Page 101 of Brim Over Boot
“I disagree.”
“And you just know everything, don’t you?” he asks, the frustration in his voice directed at himself, I suspect, and not me.
“Hardly,” I allow, leaning against my workbench. “There’s a lot I don’t know. But I’m trusting my gut on this.”
“And your gut?” he says, a question.
“Has latched on to you.”
He scoffs. “Like a lamprey. I sure have the evidence all over my ass.Andon my neck. Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Dick,” he mutters before sighing. “This is so fucked. I don’t even like you.”
“Is that so?”
He groans, and my mouth quirks into a smile. “Iamsorry about the job at Marie’s,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere, but it’s clear he’s still harboring guilt over it.
“I know,” I tell him softly. “But it won’t happen again, will it? We’ll be careful moving forward. And we’ll talk things over if we have concerns.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. Hesitantly, he asks, “Will you still advertise?”
I let out a breath I’m positive he can’t hear. “If you need me to stop, I will.”
My business is stable. I have enough clients, and like Colton said, folks in this town—and even towns over—know me well by now. Sure, I might miss out on the occasional new resident or someone with a brand-new horse looking for a farrier.
But is getting their business worth losing Colton?
The answer to that earlier this year would have been a resounding yes. Because the man wasn’t even mine to lose.
Now?
Colton makes a noise in the back of his throat. “No,” he says quickly. “You can’t just… Don’t stop putting out ads because of me.”
“It won’t bother you?” I ask, surprised.
“Of course it will,” he says without venom. “They’re terrible.King thisandKing that.For theroyal treatment, go King.I wanna punch you in the face every time I see one, but…”
“But?” I ask, a smile curving my lips.
“I wanna win fair and square,” he says. “If you stop trying, it’ll feel like taking candy from a baby. And don’t youdarebring up the Shoein’. That wasnotan accurate representation of who’s the best farrier in this town. You won on a technicality.”
I’m grinning outright now. “Did I ever show you my trophy?”
“You didnotget a trophy,” he says, appalled. “The fuck?”
“A kid drew it for me,” I tell him. “It’s hanging on my fridge.”
“Well that’s just the fucking worst,” Colton grouses. “I can’t even be mad about that.”
I laugh, and Colton grumbles something I can’t quite make out. There’s a pressure in my chest as I listen to him on the other end of the line. I rub over my sternum, picturing his hair curling at his neck and the blue fire in his eyes as he complains about the outcome of ourfriendlycompetition. I picture the bruises on his ass and those on his neck.
I picture my name tattooed across his skin for the rest of his—and my—life.
“What was that noise you just made?” Colton says, his previous ramblings cut off. “Why do you sound so pleased?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie. “Just a happy memory.”
