AllFreeNovel
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“It’s farm country,” Bennet says, like it’s obvious. I mean, I swear to the gods if I see a cowboy out here chewing on hay and tying up a horse, I might just die.
“So someone just drove their tractor here? Do they not believe in cars?”
“Tractors are cars.”
I cock my head at Bennet, trying to be sympathetic because his mom had a fucking stroke, but goddamn, I cannot let this slide. Tractors are not cars.
“They are not. They are distinctly different. I mean, for one, their tires are enormous…”
Bennet ignores my blathering and moves to check in at the front desk as my words trail off, and I look around. My gods, these people are different. Why are they smiling at me? Shoo. Shoo, Midwestern hospitality. I don’t want none of that. We like frowns and avoidance in California, but here they are, just smiling away. Making actual, honest-to-god eye contact.
Don’t be too nice over on the West Coast or you might end up in a gang unwittingly.
“Bennet?” a low, Southern drawl rumbles behind us, and I turn around and my mouth drops open. I swear I cannot handle another culture shock. I’m going to be full-on electrocuted soon.
The guy who said Bennet’s name is enormous. He towers over everyone. My eyes travel down to his body and I nearly choke. I swear to the gods, he is wearing legit overalls with a flannel shirt.
“Hey, Jimbob,” Bennet says, and my eyes widen to nefarious degrees. My eyeballs are going to roll right out of my skull.
Jimbob. Fucking Jimbob!
That name! Is that two separate words or just one? He didn’t take a breath between them, so I’m assuming it’s just one.
I am so in Kansas right now.
“Hey, heard about your mama,” the giant says, his John Deere hat sitting on his head, shading his eyes. I don’t even need to squint to know that he’s hot, in a farm cowhand kind of way. That tractor outside probably belongs to him. If a cow trailed in after him I wouldn’t be surprised. It would only add to his appeal.
For fuck’s sake. They don’t make men like this in California.
“Thanks, yeah. That why you’re here?” Bennet asks, and Jimbob nods. And the way he looks at Bennet makes my stomach churn.
Probably those free-range eggs I ate. Organic must be doing things to my digestive system. I need more chemicals.
“Who’s this?” Jimbob asks, and Bennet turns to me and then shrugs. He fucking shrugs, like no big deal. I just flew fifty states over to deliver you to see your mother. But whatever, you can fucking shrug.
“Jasper,” he says. “We work together.”
Pfft, yes, we worked together. Once. At least he didn’t call me a friend. Although, flying over to Kansas is distinctly friendly, in my opinion. The best kind of friend.
Jimbob eyes me, his hazel eyes taking me in, and then he tips his chin.
“Nice to meet you, Jasper. I’m Jimbob,” he says in that Southern drawl that’s far too charming. I will not be charmed, despite his sparkling hazel eyes and those long eyelashes. He’s far too nice. And I don’t do nice.
“Hello,” I say with a waggle of my fingers and then give him a California smile. Which is more like a grimace followed by a deep frown.
Jimbob isn’t deterred. Not at all. He looks like he wants to invite me over for a home-cooked meal. It would probably be a very hearty meal with lots of fried food and mashed potatoes. He probably grows those himself. Probably pulls potatoes for a living, which is why his arms are so gigantic.
Maybe I should start a vegetable patch when I return home. Really work on my back muscles.
Bennet watches us, his eyes narrowing slightly as Jimbob and I just take each other in. There is something about a corn-fed farm boy. I can see the appeal. I mean, I can see the appeal in Bennet too.
When we first met, I remember thinking that he was so fucking hot, that I wouldn’t mind a metaphorical romp in the hay. But then he opened his mouth and irritated me to no end. Irritated me with that body and those smiles and that ridiculous sense of humor…
And how nothing seemed to bother him at all.
“Do you live nearby?” I ask Jimbob as a tall guy around my age walks in behind him, tattoos snaking up his neck, a piercing in his nose. His hair is messy and his Converse are untied. He looks unkempt and like he just awoke from an all-night rager.
“About an hour away,” Jimbob says as the punk rock guy comes to a stop next to Jimbob, elbowing him in the arm.
