.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
“Does he, or does he not, unironically wear cowboy boots with faded jeans that hug his thick thighs and juicy ass?”
My mind zeroes in on the memory of Kade standing in the middle of the sidewalk, sunshine wrapped around his dark, shoulder-length hair—hair that curled in random places and flipped in others, tucked beneath a worn black baseball cap.
Without the shadows of his porch, his beard—full but neatly trimmed—caught the light just right, revealing silver threads woven through the dark. I never thought gray hair would do it for me. But damn if I didn’t nearly drool right there on the spot.
His fitted white T-shirt was covered in a layer of seven-dollar coffee, but that didn’t take away from the way it hugged his barrel chest and biceps.
And the jeans… fuck, yes .
Jeans like that tell a story. The kind that says he knows exactly how to be on his knees.
How to take his time.
How to look up at a woman with those storm-gray eyes and ruin her with nothing more than his mouth, fingers, and a low, gravel-rough “ tell me what you need, darlin’ .”
And God help me, I’d let him.
“Is Georgia Walker present, or has she descended into cowboy-shaped-dick-land?”
“What?” I drop the flour I’d been hugging like a safety blanket, grab my phone, and head to the kitchen. “Did you say something?”
“His jeans…” she drawls, brows high.
“Oh, I, uh—” I clear my throat and barely resist squeezing my thighs together. Am I seriously turned on right now? “You know what? I don’t remember.”
Abby cackles. “You so do. You remember everything. You have a brain like a steel trap and a heart like a puddle. In fact, your heart lives in your heavily-ignored, needy vagina, and now you’re going to pine after him while pretending you hate his guts.”
“I’m not allowed to hate his guts, but I really do,” I mutter, stacking mugs in the cabinet while actively forcing myself to hate Kade’s guts.
I do. I do. I do.
I shift to the next box, this one marked pantry , and grimace. Unlike my previous apartment, this place lacks storage. The cabinets are small, and I’ve already filled most of them with dishes, cookware, and baking stuff.
“You're still unpacking food?” Abby asks, thankfully changing the subject.
I sigh and nod.
“Dude, did you even bring any clothes or toiletries?” She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh, fucking hell, did you bring your sex toys? You’re gonna need them based on your obsession with the cowboy, so I really hope you did.”
“Abby!” I cry, hands flailing. “I am not masturbating to thoughts of him! Holy inappropriate!”
My eyes flick to my bedroom, where my vibrators are stashed.
I couldn’t. Could I?
Just to take the edge off?
No. No.
Bad Georgia.
“You say that now. Wait till that man has you ruining your own panties.” She bites her lip and sighs. “If you really aren’t going to fuck the grumpy cowboy, maybe you should go meet a different one in a bar. Find a way to take the edge off.”
I scoff, but my stomach flips at the idea. “You know I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl.”
“I know, you’re boring,” she whispers petulantly, eying the rows of food I’m organizing. “Wow. You seriously brought everything in your kitchen, didn’t you?”
“I had to.” I wince, holding up a crushed container of pasta. The sight makes my eyes burn. “Aw, shit.”
“What is that?”