Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
GIA
Two days later, the cart I chose at the grocery store had a gimpy wheel.
It made a strangled noise and was missing some plastic to keep it in sync with the other wheels.
On par for the day. Everything had been just a little off.
The sedated horse with the eye ulcer hadn’t gotten drowsy enough for her exam.
Then the work truck needed a jump from my last farm call.
I wanted a bath followed by at least a half hour of ice on my calf where the partially sedated horse caught me with a hoof.
Bone tired, I stared at the list Misty had texted me to pick up. It was an unhinged assortment of foods she thought she might be able to stomach. Olives. Watermelon. String cheese. One specific brand of crackers. Apparently, the others were “too spicy.” And spray whipped cream.
I’d found everything except the whipped cream.
After searching every refrigerated section like I was on a grocery-themed scavenger hunt, I circled the freezer aisle debating whether Cool Whip was close enough when I stopped short at the corner.
Timothy.
Of all places for a man like Timothy Hurst to be, aisle ten was not it. He was nearly chest-deep in the freezer case, frowning at two boxes of waffles like he was diffusing a bomb. One box had waffles shaped like characters from an animated movie. The other had rainbow-colored sprinkles baked in.
His face held the grim intensity of a man choosing life or death. He looked up and visibly relaxed.
He held up both boxes. “Which do you think a toddler would like better?”
I blinked.
Waffles?
“I…” I looked between the boxes. “Honestly, both taste like sweetened cardboard. If you’re aiming for excitement, pick the cartoon waffles.
But plan on using a lot of syrup. If you want to avoid the sugar high and want something edible…
” I pointed toward the boring homestyle waffles still on a shelf. “That one.”
He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the homestyle and tossed it into his cart like I’d saved his life. “You just settled a heated debate in my house.”
“That sounds dramatic for frozen waffles.”
“You haven’t met my kid or my dad.”
“Mason Hurst likes sprinkle waffles?” I had a hard time imagining the elder Hurst even eating waffles. He seemed like a man who ate meat for every meal. Now, imagining a stubborn child that was half Timothy made me smile. She was probably a handful.
“He likes to sprinkle them on himself. He swears it’s better if they’re not baked in, whereas my daughter says they’re better already in the waffle.”
A small helpless laugh escaped me. “Do you know where I can find spray whipped cream?”
His eyebrows lifted beneath the bit of hair hanging over his forehead.
I narrowed my eyes. “Please tell me that your brain did not just put whipped cream on my body.”
He looked almost offended. “Well,” he drawled, “it hadn’t…”
His slow grin spread. “But now that you mention it…” His gaze dipped, wicked amusement flashing in his eyes. “Question is, was your brain generous enough to imagine some on me too, or am I doing all the work here?”
A startled choke-laugh burst out of me as I dragged my eyes down his body, taking in the dark t-shirt tucked into jeans that hung a little low. I’d already checked out the backside and confirmed it still looked just as good as when he walked away the other day after agreeing to buy a tractor.
He leaned casually on his cart. “For the record,” he added, “I’m picturing collarbone. Maybe wrist. Then I’d go…lower…to areas that might enjoy some attention.” His gaze dropped to my chest. “Then it depends on how wild we’re getting.”
That sent me over the edge laughing. The image of him standing in a grocery aisle naked and covered in whipped cream looking deeply inconvenienced by it was the funniest thing I’d thought all week.
“So, what do you really need whipped cream for?” he asked.
I swallowed my last snort of laughter. “Obviously, I need to keep my fridge stocked in case you randomly swing by. You’ll have to bring your own sprinkles, if you can get them away from your dad.”
His mouth twitched. His eyes went bright with trouble.
I enjoyed that look for exactly one second before reality elbowed its way back in. I gestured to the cart. “I’m grabbing stuff for Misty. Her stomach’s a mess right now. This is her short list of things she might be able to keep down.”
He leaned over and pulled out a can of olives, lifting one eyebrow.
“It’s on the list. If she wants olives, she gets olives.”
Then he picked up the chocolate chip cookies and slowly pointed to the bottle of white wine.
I snatched the wine defensively. “That one’s medicinal.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s been a very, very long day. I plan to get slightly drunk, eat cookies, and spend my evening icing my calf where a horse side-kicked me. Then I’ll spend the rest of the night…” I caught myself before adding cleaning up puke. My voice dropped. “Helping Misty.”
“Are you sure your leg is okay?” His gaze dropped to my jeans-clad leg, slow and intent, lingering long enough to make heat creep up my neck. His scrutiny hadn’t been casual. He seemed to be picturing exactly where the hoof had landed and holding himself back from peeling off my clothes to see it.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been kicked,” I said lightly. “Won’t be the last. I’ll get over it.”
His lips flattened. “That’s not comforting.”
The rough edge in his voice caught me off guard. It’d been filled with concern wrapped so tight in irritation it almost sounded angry. At whom, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps, me. Or the horse.
“Better watch out, Rye, or I’ll start to think you care about me.” I gave him a double eyebrow raise.
His expression eased, amusement ghosting across his mouth. “How’d your date go with Deck?”
Something in his tone told me he already knew exactly how it had ended and was enjoying every second of my annoyance.
I pressed my lips together. “Some guy showed up in the middle of it and scared the hell out of him. Deck refused to make eye contact when he said goodbye and practically left skid marks in the parking lot.”
Timothy’s mouth twitched. “Did he now?”
“What did he think of the date when you asked him?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish, except there was a dangerous satisfaction burning in his eyes. “When I dragged him out of bed for work the next morning, he seemed to think…” He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes away from me. “It probably wasn’t a good fit.”
My breath caught a little at dragged him out of bed. Of course he went over to his house first thing. Of course he got the report. This town was basically one giant dysfunctional family with boundary issues.
“Are you planning to go out with Hudson Raynes next?” His amusement cooled.
I wasn’t sure yet. Hud reminded me of my old life with Justin. I’d been burned by marrying one equine vet. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved with another one. So, instead, I said, “You and me need to figure out how to coexist in Vision. I can’t have you detonating every date I go on.”
He made a low sound in his chest—almost a grunt, almost a laugh—but kept staring into his cart like the waffles had suddenly become fascinating.
“You wouldn’t want me ruining your chances if I ran into you with some woman you were into, would you?”
That got him.
His eyes lifted to mine, slow and deliberate. The look in them hit like a strike of lightning straight under my skin.
Oh. That wasn’t hate. That was quite the opposite.
His throat worked hard. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cart until his knuckles went pale. When he spoke, his voice had dropped rough and low enough to curl around my spine. “I hope your leg feels better.”
Then, it seemed his self-preservation won out over whatever wildfire was burning between us. “Whipped cream’s over by the milk.”
He walked away like a man fleeing a fire.