“Of course.”
He flips back the blanket and stands up, stretching his arms over his head and leaning backward. I stare at his stomach hungrily. The horses could probably wait. It’s not as though they’ll starve. As though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, Marcos lifts his eyebrows at me as he walks around the end of the bed.
“Did you already make coffee?” he asks.
“It’s set on a timer. Early mornings run smoother if you’ve got caffeine waiting for you first thing.”
Marcos follows me down the stairs after we brush our teeth and toss on some clothes. The horses pop their heads over the stall doors and verbalize a morning greeting as they always do. Taking a sip of coffee, I set my mug down and turn to Marcos.
“All right, introductions first.” Pointing them out, I go down the line of stalls and tell him their names. By the end, his eyebrows have nearly been introduced to his hairline and his expression is incredulous. I laugh. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to remember all those.”
I go through the motions of morning chores, Marcos a silent, watchful shadow beside me. Every time I look at him, his expression is so serious, I’m having trouble not kissing him each time I lay eyes on him. Having him here is probably going to shit all over my productivity—it’s going to be impossible to concentrate on anything other than Marcos.
“What?” he asks, when I’ve been staring at him for too long.
“Nothing, sorry. You’re distracting.”
“Right.I’mdistracting.” He rolls his eyes. “As though you don’t know what you’re doing right now.”
He waves a hand from my head to my feet. I look down—I’m already warm enough that my shirt has a small V of sweat forming at the neckline, and the jeans I’m wearing are currently on day three of use. Marcos, eyes on my arms, shakes his head and mutters something in Spanish.
“Are you ready for your surprise?” I ask him, holding my hand out for his. He stares at it for long enough that I think maybe today is a no-go on the touching, but then he puts his palm against mine and I squeeze his fingers in thanks. “Come on.”
I lead him over to the last stall on the left, which I’d been avoiding in an effort to save it for the very end. Shrimp nickers, bobbing her head up and down as we approach. I scratch her forehead, between her eyes, and look at Marcos.
“I’m not getting on that,” he tells me seriously, making me laugh.
“Nope,” I agree. “Marcos, this beauty is Shrimp.”
“I’m sorry—Shrimp? You’re joking.”
“There’s also a Spaghetti and a Turkey running around here. Sometimes we name the horses on an empty stomach.”
Marcos snorts a laugh and reaches tentative fingers out to brush Shrimp’s nose. His expression is wary, and he’s standing far enough away that he has to fully extend his arm to reach her. She’s a gentle mare, so she stands still enough for him that he feels safe to take a step closer.
“She won’t bite,” I tell him, before nodding toward the other end of the barn. “Atlas, however, will. That horse is a dick.”
“Ay dios mío,” he mumbles, getting a little bolder andsliding his hand up Shrimp’s nose. She huffs softly, happy with the attention.
“You’ll have to come just a little bit closer to see your surprise,” I tell him, pushing a hand against Shrimp’s neck to prompt her to step back and away from the door so he can approach. He moves to my side, looking confused.
I lean an elbow against the top of the stall door, and coax him forward with a hand on his back. He’s frowning as he looks down into the stall, gazing at the little brown foal, lying curled up in the bedding. I wait.
“That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Marcos says, sounding almost angry about it. I laugh, watching as he rests both hands on the stall door and leans his chest against it so he can see better.
“Marcos, meet Tuna.”
I drape an arm over the side of the stall and Tuna, who is only a baby, momentarily forgets how to use his limbs and stumbles as he gets up. He comes over to greet us, wobbling on unsteady legs. Less than two weeks old, he’s still in that awkward phase of having far too much leg and not nearly enough control. He pushes his tiny nose against my hand and flicks his tail.
“Oh my god,” Marcos says, shoulder pressed against mine and head ducked as he watches. “How old is it? She?”
“He,” I correct. “And only a couple of weeks. He was a late baby. Here, do you want to touch him?”
“Can I?” he asks desperately. I pull my hand away from where Tuna is testing whether my fingers are edible or not, and wrap them around Marcos’ wrist instead. Bringing his hand down the way mine was before, I let him go. Immediately, Tuna presses his nose to the back of Marcos’ hand, snuffling softly.
“He just needs to smell you,” I tell him. “And of course you can touch him. Want to go in?”
“Insidethere?” Marcos asks incredulously, looking at the stall. “What if…what if Shrimp doesn’t want us around Tuna? God, Nate, these names are fucking ridiculous.”
