Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Geraldine
I woke up to the sun sneaking through the curtains, the room warm and quiet, and stretched out under the quilt, my muscles still loose from last night on the couch with Damian.
His hand in mine and his shoulder solid under my head stuck with me more than I expected, and I couldn’t shake the little buzz it left behind.
Downstairs, the house felt empty without Cosmo and Christian, just the faint clatter of Damian moving around in the kitchen.
I pulled on jeans and a faded t-shirt and tied my hair up in a messy bun, and headed down, my bare feet quiet on the steps.
He was at the sink and rinsing a mug, his back to me, and I leaned against the counter and watched him for a second before speaking.
“Morning,” I said, and grabbed a banana from the bowl on the table. “You’re up early again.”
“Always,” he said and turned and wiped his hands on a towel. “Ranch doesn’t sleep. You?”
“I couldn’t stay in bed,” I said, and peeled the banana and took a bite. “It’s too quiet without those two clowns. Speaking of, who’s handling the animals with Christian gone?”
“Me,” he said and shrugged, and tossed the towel over his shoulder. “Same as always.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said and shook my head, and swallowed. “You’re already buried in paperwork and fence checks. Let me help. We should clean the horses today. Christian’s not here, and I’ve done it before.”
He raised an eyebrow and leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms. “You? Cleaning horses?”
“Yeah, me,” I said and smirked and tossed the peel in the trash. “I’m not just a pretty face. I helped Christian the other day and got soaked, but managed. Come on, you need the backup.”
“I’ve got it,” he said and pushed off the counter and headed for the door. “You don’t need to mess with that.”
“Too late,” I said, and followed him and grabbed my boots from the porch. “I’m insisting. You’re stuck with me, so let’s go.”
He sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and he didn’t argue as I slipped my boots on and trailed him to the barn.
The air outside was crisp, the yard still damp from yesterday, and the horses nickered as we stepped inside, their heads poked over the stalls.
Dusty and Rusty were waiting, their coats dusty from rolling in the paddock, and I grabbed a sponge from the bucket while Damian pulled the hose off the wall.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked and turned on the water and tested it with his hand. “It’s messy work.”
“Positive,” I said, and dunked the sponge in a soapy bucket. “I’m tougher than I look. Where do we start?”
“Rusty,” he said and nodded at the reddish horse. “He’s calmer. Wet him down, then scrub. I’ll handle Dusty.”
“Got it,” I said and took the hose from him and aimed it at Rusty’s flank.
The water hit his coat, and he snorted and flicked his tail, but he stood still as I soaked him.
Damian started on Dusty, his movements quick and practiced, and I glanced over and grinned. “See? Teamwork. You’re lucky I’m here.”
“Lucky’s one word for it,” he said and smirked and hosed Dusty’s legs. “Don’t drown him.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said, and handed him the hose back and picked up the sponge. I scrubbed Rusty’s neck, the soap bubbled up, and he leaned into it, his big eyes half-closed. “He likes me. I’m a horse whisperer now.”
“Sure you are,” Damian said and laughed low, and worked the soap into Dusty’s mane. “You’re barely keeping up.”
“Rude,” I said, and flicked some suds at him and hit his arm. He shook his head, but his grin widened, and he flicked water back and splashed my jeans. “Hey!” I said and laughed and wiped it off. “That’s war, you know.”
“Bring it,” he said and turned the hose on me for a second, a quick burst that soaked my shirt.
I yelped and lunged for the bucket and scooped a handful of soapy water, and tossed it at him.
It hit his chest and dripped down his shirt, and he laughed loud and real and deep, the sound bounced off the barn walls.
“You’re gonna regret that,” he said, and grabbed the hose again and aimed it low so it splashed my boots. I squealed and darted behind Rusty and used him as a shield and peeked out, and grinned.
“Coward,” I said, and lobbed another sponge full of suds and nailed his shoulder. He shook it off and dropped the hose, and charged at me with a handful of hay from the floor. I dodged, but he caught my arm and smeared it across my back, and I laughed so hard I nearly tripped.
“Truce!” I said and held up my hands and was breathless. “We’re supposed to clean them, not us!”
“Too late,” he said and stepped back and wiped his hands on his jeans. His shirt was wet and streaked with hay, and my t-shirt clung to me, soap suds slid down my arms. Rusty snorted like he was judging us, and Dusty flicked her ears and was unimpressed.
“Look at us,” I said, and plucked a piece of hay from his hair and held it up. “We’re a mess.”
“You started it,” he said, and swiped the hay from my fingers, his grin softened. “But yeah, we’re filthy.”
“Worth it,” I said and grabbed the sponge again, and turned back to Rusty. “Let’s finish before they kick us out.”
He nodded and picked up the hose, and we got back to work and rinsed the horses down.
The water mixed with the dirt on us and turned it to mud, and by the time we were done, Rusty and Dusty gleamed, but we looked like we’d rolled in the paddock ourselves.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and left smears, and Damian shook water from his hair, and droplets flew.
“Nice job,” he said and coiled the hose, and glanced at the horses. “They’re cleaner than we are.”
“Team effort,” I said, and bumped his arm with mine and leaving a muddy streak on his sleeve. “Admit it, you had fun.”
“Maybe,” he said and bumped me back, his voice warm. “You’re not bad at this.”
“High praise,” I said and grinned, and stepped closer. “You’re not bad either. We make a good pair.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said, but his eyes crinkled, and he didn’t pull away. We stood there a second, muddy and soaked, the barn quiet except for the horses shifting. “Come on,” he said and jerked his head toward the door. “We need a hose ourselves.”
“Lead the way,” I said and followed him out and grabbed a couple towels from the rack as we went.
Outside, the sun was higher now and warmed the damp yard, and we dropped onto a bench by the barn, the wood creaked under us.
I handed him a towel, and he wiped his face and smeared the mud more than he cleaned it.
“Great,” he said and laughed and held up the dirty towel. “We’re hopeless.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said and scrubbed at my arms, but it was pointless because mud caked my shirt and my jeans, and even my hair. “I’m a masterpiece.”
“A muddy one,” he said, and leaned back and stretched his legs out. “You’re a mess, Geraldine.”
“So are you,” I said, and tossed my towel at him and hit his chest. He caught it and tossed it back, and I laughed and scooted closer. “Guess we’re stuck like this till we shower.”
“Guess so,” he said and looked at me, his grin faded to something softer. “You didn’t have to help, you know.”
“I wanted to,” I said and shrugged, and picked at a spot of mud on my knee. “It’s more fun with you.”
He didn’t say anything and just watched me, and I felt that little buzz again, warm and steady. “You’re something,” he said finally, his voice low, and I smiled and bumped his shoulder again.
“You too,” I said and let my hand rest on his knee, casual but there. “We’re a good team, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said and covered my hand with his, rough and warm. “We are.”
I leaned back beside him, the sun dried the mud on us, and we sat there, dirty and quiet, the horses nickered behind us. It was simple and easy, and I liked it and liked him more than I’d planned.