Page 28 of Sweet and Salty

“Walk on, Cree,” I say, breathing deeply to keep my energy neutral. Futility is chasing a naughty donkey. Lucretia Borgia looks up at me, her dark brown eyes untrusting and wary, her tail tucked behind her butt. Sure, she’s fed here at my place, but otherwise she won’t let me do anything else. She needs a bath and a brush, but I can’t do either of those things if she’ll barely let me approach her. I wish Davey were here. Cree would at least look at him. “Whoa, girlfriend. Whoa.”

Cree snorts and growls. There I go again, angering the little donkey. Great going, Laura.

There are so many other things on my plate. I have to make sure the generator has gas in the likely event the power goes out. I have to check through my social media posts after the last decorating video I published and respond to comments. I have to wash my own fricking hair.

Cree glances once at the carrot in my hand then promptly goes back to ignoring me.

Great.

It isn’t like she’s never done this. I can recall at least two separate occasions where she let me halter her. It was after an excessive amount of carrots and cajoling, but still. It happened. I didn’t dream it.

A beat-up truck rumbles into my driveway, and a wave of relief flows through me. Perfect. Cree and I both need a break from this pointless dance that’s going absolutely nowhere.

I climb over the paddock fence and land on the soft grass.

Jesse steps out of the cab, and a traitorous part of my stomach swoons like a twirling ballerina. No man who isn’t a lumberjack or a male model should look that good in a T-shirt. He trimmed his beard so it softens the line of his jaw. The weeks of labor fixing up his cabin have sharpened his muscles into groan-worthy curves.

Or maybe it’s just been a while for me and I’m dealing now with not one, but two, stubborn asses.

“Hi, Laura.” He sticks his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, stretching the fabric of his T-shirt across his chest.

“Hi. What’s up?” Way to go, Laura. I sound almost casual. Is he here because he’s heard the rumor I accidentally started about the two of us dating? At work today, at least two people per hour mentioned it. Trust Chris to be a gigantic toddler blabbermouth. My heart flip-flops several times like it’s auditioning for the Olympics gymnastic team.

In the textbook definition of a nervous gesture, he runs one hand through his sheaf of brown-and-gray-speckled hair, then points a thumb at the back of his truck. “I have some gas for your generator. They said at the store that it’s going to be a bad one. I thought I saw that you have a gennie, and I was already getting some gas for myself.” He shakes his head.

His entire monologue does very serious things to my composure. What is it about a slightly awkward super-hot guy?

“That’s not true. I don’t have a generator at my cabin. I don’t even have hot water. Do you know how hard it is to get paint out of your hair when you don’t have hot water? Never mind. You don’t need to answer that.” He exhales loudly and stares at the grass at his feet. “This is probably weird. I’m sorry.”

It’s the most I’ve ever heard him say. Feeling like the last half hour cornering Lucretia Borgia has been a terrible dream, I step toward Jesse. “Thank you. I could definitely use some gas. Is it in the back of your truck?”

“Yes.” His shoulders lighten and he grins briefly before covering it by turning toward the truck. “I’ll get it out for you.”

Overhead, thunder cracks, loud and shocking. Jesse and I look up simultaneously, then I catch his gaze and we both start laughing.

“I take it you don’t shy away from storms,” Jesse says, opening the back door of his truck and pulling out the propane canisters.

“I couldn’t. Whenever there was a big storm growing up, all the kids gathered in my room. We’d play card games, and Frannie would try to scare us all with camp stories.” I take one of the tanks from him and walk toward the covered shelter where the generator waits.

“Really?” He places the second canister beside the first. He’s almost too close to me, and I remember how it felt when I ran into him on Mom’s porch yesterday. Hard, pine-smelling man. Yum. “Having met your mom, I would have thought she’d be the whole comfort type.”

“She is, definitely. And Ma was too. But they both worked all hours. Mom’s a nurse, and Ma was a 911 dispatcher before she got sick. When they couldn’t be there, I could.” I cross my arms over my chest, staring up at the swirling black clouds overhead. This storm is going to be a killer.

Jesse follows my gaze. “Are all the animals in the barn?”

There is not a large enough eye roll in the world. “All except Lucretia Borgia. She won’t even let me near her. Darn stubborn animal.”

His gaze on my donkey, he runs a hand through his hair again. What would that hair feel like between my fingers? Silky and strong, probably, perfect for tugging when—

Nope. A blush flares up my neck. I’m not going there. No matter what Opal Larson implied when she stopped by for her grilled cheese and tomato soup. She’d used some very colorful language, too.

Maybe I should read more gargoyle shifter erotica.

“Can I try?” he asks, his gaze still on the paddock.

“You want to try to halter her imperial majesty? Be my guest.”

Hah. Like Jesse, newbie DIY guy and hardware store employee, knows anything about haltering donkeys.

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