Page 26 of Claimed By the Cowboys

I nod.

He squints at the calendar, then at Brent and Tate. Very clearly, so clearly that I’m actually kind of surprised because he usually speaks quite softly, he says, “I’m doing it. But fuck what the schedule says. I go first.”

Then, he turns and leaves. Again.

This week has been the most awkward week I’ve ever had.

I can tell that Tate and Brent are trying not to be weird. I’ve spent almost every day on the farm, mostly because I’m determined not to let my request ruin our friendship. And, of course, I’ve been helping the two of them build up their brand.

It was easy, with Tate. The food he makes is incredible, and he wasn’t kidding when he said that people were willing to buy the hog. He literally has a hundred pre-orders for it. Roasting a whole hog. The pictures were great. A little gross, since you know… there was like a whole pig there, but overall effective.

Brent’s work with the cows was a little trickier. Cows are cows. It’s kind of hard to make them cool or sexy, but I ended up settling on Brent as like… the ultimate cowboy. I have lots of videos of him in slow-motion, driving the cows in and out of their pen, and a couple where he’s just petting them.

Are they thirst traps? Yes.

I haven’t let him see the comments yet, but the comments are… uh. Thirsty. To the point where it’s kind of not really about the cattle anymore, and it’s just women making comments about how hot he is. Kinda losing the point here.

Eventually, I find a hashtag for cows where someone called them ‘grass puppies,’ and that veers us back into territory where people aren’t just slobbering over Brent.

I mean. I can’t blame them. But it also makes things hard for me because… yeah.

I’m doing my best not to think of Brent in any kind of sexual way.

I’m failing at it. Spectacularly. But I’m still trying.

The doctor confirms that while I have lots of eggs, they’re not very high quality, meaning it’s unlikely that I’ll get pregnant quickly. She offered me lots of routes for treatment, including a very non-old-fashioned way, and the pamphlets she gave me on all kinds of treatments and shots and all kinds of things are stacked on my kitchen.

I haven’t looked at them. I know that it’s probably naïve of me to think that this is going to work, given the whole ‘low-quality egg’ situation, but yeah.

I’d rather try than have to confront that particular pile of paperwork, honestly.

Now, it’s the first day that I’m in my ovulation window. I marked it on my little paper this morning. I kind of hate knowing this much about my body, but I guess I do.

As requested, I changed the schedule so that Dalton can take the first… turn.

He’s coming over. Tonight. And I am a god-awful wreck.

I’ve done a million chores. I’ve cleaned the kitchen so much, everything is sparkling. Grout in the bathroom? Bleached. Baseboards? Sparkling. I even reorganized my spice cabinet six times, and the chickens are actually annoyed with me because I’ve cleaned every square inch of their coop today.

Dalton will be here at five-thirty. And it’s four-fifty-five. I have too long.

This is going to be so weird.

I need something to make it less weird.

Wine. I need some wine.

I throw open my fridge, looking for anything that will help. I have a bottle of white that I’ve been using for cooking, and I grab it. I don’t bother with a glass. Instead, I take a sip straight from the bottle. And by a sip, I definitely mean a gulp.

The wine is a little closer to vinegar than I would normally drink, so I grimace.

“Wow. That will put hair on your chest,” I whisper to myself as I take another drink.

“Hair?” a deep voice rumbles.

I yelp and jump about six feet in the air. Wine splashes everywhere, and I hear Dalton move quickly.

“Hey. Sorry,” he murmurs, his hands landing gently on my shoulders. I turn so that I’m facing him, but his hands stay firmly there.

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