Page 7 of The Cowboy's Friendly Wake-Up Call

Mercy's pulled on her good boots, brushed out all that long, golden hair of hers, and set her usual, simple straw cowboy hat on her head, pulling the brim down low and giving me a hard stare that says she means business.

So I make an excuse to hide in the bathroom a minute while I adjust my dick that's already aching from how pretty she looks in her tight jeans and pray I can keep it under control for the weekend.

Chapter Four

Mercy

We survived our first night, but I sure as hell didn't get much sleep.

It was hard to keep myself from tossing and turning too much while Lance slept like a rock on the edge of the bed, as far from me as he could possibly get.

I guess we really aren't kids anymore. Because back then, it was never awkward to share a tent or a makeshift palette on the floor of a treehouse, or wherever else we ended up for a night of campouts and slumber parties.

Last night was a different experience. One that had me feeling anxious and itchy all over while doing my best to respect Lance's space and not touch him-- accidentally or not.

I thought about feigning a nightmare, a leg cramp, or trying that acting-out-a-sex-dream ploy you see in romantic comedies, but it was pretty clear that Lance wanted to be left alone.

So I stayed on my side of the bed, tried to keep still, and finally managed to get some sleep sometime after midnight, even though I was exhausted after the long drive to get here.

A long shower while Lance went out to get us a few things for breakfast, and I'm feeling halfway to normal despite the lack of sleep.

"Thought we'd hit up the expo before the dinner tonight." Lance looks over a program for the day's events while he makes quick work of a bagel and the two muffins he brought up for himself.

We're getting a late start to the day, thanks to my restless night and insistence on sleeping in to compensate.

"'K, what's happening?" I savor the luke warm coffee that Lance brought up from some little bakery he found across the street and make a delicious mess out of the lemon tart covered in powdered sugar.

"It's like a country fair, without the rides, or the games," Lance explains. "Just whichever association members that are displaying their operations and a lot of vendors hoping to sell fat contracts to them."

His eyes lift off the paper in his hand and land on my boobs.

If it was any other man in the world, I'd think it was because of the cleavage showing above the V-neck of my t-shirt. But it's Lance.

He's only looking at the mess I've made of the powdered sugar.

"Sorry," I mumble around the last bite of the tart, as I work on dusting myself off. "Hazards of being gifted in the mammary department."

Lance doesn't say anything. Just clenches his jaw enough that I can see the little muscles working in front of his ear, before his eyes go back to the program.

Some more dusting and a quick trip to the bathroom to swipe at my shirt with a towel, and we walk the short distance to the venue that Lance's grandfather helped fund just to host this event.

"So why not build it in Slow River?" I ask, absent-mindedly taking Lance's hand to pull him toward one of the buildings where some of the vendors are set up.

"It wasn't just grandpa that was funding it," Lance tells me. "He was collaborating with six other outfits. I think the biggest investor was actually one of the Waterford farms."

Dragging Lance through the aisles, I'm fascinated by each table. Some are just a table with a sign and a bored sales person sitting behind it with their phone in their hand and a take-out box on their knee.

Others are massive set ups with videos running on big screens, full teams dressed in matching outfits, and all kinds of equipment being demonstrated.

Then there are the booths that are clearly taking advantage of the fact that most of the attendees are men.

Lance wanders toward a set up where scantily-clad women in tank tops and chaps over bikini bottoms are enthusiastically handing out literature about the company they're representing.

For some ridiculous reason, I find myself tightening my grip on his hand, making sure to stand too close to him while he chats casually with a woman wearing a fire engine red wig under a pink cowboy hat encrusted with rhinestones that matches the pleather chaps tied over the black bikini that barely covers enough to be legal.

"Smart marketing," I point out once we've left the booth, "I'm sure they're a fan favorite."

Do I sound jealous? I really don't want to sound jealous.

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