At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(45)
Is it weird to say I hope she is, because that might mean her sister also likes facial hair? I don’t think that’s really how shit works. Sisters don’t find the same things attractive, do they? I chew on the inside of my cheek, mulling over the concept. I mean, I think my brother’s girl is pretty. Granted, she’s a famous country singer, so I suppose most of the male species finds her hot.
“Guess I’ll be offering mustache rides at the next rodeo.” I run a finger over my currently smooth upper lip.
Suddenly wide-eyed, Denny snaps his fingers. “You need a mustache ride T-shirt. Have it say ‘Free for MILFs’ or something.”
Wait. Does he…?
I look him up and down, waiting for confirmation that he knows about my crush on his girlfriend’s sister. Thankfully, there’s no indication he’s any the wiser.
I’ve been pretty careful not to tell any of the ranch hands that I’ve hung out with her. I heard the shit-talking around the bunkhouse when Red was driving half an hour to Wells Canyon every day for his girl—and she was pregnant at the time. Denny was a bit sneakier, acting like his shoulder injury was acting up and he was heading to the clinic. Not that it lasted long before everybody noticed him ogling the shit out of her on the ranch day in and day out.
Nope. Instead, I let everyone believe I’m visiting my mom more than usual. Let them think I’m a mama’s boy—which, to be fair, I kind of am. And I keep my covert glances at Whit to a minimum, even when her dripping wet body emerging from the water makes it damn near impossible.
Doesn’t stop me from thinking about her nonstop, though. So much that her ears must start ringing; late in the evening Whit finally makes good use of having my phone number.
Future Wife: How’s your back after that crash today?
Colt: I think it actually fixed some issues I was already having
Colt: Pride’s been better, though
Future Wife: Your landing had pizzazz
Colt: Nothing like the razzle dazzle of a back flop
Colt: By the way, how do you feel about mustaches?
Future Wife: Are we talking Burt Reynolds or Michael Cera?
Colt: Is your answer different depending on which I choose?
Future Wife: Burt Reynolds’ 1972 centerfold?! I have nothing more to say.
Future Wife: Michael Cera’s pubestache? Call the police.
I stare wide-eyed and terrified at my bedroom ceiling. There’s no turning Colt Campbell into Burt Reynolds—not unless they make Rogaine for the entire body and I start a serious bulking workout plan. Though I’m not a godly man, you can bet your ass I’ll be praying nonstop for the next few days that my mustache isn’t anything Whit might compare to pubes.
Whit
Whit: Jonas is sick, so he won’t be coming to the ranch today
Colt: Damn, poor kid.
Colt: Do you guys need anything?
Whit: I could use a tropical vacation, if you’re offering
Colt: I was thinking more along the lines of medicine or soup
Whit: I think we both just need a long nap
It’s been three full hours since Jonas last vomited, which is a much-needed win after a horrendous night. It turns out even the most badass ten-year-olds really want their mommy when they wake up with a tummy ache at one o’clock in the morning. And in a greedy, selfish way, I was thrilled when he asked to sleep in my bed. I lay next to him, watching the flutter of his sleepy eyes, stroking his hair, and listening to him sleep for the most peaceful forty-five minutes of the last year.
Then all hell broke loose, and I spent the following forty-five minutes rubbing his back while he threw up his entire dinner. A further twenty stripping my soiled bedding and putting it into the wash, then remaking the bed with my spares. Armed with a puke bucket and a cold cloth, I held Jonas’s droopy shoulders and steered him back to my bed. After accidentally making a mess of my backup sheets, we rerouted to his room, and I spent the rest of the night in a half-asleep state on his bedroom floor.
Grabbing my Kindle and a steaming cup of coffee, I slump into the couch and tuck a fluffy blanket tight around me. Sunlight filtered by my neighbor’s towering oak tree dances across the floor in scattered beams, and the first taste of dark roast on my tongue is absolutely decadent.
As soon as it was an acceptable hour to do so, I canceled my meetings and contacted my boss to let her know I was out for the day. Though technically I’m fine, my eyes are perpetually watery from exhaustion, and I can barely concentrate enough to read a spicy romance novel. I’m in no shape to cold-call prospective job candidates.
When I drag my weary body from the couch to pour a second cup, I detour upstairs to check on Jonas. A foul smell emanates through the sliver of open space in his doorway, and my face reflexively pulls into a tight grimace at the stench. The entire upstairs will need a deep clean once he’s feeling better. But for now, he’s tucked in a tiny ball in the middle of his bed, blankets pulled tight around his chin. After checking that he’s breathing and not running a fever, I carefully shut the door and get busy switching over the laundry.
With the loud thud of my dryer, I sink to the floor and stare at the frog figurine on the windowsill, muscle memory taking the reins in my brain fog. And it dawns on me that I haven’t crumpled onto this tile floor in weeks. Granted, that doesn’t mean I haven’t done laundry—I have a ten-year-old boy who’s been working on a ranch all summer, after all.