Wayne frowns. “Looking for a prepuce is an unreliable way of sexing piglets,” he says, which officially marks the first time I’ve ever heard those words in that particular order.
“Right. Of course. I was making a joke.”
But Wayne is obviously not in the mood for jokes. “We’re wasting time.” He looks around and grabs what appears to be a very thin riding crop. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Let’s get this over with.”
I stare down at the switch in my hands. Petunia eyes me warily. “What, um…do I hit him with this?”
Wayne’s face gets even stonier. “No, of course not.”
Petunia sighs with relief.
“You tap him. Gently. You’re guiding him, not whipping him. Here, I’ll demonstrate.”
And before either Grayson or I can react, Wayne grabs the switch from me and begins…well,tappingmy pig.
I mean, gently. But it’s still hard to watch a fellow member of a law enforcement-adjacent field get tapped on the butt by a kid who won’t be able to grow a mustache for another few years.
At the first tap, Petunia begrudgingly stomps out of his pen. As Wayne guides him toward the show ring, the pig looks back over his shoulder at me as though to promise that I’ll be sorry for this later.
And I realize I will be.
Sorry that I didn’t record all of this to rewatch later.
Pulling out my phone, I announce, “I’m going to get this all on video so I can go back and watch exactly what you’re doing later.”
And that is the first thing I say all day that Wayne approves of.
CHAPTER 6
By the time I get to my hotel, I’m hot and sweaty and so exhausted that all I want to do is take a shower and then crawl straight into bed.
The hotel’s décor is definitely a unique blend of Americana and pigs, if that’s a thing. Think dark blue wooden stars with red and white borders and a big pig face right in the middle for wall décor. Or a faux-Tiffany chandelier hanging over the small table in one corner of my hotel room, with stained glass pigs frolicking beneath a billowing American flag. Or a coverlet printed to look like a quilt, with blocks of earthy shades of blue and red and cream mixed with blocks of pigs in various sizes and colors.
It would be a perfectly fine hotel room if there weren’t a pig in the one and only bed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, dropping my suitcase as the door to the room swings shut behind me.
“Relaxing after a long day’s work,” Grayson says. He’s lying on his back, arms behind his head, watching what I’m pretty sure isThe Mummyon the tiny TV situated on the oak dresser.
“You’re in my bed.”
“I’m inthebed, yes. Unfortunately, you didn’t book a room with two queens.”
“Because there’s only one person in the room. Why aren’t you in the barn with the other pigs?”
He rolls his head to the side to look at me. “I agreed to go undercover as a pig for the show. But I’m not spending an entire week as a pig. And I’m definitely not sleeping in the barn.”
I would really like to be angry about this violation of my personal space, but there are two things working against me. One, I’m just so freaking tired that working up a good mad feels like too much effort.
But two—and more worrying—is the fact that he appears to be shirtless under the covers. I can see a set of shoulders and a narrow slice of bare chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a shirtless man anywhere outside a mugshot or a cologne commercial, a fact that my body is desperately trying to remind me of.
So I could fight for my room, but that seems like more effort—and a more risky endeavor—than just surrendering it to the pig.
“Fine.” I turn and grab my suitcase. “I’ll just get a different room.”
“Two problems with that. First, who are you going to say you need the room for? You’re here by yourself as far as anyone else knows.”
“I’ll just say I need a room for my pig-showing gear or something. Don’t hockey teams book an extra room because their gear smells so bad they can’t sleep with it?”
