Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Foster kept talking. “Meanwhile, what? He’s going to live with you in that tiny shoebox of yours? Where’s he gonna sleep?”
I froze. My brain had been so full of things I hadn’t really stopped to think about the logistics of it. “I… I guess I thought one of us would sleep on the sofa?”
He said what we both knew. “It’s a love seat. Definitely not long enough for either of you.”
I cleared my throat. “We’ll figure it out.”
He got that knowing grin on his face again. “I think it would be best to share the bed, frankly.”
“That’s not happening. And can you mind your own business?” I snapped. “Pastor Kincaid warned me there was a gay agenda. I’m starting to think he was right.”
Foster’s laugh filled the barn, and I couldn’t help chuckling, too. He always did have a way of hassling me into a better mood, even when I strongly resisted.
His eyes sparkled. “Let that man teach you a thing or two, Waylon. Might as well get some fringe benefits while you’re married to him. I know I would.”
I stopped laughing and narrowed my eyes at him. “Stop thinking about fucking my husband.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his duty belt sitting firmly over his narrow hips. “Why don’t you give me one good reason I can’t hook up with him. He’s a beautiful gay man, Way. We don’t get too many of those around here.”
My stomach tumbled uncomfortably. “Because… someone could find out.”
He lifted his chin. “You sure there’s no other reason?”
I stared at him, clamping my teeth together to keep from admitting the truth. But he’d always been able to outlast me in the waiting game.
“Fine!” I cried, throwing my hands up and accidentally startling the mare into hopping sideways. “Fine, do not put your fucking hands on him because he is mine, okay? That make you feel better? The stupid caveman thing?”
His easy grin returned, and he unfolded his arms to rub his hands together in satisfaction. “Sooo much better. Yes it does. It does, indeed.”
I glared at him while I attached the mare’s lead to a hook across the aisle so I could muck her stall.
Foster stepped up and rubbed her nose. “Score one for the Gay Agenda, sweet girl,” he murmured at her. “It truly does take a village, doesn’t it?”
“I hate you,” I called over my shoulder as I started shoveling the shit.
His laughter and the familiar scents and sounds of the barn relaxed me. Foster continued talking to the mare while I cleaned the stall. Memories of all the times we’d spent together on the ranch growing up flitted in and out of my mind while I listened to him coo and tease the horses in nearby stalls. He was a good friend. The best. And I trusted him more than anyone.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” I finally asked as I approached the mare to return her to her stall.
Foster hesitated. “Yeah, but not for the reason you think.”
“What reason do I think?”
“You think you’re doing it to keep the drama down. It’s not. Sure, instead of having drunk Vegas marriage drama, you have surprised gay marriage drama. Still drama. Still going to be what everyone is talking about in town for a while. The difference is when you two finally do get divorced, the drama will get a nice big second wave, and you’ll be at the center of it again. Will the timing be better next time around?” He shrugged. “Maybe. But with you, there’s always something. Right now, you’re postponing it until after AdventureSmash because you’re so busy. But when you land the GrandSmash deal for next year, you’re going to be busy working on that.”
He wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t like I could change it now. “And what’s the real reason you think I’m doing the right thing?”
He studied me for a moment before pulling in a deep breath. “Way… you were due for a little excitement. No… that’s not quite right. A shake-up. You’ve always tried to keep everything just so, like the way you used to store your Matchbox cars in that plastic box with the little dividers. You had a system. Sports cars on this row, antique ones on that row, trucks at the bottom, that kind of thing. You’ve always been like that. And you try to run the ranch and the town exactly the same way.”
Foster’s big hands came up in front of him to keep me from explaining that my way was clearly the right way to run things. Nobody could argue with that.
“Yeah, I get it,” he continued. “We want an organized mayor. Absolutely. You’re responsible, and that’s a good thing. Hell, it’s a great thing. But you’re so busy keeping your cars in little divided sections that you never take the time to drive them.” He lifted an eyebrow as if that was supposed to make his point clear.