“But what if it wasn’t?” Betsy questions. “What if you could guarantee you’d see him again? Would you call him then?”
Oh my god. Where is this even coming from? Just because I’m not dating a new guy every week doesn’t mean something’s wrong with me. I’m just not interested in being hurt or getting attached, let alone investing my time in someone of his status.
I’m a thirty-year-old with daddy issues.
It’s pathetic. I realize that.
“Even if I did see him again, it would mean nothing. I would still turn him down and still avoid him at all costs. Sleep with him? Maybe I’d consider it. But that shouldhave been done the first time we met. I don’t do second rounds withanyguy, and you know that. It’s nothing personal. But seeing as how I’ve already met Stetson while I wasworkingfor him, that would put us on more of an acquaintance level, and to me, that’s no longer strangers. So actually, no, I wouldn’t call him or fuck him.”
“Okay, okay,” Betsy mutters, hands raised in surrender. “I’ll lay off. I just wanted to make sure you gave it some more thought. Maybe an older man is the way to go, babe. These young guys can’t find a clit anyway.”
She’s not wrong about that.
“Right now, I just need to focus on getting my mom’s house fixed and stashing away as much cash as possible. In the meantime, if I have to fuck the young ones to get off, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
“You can have the Jo bro,” Betsy mumbles.
“Fair enough,” Kimber chants as the server hands us our wine glasses. “To Cove.” She raises her glass. “May the cash pour in, and the inexperienced dicks perform well.”
“Cheers!”
CHAPTER FOUR
stetson
“Mustard. Come on. Let’s eat.”
The clacking of nails across the old pine floors sounds off as Mustard, my German short-haired pointer, beelines in my direction, almost knocking me off my feet.
“Whoa. You hungry, boy?” I ask, ruffling his floppy ears. His muscular frame wiggles in place, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Thought so,” I say. “Sit, Mustard. Now, stay.” I hold up my hand, and he knows the drill. I’ve trained him to be obedient.
I pop open the lid to the container on the floor and scoop up a hearty helping of dog food with the shovel. Drool makes its way to the hardwood, and one quick glance at Mustard’s face sees him panting, fighting to remain calm.
I chuckle before filling his bowl to the brim, knowing it’ll be gone in seconds. I don’t say the word, just wait. Mustard’s sights shift to mine as he anticipates my cue to eat.
His liver coat of brown and white speckled spots covershis body with a softness that only comes with his breed. But unlike most pointers of his shade, Mustard has a unique yellow, almost creamy colored spot near his rear. It’s a perfectly sized circle and just one of the many things that make him so unique. It’s also why my niece named him Mustard.
That and the fact that he can hunt down a wild hog in less than thirty seconds. It’s incredible to watch.
Deciding he’s been patient enough, I point toward his food bowl and mutter the word he’s been waiting to hear. “Okay.”
And he charges it, scarfing down every last bit until there’s nothing left. I refill his water bowl while he laps up the last bits, replacing it on the elevated food stand.
“That’s a good boy.” I rub his back before grabbing my abandoned cup of coffee off the counter and making my way to the front porch.
It’s nearly seven in the morning, and the sun is just starting to rise in Waterstone. This is my favorite time to be outside. When the world is quiet, the animals are still, and no one is asking anything of me.
It’s the only time of day I truly feel at peace. I take a seat in the rocking chair I built with my pops years ago and soak in everything I’ve worked hard for.
The mid-century ranch home I built by hand when I leased my first few thousand acres. I remember being in my early thirties and telling myself I would build a life out here. And I’ve done just that. The frame of the home is wide with a low-pitched roof and a porch that wraps around the entire house. It’s got hand-carved white siding with pine wood pillars along the porch. Nothing super fancy and intricate, but enough for me.
Just me.
I’ve got a barn and horse stable to the left with apasture for the horses to roam, and barrels for training if need be. There’s a workhouse just past the greenhouse out back for my ranch hands, but given it’s a Saturday, I gave them all the weekend off and encouraged them to go be with their families.
They typically work seven days on. Can’t get those country boys to take a rest day for nothing.
