She was the highlight of my day.
Hell, maybe even my life.
But did she feel the same?
Was it too soon?
It had to be too soon.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed the wheelbarrow into the garage and mentally prepared myself to carry all the fucking firewood inside.
Maybe I should take an edible first.
Put some music on and let myself mellow out before doing the part of lumberjacking that I despised.
I laughed at myself again.
Lumberjacking.
I’d have to ask Pam if the series used that term. If not, it was a missed opportunity.
I gave my hooves a quick wipe with the towel I kept hanging in the garage, then clopped up the wooden steps and across the polished concrete that covered the ground floor. I scanned my record collection, hoping to find something with a steady beat that would allow me to find a groove while performing this monotonous task.
There was only one band who would do the trick.
Led Zeppelin.
While I had a lot of original pressings that I’d hunted down over the years—and paid an extravagant amount of money for—I decided on a more recent compilation record of the band’s greatest hits.
Robert Plant’s voice bellowed from the surround sound, the noise bouncing off of the concrete and echoing throughout the house. It was loud, it was rock and roll. It was just how I liked it.
Bopping my horns to the beat of the music, I rummaged through the stash drawer in my kitchen, trying to figure out what I was in the mood for. When you worked for a cannabis company, these things were infinitely more difficult.
What concentration of THC did I want?
Which strain?
What ratio of THC to CBD?
I had as many options as a dispensary.
Ultimately, I decided to go with something middle-of-the-road. I had things to do—and I didn’t want to zonk myself out and miss a text or phone call from Pam.
I popped the gummy into my mouth, giving it a good chew before I swallowed it.
Shit.
Regardless of the formula, they all had that funky weed aftertaste.
With about thirty minutes to kill until the edible kicked in, I threw myself onto the couch with my hooves propped over the armrest and checked the time on my phone. Factoring in the time difference, Pam should be finishing up her yoga class any time now—meaning she would hopefully give me a call not long after that.
I opened up our text conversation and scrolled to the screen where I could see all the pictures we’d exchanged over the past month. I’d sent her photos of beautiful mountain sunrises, my deck coated in a heavy layer of snow, and some self-indulgent selfies with my chest hair showing—just because I knew she liked it.
In return, she’d sent me pictures of Remi, her progress on her knitting projects, and of course, some selfies. The one of her in her underwear nearly killed me.
How was it that a woman like her had a husband who never went down on her? Never treated her the way she deserved to be treated?
“Fuck,” I groaned and rubbed my temples.
