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“I didn’t get a chance to do this,” he murmurs right before his hands cup my cheeks and tilt my face up. Then his mouth covers mine, kissing me passionately. He smells like sweat and fresh dirt, and . . . man. He tastes like . . . intensity and mint, like he knew exactly what he was going to do when he saw me and prepped for it. Unnecessary—I’d kiss him even if his breath were as bad as Trollie’s—but the intent is sweet.
A throat clears behind him and one of his hands leaves my face. I crack one eye open to find him flipping Brutal a middle finger, all the while giving me one of the best kisses of my life.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly when he lets me go.
“Hi,” he answers, smiling. “Whatcha doing?”
I blink, trying to clear my head so that I can form a complete sentence. Or even a two-syllable word would be good right now.
“Uh, goats. Pet. Soft. Pictures. Cute.” It’s all I’ve got, but it gets my message across.
His grin turns cocky, and he slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me to his side. I fit there like the space was carved out just for me. “With your camera over there?” He points with his other hand to my camera bag outside the pen in the grass.
I realize I truly haven’t taken any pictures. Shay took the ones of me, but those aren’t bloggable, and I would love some cute animal pictures. One, it’s a unique subject for me, which is always an exciting challenge, and two, I do think they’ll be a blog favorite. Who’s not going to ‘heart’ an adorable goat?
And that’s when I have an even better idea.
I grab my camera, checking the sky and adjusting my settings. “Let me get a few shots here.”
I take some close-ups of horns, eyes, hooves. Click, click, click.
I take some broader shots of the herd, the blending of their colors and the lines of their curved backs. Click, click, click.
“Bobby, can you pick that one up?” I point to the goat currently weaving its way through his legs like a house cat that wants to be pet.
“Why?” he asks cautiously.
I shoot him a soft smile, and though he grumbles a bit, he bends down and picks up the goat, its legs dangling over his arms.
“I’ll do a close-up so no one can tell it’s you. You don’t mind being on the blog, do you?”
Let me take this picture, please.
My ovaries are literally exploding like Fourth of July fireworks right now. He looks that good. Dirty jeans with a tear by his right hip that lets the pocket show, veins popping in his muscled forearms and biceps bulging, jaw tight, eyes dark and promising me anything my heart and body desire, all topped off with the utter cuteness of the baby goat. It’s easy to replace the cute animal with a baby in my mind, and the thought of Bobby’s baby, of him as a dad, is sexy as hell. And not in a Daddy fetish sort of way—yes, I saw that video too—but as an actual father. He’d be good at it, protective, loving, firm, sweet.
Boom. Pop. Hiss. Yep, there go my ovaries.
“Anything you want, Willow,” Bobby answers, turning a bit toward me so I can get a better angle.
Click. Click. Click.
Soon, I move to wide angle frames, getting all of Bobby and all of the goats. These are for me, I promise. Not the blog, I think possessively, taking a page from Bobby’s book.
“Look at you, Nashville. Show us how you model. Give me a Zoolander Blue Steel look,” Brutal barks out, laughing before he can even get the insult out.
I spin, capturing that too.
“Hey, I didn’t agree to shit,” Brutal tells me, sobering in an instant.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, dropping the camera down to make eye contact.
“It’s fine,” Bobby interjects. “Tell her it’s fine. She can take pictures of anything or anyone she wants to.”
“No, really, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Shayanne whistles loudly. “Hey, Brutal, know what would probably get Allyson all hot and bothered?”
Quick as a blink, he deadpans, “Me.” For a scary motherfucker, the guy’s got jokes. I think he’s joking, at least. Sort of.
“Exactly. Hey, Willow, think you could send Allyson that picture? Brutal needs all the help he can get to get laid.” The insult is harsh, as intended, and given Brutal’s growl and Bobby’s howl of laughter, it’s completely untrue.
“Sure. I can do that.” I laugh along with them, and any tension is broken.
Before long, I’m taking pictures of all three of them—holding goats, standing alone, standing together, sitting in the Gator, and more, and they’re really getting into it, posing and pulling faces.
Mostly, I let them interact with each other, not directing them at all so I get real, candid shots. Those are the moments of true beauty. Unfiltered, unaltered moments of heartfelt connection, even if it’s couched in giving each other a hard time.
