Chapter 12
Wayne isn’t happy.
And why would he be? Besides the fact that Petunia tried to bite him, it turns out I’m not very good at painting a pig—I got all kinds of black paint on the white sections—or boning the legs, which, to both my relief and my disappointment, is apparently just brushing and whitening the hair on his legs.
But that’s not what he’s currently displeased with.
At the moment, he’s glowering at me from across the ring because I’m also not watching the judge (obviously Wayne for now) the right way.
Apparently, the right way to watch the judge is to stare at him like he’s the last doughnut in the break room and I’ve been on a diet for a week.
Wayne demonstrates. It’s…unnerving.
“I feel like I’m staring,” I complain as we try it again.
“That’s what you’re supposed to do!”
“It feels weird.”
“Believe me, not staring at the judge looks weird at a pig show.” He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “We really need to do something about his weight. Have you tried giving him beer?”
“We don’t really have that kind of relationship, Wayne,” I quip, tap-tap-tapping the switch lightly against Petunia’s side. You know what they say—a tap a day keeps thoughts of boning away.
That’s obviously a joke. It definitely doesn’t work. I’ve been thinking about boning for nearly an hour now.
“Beer can help. And they love beer. My dad uses it all the time.”
We do another lap around, and I do my best to keep my eyes on Wayne. But that just creates a new problem.
“Head up! Head up!” Wayne says, his voice reedy and shrill. “Don’t let him put his head down like that.”
“But how am I supposed to make sure his head is up if I’m busy watching you?” I grumble.
“Stubborn pig?” a female voice asks from outside the ring, and I make the cardinal sin of taking my eyes off Wayne to see Dani leaning against the railing.
“Sally!” Wayne bellows. “Eyes on me! And keep his head up!”
“The most stubborn,” I say. Because the thing is, my pig isn’t all pig. He’s mostly human. He knows he’s supposed to keep his head up. Unlike all these other pigs, he understands what we’re saying. He could easily just keep his head up so I wouldn’t have to keep tapping his chin with the switch.
And yet here we are. Getting yelled at by a preteen.
“My pig’s super stubborn too,” she says, a pair of big gold hoop earrings dancing beside her face. “Any tips for how to break a stubborn pig?” she called to Wayne.
“I’d like to break my stubborn pig,” I say, just loudly enough for Grayson to hear.
When he turns to look back at me, the look on his face is definitely not contrite. I’d call it smug.
Despite the fact that I—or the MBI, at least—is paying for his time, Wayne can’t resist delivering lectures on pig behavior to other people who are super into pigs. He drifts over to talk to Dani, and I’m left to stand there, practically melting in the dense heat of the show barn.
I kinda wish I’d hosed myself down when I had the chance.
The day has warmed up quite a bit since I got dressed this morning.
I wish I’d thought to wear shorts, but at least I have a cami on under the long-sleeve button-up I’d thought looked farm chic enough for Sally to wear.
Leaning the switch against my leg, I unbutton my shirt and strip it off, enjoying the momentary relief of air—even the hot, still air inside the barn—washing over my bare arms.
“Yes!” Wayne shouts. “That’s it exactly! Just like that!”
I’m totally confused until I realize Wayne isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at my pig.
Who has his head up.
Watching me, his mouth slightly open.
I look down, certain that I’m covered in whatever is still caked on the back of Wayne’s pants or something along those lines, but all I see is the thin white cami clinging to my…
Oh.
You know that scene in every rom-com from the early aughts where the heroine gets all dolled up for the prom, or the big dance, or the interview for her dream job, and she walks down the stairs (always down some stairs) and the hero looks up and catches a glimpse of her and he just stares at her with this dazed look on his face?
It’s one of those moments that I think a lot of women fantasize about—just stunning a man into silence by showing up in a slinky dress and no glasses.
Well, I finally have someone looking at me like that.
And it’s a pig.
Honestly, that feels about right.
“If you can just keep his head like that on Friday, you’ll be in great shape,” Wayne says, sparing me nary a glance.
I narrow my eyes at Grayson. “Oh, I think I can get him to keep his head like that.”
Sally wants to win this thing, and if she has to use a little cleavage to get her pig to keep his head up, she’ll do it.
That’s the kind of woman she is. She will dress slutty to win a pig show.
I mean, she actually won’t because the sluttiest thing I have is this cami. But it’s still gratifying that it seems to be working on Grayson.
Shadows flicker over us as a stream of people filter into the barn. People have been going in and out all day, so it surprises me when Wayne says, “Oh, sugar.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s swearing. Or rather, adorably not quite swearing.
He strides forward. “You need to leave,” he says as sternly as his prepubescent voice will allow.
“This is public property,” one of the newcomers says. “We have every right to be here.”
I hurry to catch up with Wayne. “What’s going on?” I ask him.
“Vegans.” He spits the word out with the same contempt my grandmother used to reserve for women who wore tank tops to church.
I survey the intruders, a group of twenty-somethings with glowing skin and boundless idealism.
They hold posters with such original and thoughtful slogans as “Meat is Murder!” and “Pigs Are Friends, Not Food!” One of them, a young man, looks like he’s only there because of the strikingly attractive redhead standing next to him whose ass he keeps checking out.
All in all, they look annoyingly passionate but harmless.
Except one woman standing slightly apart.
She’s older, and like the others, she carries a sign.
Hers, though, is literally just a stick figure of a pig with no words or anything, as though she threw it together at the last second.
Long dark hair frames a thin face, and her dark eyes dart around as though probing every corner of the show barn.
When she looks my way and catches me watching her, she stiffens before her face goes carefully blank.
She’s surveying the barn the same way I did on my first morning. She’s planning something. I can feel it.
Something bumps my leg, and I look down at Grayson. “In the mood for a stakeout tonight?” I ask.
At least I’ll have something to do beside lay in that bed at the hotel and think about how far Grayson could throw those sweatpants if he ripped them off.
Which doesn’t make me feel as good as it should.