Page 3 of Claimed By the Cowboys

“And it’s freaking a-door-able,” I say with a beaming smile.

Brent coughs out a laugh. “Really? That’s the pun?”

“It’s the title of the whole post, actually.” I smirk at him.

Rolling his eyes, Brent grabs the folded table from me and walks it over to my vintage blue Ford. “Piper. They’re chickens. They’re literally the dumbest animals on earth.”

I hold a hand over my chest. “I think you’re severely underestimating all of my girls.”

“I think you’re delusional. Your girls?”

“Well, except Reginald.”

Brent makes a face and loads the table into my truck. “I can’t believe how much you paid for that rooster.”

I am fully aware of how costly the fancy Dominique hens and rooster were. However, their cheery black-and-white checkered feathers and red combs translate to amazing pictures.

“But they’re so cute!” I say as we walk back to gather my tent.

Brent rolls his eyes again, but I know he’s not serious. He appreciates my ability to present life on the farm in a very aesthetically pleasing way. I know he does, because every time I come up with something cute, he’s the first one there to inspect it. Followed, of course, by Tate and Dalton.

In a matter of seconds, Brent has the little tent disassembled and placed in the truck, and he’s helping me count through my register. The routine is somewhat familiar. I’m not exactly sure when, nor am I sure that it’s actually a routine because it’s nutlike he’s here every week, but it definitely happens often enough that Brent knows both the set-up and shut-down routine.

It’s kind of scary, how quickly Brent and I fall into this easy pattern with each other. It doesn’t matter whether we’re doing this, or riding, or even working on cooking something in my kitchen. Brent just helps. He doesn’t take over and he doesn’t boss me around. He just… helps.

And the fact that he does it so easily, like it’s just natural for him, is something that I love about him.

When everything is packed in the truck, Brent dusts his hands off on his jeans. I make a point not to look, because if I start to think too hard about those thick thighs, I know I’m going to need a little self-care date tonight, but I can’t help a glance.

I quickly look away. His thighs are so muscled, they remind me of tree trunks.

“So. What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” he asks.

The question jolts me out of my thigh-induced panic. “Uh. Nothing, I guess. One of the hens is a little broody, so I need to get her in an Epsom salt bath, and I was going to shoot some content, but other than that, I was planning on just recovering from yesterday’s epic asparagus spree.”

He nods, giving me a look that makes my already warm blood heat up just that much more. “Well. If you’re not occupied for dinner, would you fancy coming over? Tate has some kind of roast he’s making.”

Ooooh.The prospect of a home-cooked meal by the one and only Tate Kirkland sounds way more fun than hanging out with an angry chicken. “Can I bring anything?”

Brent leans forward, his green eyes trained on me. The look is intense, and without meaning to, I shiver.

No. Stop it. Brent is your friend, dummy.

“Just your pretty little self, darlin’,” he says with a smirk.

Rolling my eyes, I pretend to bat him away. “Whatever, weirdo. I’ll see you later.”

“Later, Pipes.”

I make a conscious effort not to look at his backside (which is, of course, proportionate to his thighs) as he walks away. Huffing another sigh, I tug the door to my vintage truck open and hop into the refurbished cab.

Brent is gorgeous. Heck, they all are. But looking is as much as I’m ever going to do.

I have terrible, terrible luck with men. Like, the worst ever. I think I might be cursed. It’s clear that no man on earth is going to give me the type of relationship I want. Or at least, not the men who seem to pick me to date.

It’s awful, because it’s stalling my desire to have kids and a family.

These guys are my friends. They’re the best part of my life most days.

---