Deck the Hores (Right Place, Right Time #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

NANCY

“Terrific,” I huff, looking down to discover I’ve stepped in the biggest cow pat I’ve ever seen.

“Not the most ideal footwear for a livestock barn, princess.” I snap my head toward a guy leaning against a post smirking at me.

“I didn’t intend to come this way,” I mumble, looking back down at my once pristine white Converse, my heart sinking as it slowly turns brown. “And don’t call me princess,” I fire back.

“Duchess? Queen? M’lady?” he asks, stepping closer.

“None of those either.”

The next thing I know, he’s kneeling in front of me, gesturing for me to lift my foot. I comply without much thought, and he wraps his fingers gently around my ankle, guiding my foot toward his knee.

I stand, speechless, as he pulls a rag from his back pocket and begins to wipe the cow shit off my shoe. Or get as much off as possible, seeing how much has seeped through the fabric.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say quietly, making no attempt to pull my foot away.

“Well, I think that one of my girls left that behind, so I kind of feel like I do have to.” He looks up and smiles, something inside me shifts.

Dark blue eyes meet mine. They’re nice and all, but it’s his smile that has butterflies racing to my stomach.

At first glance, this guy looks like he should have the kind of smile that signals to the world that he knows he’s hot. One of those crooked, cocky grins paired with eyes that are just a bit too squinty. But no, his smile transforms his whole face from plain old boring hot to goofy hot.

I can tell he’s the kind of guy that lifts the mood of any room he walks into. Not necessarily a class clown type but someone who finds joy in making others smile. I haven’t felt much like smiling this week, but right now I can’t hold back the one that’s stretching across my face.

“That’s better,” he drawls, and I immediately look down at my shoe, which looks like a watercolor painting done using cow crap.

“Oh no.” He chuckles, setting my foot back on the ground and standing.

“Your shoe is going to need a washing machine and some heavy-duty detergent.” I look up as he leans in.

“I meant the smile was better than the scowl.” He lifts his hand, as if he’s about to show me where exactly that smile is located, but seems to change his mind, dropping it back to his side.

I’m caught off guard by two things. The smell of something fresh and clean. Not at all what you’d expect from a guy who just knelt on a dirty barn floor and wiped shit off your shoe. And the twinge of disappointment I feel because he dropped his hand.

“Can you blame me for scowling? I stepped in cow shit.” I gesture dramatically at my foot.

“I step in cow shit all the time.” He shrugs.

“In regular shoes?” I reply with a bit more snark than I intend.

“Well, I generally know when I’m going to be around cow shit, so I tend to stick to appropriate footwear.” He points at his boots, which are hideously appropriate.

“Like I said, I hadn’t intended on coming this way.”

“Didn’t the smell clue you in? That and the fact you’re at an agricultural fair?”

He has me there, but I can’t tell him that without going into the fact I was distracted, and he’s the type who will want to know why I was distracted.

And while I’m not normally the type to spill things to a stranger, I can sense that I’d tell him just about anything.

That smile of his is a key that will unlock all my inner thoughts and have them spilling out onto the shit-stained floor beneath my feet.

So, the word “distracted” will not be leaving my mouth.

“I spend my days in a horse barn,” I mumble. “My sense of smell isn’t exactly trustworthy.”

“Now this”—he gestures up and down my body—“makes sense.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you aren’t spending your days in a cow barn.” He pauses for a minute and squints down at me. “Or any other kind of livestock barn. But a horse barn, that makes sense.”

I know exactly what he’s implying. He thinks I’m some rich snob that can’t handle myself in a true country setting. Farmer Joe here thinks I don’t know my way around some piles of shit and massive milk producers. And he’d be right about half of that.

“Thanks for the unsolicited judgment. I don’t get enough of that in the show ring,” I reply, words clipped as I step around his broad frame.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he claims, matching his stride with mine.

“You should tell that to your tone then.” I glare over at him only to realize his shoulder is at eye level and he likely didn’t even notice. “Why are you following me?”

“I… well,” he stammers, and I stop dead.

“Well, what?” I know I’m being all kinds of rude right now, but I don’t know this man, and it’s not like I’ll see him again.

He looks back in the direction we came from and shrugs. “I don’t know. You just started walking away, and then I was walking with you.”

“Listen, farmer Joe, I’m going to go that way”—I point toward the end of the barn where various vendors have set up shop—“so I don’t have to worry about stepping in any more cow shit.

And you are going to stay here with your overalls and rubber boot-clad kin.

” I turn and stomp toward the exit like the snob I claim not to be.

“My name isn’t Joe,” he calls after me. “It’s Karl.”

As if I care in the least.

“Where the hell have you been?” My younger sister, Celeste, hisses at me when I finally enter the tack shop booth she asked me to meet her at. “And why do you smell like a barnyard?” She waves her hand dramatically in my direction.

“I do not,” I argue, trying and failing to discreetly smell myself.

“You do,” she insists, her scowl deepening when she looks down and sees the state of my shoe. “Nancy, seriously?” She rolls her eyes and beckons me to follow her with a flick of her wrist.

“Why do you need a new saddle anyway? The one you’re using on Figaro is less than a year old.

” My sister and I may have been raised the same way, but for some reason, I’ve never been one to need new things at a moment's notice.

While Celeste would rather replace things instead of having them washed or repaired.

Definitely a trait from our mother that skipped right over me, just like her nerves of steel.

“Ian dropped it two weeks ago, and the tree is weak now. Didn’t you hear it this morning?” I didn’t, probably because it’s all in her head. “This is the one.” She stops beside a chocolate Voltaire saddle that screams expensive and pulls out our father’s credit card.

“Why did you need me to be here with you if you’ve already chosen which one?”

“I need someone to take it back to the barn. I’m going to meet the girls for dinner before the event.” Of course she is.

“What if I had plans?”

She looks back at me, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched high. “Nancy, do you have plans?” she asks, her tone mockingly sweet.

Screw her.

“No,” I admit quietly.

“See.” She hands the card over to the cashier, who passes it through the machine. “My sister will sign for it. I’ve got somewhere to be,” she declares without acknowledging the person she’s talking to.

Is that how I look when I talk to people who aren’t from my social circle? Dismissive and rude?

Five minutes and twenty-eight hundred dollars later, I’m walking back to the barn and replaying the last half hour.

It dawns on me that despite stepping in cow shit and possibly ruining a shoe, my interaction with Karl has been the best part of my week, perhaps month.

And instead of being polite and thankful for his help, I’d turned my Celeste function up to ten. I wish I didn’t even have that setting.

I decide that after I get the saddle stowed away, I’ll change into my barn-appropriate boots and head back down to the livestock barn. The least I can do is apologize for how rude I was to someone just trying to be nice.