"And I’ve been shoveling shit for an hour. Sweating through my shirt." He shrugged, matter-of-fact, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving a fresh streak of grime. "So I took it off. Problem?"
A dozen smartass answers crowded my brain, but they all stuck. "No. Just—" I waved a hand at him, the barn, the whole ridiculous situation. "We ain’t even halfway through mornin’ chores and you’re already strippin’ down. What, you plannin’ to go full caveman by lunch?"
He grinned—that cocky, lopsided thing that used to get him out of trouble at twelve. "Would that distract the horses, boss?"
"It’d distract the flies," I shot back, turning away before I had to look at the way sweat tracked down his side. "Pants stay on. Get back to it, princess."
"Yes, ma'am."
The "ma'am" landed weird. Polite, but with an edge that made me think of twelve-year-old Beau calling me "ma'am" after I yanked him out of a horse stall for the third time. Shouldn’t have stuck. Didn’t.
"How’s this?" he asked a few minutes later, kicking at a corner I’d told him to clean up.
I blinked, refocusing on the actual stall instead of... whatever that was. "Yeah. That’s... good enough."
He flashed a real grin this time—not the polished Dallas charm, but something brighter, crinkling his eyes. Made him look younger. Almost like the kid who’d once tried to "help" me feed the chickens and ended up running from a feisty hen with a fistful of corn.
"Don’t get cocky," I said. "Two more stalls."
But he’d leveled up. No more flinching at the smell. No gingerly tool-handling like it was radioactive. Just work. Steady, determined work. Like he actually gave a damn about getting it right.
That part threw me more than the shirtlessness.
By the last stall, Beau looked like he’d lost a fight with a manure monster and barely escaped. Dirt-smeared, sweat-drenched, breathing like he’d run a marathon in flip-flops. But his eyes had that spark—alive, surprised at himself.
He was flagging, though. Scoops slowing, shoulders drooping.
"You gonna live?" I asked, pitching in on the final pile before he face-planted.
"I’m fine," he wheezed. His body language screamed liar. He sagged against the wall, chest heaving. "How do you... do this. Every day?"
"Practice. Started young, so my muscles don’t revolt." I nodded at his form. "You’re killin’ your arms. Use your legs—wider stance, drive from the hips."
He watched me demo, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. Copied it—better, but wobbly. Pushed through anyway.
We dumped the last wheelbarrow on the manure pile. He bent over, hands on knees, sucking air like a fish on dry land.
"I did it," he panted, half-laughing, half-disbelieving.
"You did." I grabbed a water bottle from the cooler and tossed it over. "Not bad for a first-timer, princess."
He caught it, chugged half, then—because apparently boundaries were optional—poured the rest over his head. Water sluiced down his face, neck, chest, carving clean tracks through the grime. He raked a hand through his sopping hair, shaking it out like a dog.
I stared at a spot on the ground. Professional. Supervising.
"What’s next?" he asked, wiping his eyes. Actual enthusiasm under the wheeze.
"Feedin’. Waterin’. Movin’ fence posts."
He groaned, tipping his head back, but grinned through it. "You’re evil."
"If I wanted you dead, there’s quicker ways." I jerked my head toward the feed room. "Just makin’ you useful."
"Is it working?"
I glanced back. Dripping wet, dirt-streaked, grinning like an idiot. Looked more like the Beau from twelve years ago than the polished suit from last night—messy, triumphant, real.
"Ask me in a week."
