Page 77 of Strike Zone

“I asked for a tour. He tried to warn me but I insisted he come with me,” I say. Jack doesn’t correct me. I don’t blame him as I stare down the firing squad.

“Birdie, stop lying.” Wyatt climbs down the ladder that’s propped up against the barn. He’s shirtless and wearing a backwards hat. It’s a double whammy and has me salivating. He looks like he’s doused himself in oil. His skin is so slicked down with sweat.

“I’m not. I did ask for a tour.” Wyatt stands in front of me. His bare chest in my face. “Can you put your shirt on, please?”

“Nah, it’s too hot,” he says, fanning himself. I’d have to agree with him. I’m feeling particularly warm at the moment. “Keep looking at me like that and I’m going to give you a tour of the back of the barn,” he whispers in my ear. Thankfully no one else is paying attention to us. They are too busy reminding Jack about the danger of him riding on the four wheelers.

“I didn’t know he wasn’t allowed to ride on them.”

“It’s not that he can’t do it. We try to keep him from doing it. He almost lost his leg in a tractor accident. If he hurts his leg again, they won’t be able to save it a second time. We try to avoid any situations where that’s a possibility.”

“Are they that dangerous?” The four wheeler felt powerful, but not any different from a car.

“It’s the land. It can be uneven and rocky. You can easily flip or roll if you aren’t careful. Especially if you come in hot the way you did.”

My head drops to the ground. “I should have stayed at the house,” I murmur. He tilts my chin up.

“You didn’t come here to stay inside all day. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

“Don’t you need to finish?”

“They can handle the rest.” He holds out his hand and I grab it. He smiles. Stupid dimples. “Keys, birdie.”

“I wanted to drive.” I pout.

“I don’t think so, Evil Knievel.” He ushers me back toward the vehicle. “I’m going to finish Wren’s tour. Can you or Mason get Dad back home?” he asks and tosses his shirt back on. The fabric immediately sticks to his skin like glue.

“Yeah. We can do that,” Ford says. He narrows his eyes on the perpetrator. Jack gives me a wink before turning his attention back to his sons.

Wyatt starts up the engine and we drive down a different dirt path that takes us deeper into the empty green pastures. We drive past hay fields for miles. He points to the barns and animals in the distance closer to the main house. His rough, warm palm lands on my thigh, startling me. Leisurely he pulls at the loose threads on the hem of my shorts. It feels even better than I imagined having his hand on my thigh while we drive around. Does he realize how much he’s turning me on right now?

“Do you want to see the animals?”

“I’m not sure. Animals don’t usually like me very much.”

His smile disarms me. “I doubt that. I bet you’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand in no time.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so,” he says, as if it’s knowledge gained from personal experience. That sends a flutter through my belly. What is that feeling?

We pull to a stop behind another barn-like building. This barn isn’t as big as the one at the back of the property that’s for the horses. Wyatt informs me this is where the goats are pinned when they aren’t grazing somewhere on the farm.

“We’re going inside?” I ask as he opens the gate.

“They’re friendly. I promise. You’ll be fine.”

Hesitantly, I enter the fenced area keeping my eyes out for any goats. I expected to see an empty patch of grass for the goats to run around and graze. Instead, they have a playground. There are several different apparatuses for the goats to jump and play on.

“How many goats do you have?” I spot two sitting on a swinging platform.

“Six,” he says from inside the barn. He grabs a bucket from the top shelf and passes it to me.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Hold it out. This is how to get them to like you,” he says, then whistles. Goats begin to swarm me from every side.

“Wyatt!” I scream as they take turns digging their heads into the bucket. “Stop that.” I scold a little white goat who starts chewing on my shorts. “Take your turn,” I say to another goat that tries to headbutt his way to the bucket.

---