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He lifted his chin. “I’d rather have my own room.”
Of course he would.
“Good luck with that,” I muttered, turning to exit the bunkhouse. If I didn’t hurry up this little tour, I wouldn’t have enough time to shower before supper. If we weren’t so damned shorthanded right now, I wouldn’t even be giving this tour in the first place, but here we were.
Richie scrambled to catch up with me as I reached the open doors of the closest barn. “This here’s the main horse barn. Most likely, Jed’ll start you off mucking stalls in the morning, and…”
I was interrupted by a loud screech of terror. I turned at the sound of a metal pail clanging as it bounced across the cement floor. I found Richie plastered against the wall directly across from Moonbeam’s stall, his hands clapped tightly over his mouth. An empty feed pail rattled as it rolled to a stop nearby.
“What the hell?” I swiped up the pail and hung it back on the hook. Numerous pairs of wide equine eyes stared at the newcomer as a bunch of nosy nellies poked their faces across stall doors to see what was going on. “Damned near scared half the horses in here,” I muttered.
“It bit me!” Richie’s shout was muffled by his hands. He shuddered slightly, his eyes still wide, and I felt a surprising urge to soothe him. To press my lips against the rakish mop of hair and pull him against my chest until his breathing calmed.
I scowled, ignoring the thought, and looked between the docile mare and the city boy. “I highly doubt that. She probably sniffed you because you smell like Hank’s drive-thru burger collection.”
He swallowed and sidestepped farther away, but Pickle’s spotted nose stopped his progress. He jumped as soon as Pickle huffed out a warm exhale against the back of Richie’s head.
“Oh Jesus god! Make it stop!” He hopped to the middle of the aisle and stared at me in a combination of horror and defiance. “You put them up to this,” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at me. “This is some kind of hazing ritual, isn’t it? You’re trying to get me to quit before I’ve even started!”
Instead of being angry and annoyed as hell the way I would have expected, I huffed out a laugh. It was impossible not to. He looked so ridiculous with his shiny shoes and bedazzled hat and designer clothes, so out of place, and yet the expression on his face was fierce. The man had spirit.
“Yes, Richie,” I said dryly. “I sat them down an hour ago, and they came up with a plan to breathe terror into you with soft muzzles and curious sniffs, even though no one told me you were actually coming today. Is it working?”
He studied me for a moment. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor. It’s not my fault Oscar didn’t confirm my arrival details… though I can’t say I’m surprised.” He lifted his chin a fraction. “And my name isn’t Richie, it’s Richard. Not that you’ve told me your name or anything.” I could have sworn I heard a muttered rude at the end.
He was right. I sighed and stepped forward, thrusting out my hand. “Boone Hammond. Your new boss.”
“Oh.” Richard reached out hesitantly and took my hand as if it were covered in dried afterbirth. Which it probably was. The first thing I noticed when his long fingers slipped against mine was how soft they were. Not a single callus or torn cuticle. My mind immediately jumped back to the image of him perched on the edge of the bed, except this time, I was standing in front of him with my pants unbuckled, and he was sliding those soft hands with those long fingers into my boxers, taking me firmly in his grip, his touch like silk.
Because the second thing I noticed about him was how firm his grip was as he grasped my hand. His shirt was tight enough that I could see lean muscles bunching and moving in his arms, across his chest.
And the third thing I noticed was the way my body reacted. His clean scent—a combination of soap, laundry detergent, shampoo, and cologne—was such a stark contrast to the familiar smell of the barn and my own sweat, I wanted to bury my nose in his throat and inhale deep and long. My cock throbbed at the thought until I cleared my throat and forced myself to step back.
I was damned if I’d allow myself to think that way about my new cowhand… even if that cowhand seemed like he’d last all of negative five minutes on a working ranch.
“If you’re done bitching about equine manners, I’ll show you the rest of the place,” I gritted out, removing my hat and running my hand through my sweaty, dusty hair.
