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He stares at it, his cheeks flushing. “Everything.”
He gets back to work until everything is loaded and without another word, he turns his back and walks away from me. I watch him go, my eyes sliding down to his pert little ass as he goes. I shouldn’t look, but it’s hard not to when he’s wearing such tight pants.
I wrench my gaze away.
No way that will ever happen. McMuffin stares at me with her sweet little kitty eyes.
“I know. I know. I’m just being silly. No more ass-gazing.” Braxton can’t be trusted, I try to remind myself. Sex demon or not.
She meows her agreement as I pat her head. I get in my truck and start the engine, feeling the rough rumble move through my body. I make the long trip back to my dad’s farm. I haven’t yet moved away from him, despite being twenty-five. I know a lot of guys my age move out and get on with their lives, but I don’t wanna.
I stayed with my dad after my parents got divorced and my mom moved across town. But when my dad got remarried to Violet, she and her son, Ryan, moved into the house, along with my surly grandpa, and that’s when things got crowded.
So even though I wanted to stay on the farm, I knew I needed my own space. A few years back, I built a small house on the property. It was a prefabricated home that I got to customize the way I wanted, and boy, did I fret over those choices, but I love it now. And I don’t regret my decision to stay out here.
Simple fact is, I don’t want to leave. I love it out on the farm. I love working with the animals and helping my dad take care of the crops. There’s something really relaxing about it, something refreshing. I don’t ever want to move away. I’m happy here.
When I park in the driveway, I hop out of the truck, set McMuffin on the ground, and lean my head back to take in the late-spring sun. Love the weather this time of year. It’s so cool and fresh. Everything comes alive in Kansas in the spring. Our small town seems to wake up from a long hibernation. The cold, freezing winters slowly ebb away and we’re left with blue skies and sunshine.
My absolute favorite thing about this time of year is the farmer’s market. I love being able to sell the things that I’ve helped bring into this world. Even if it’s as simple as the eggs I’d collected that morning, or the carrots I’d grown in my backyard.
“Hey, son,” my dad says to me as I start to unload the feed from the truck. “Back early.”
“Yeah, decided to forgo the haircut. I brought McMuffin with me and she was getting restless. I didn’t think she’d behave in the barbershop, would probably yap and scream until she got her way.”
My dad nods and then looks around for the little rascal. She prances over as if sensing him and crawls up his leg with those sharp little kitty claws, perching on my dad’s shoulder. She arches her neck and lets out a loud meow.
“She’s probably hungry,” I say as I move to offload more feed. My dad doesn’t help me, just stands there and pets the kitten behind the ears. I don’t blame him. McMuffin is distracting and demands attention. There’s a reason I bring her everywhere with me. She would probably pee on my pillow if I left her at home. And no one likes cat pee.
When I’m done placing the feed in the barn, I stop at the special pen I keep the mini pigs in. Abra-ham sees me and squeals, prancing around, and I lean down, picking him up and cuddling him. He gives me a wet kiss with his snout, and I chuckle. I raised him from a baby, used to carry him around with me everywhere. He probably feels like I’ve replaced him with McMuffin, but that’s not true. This little guy has a special place in my heart, but he also needs to be with his pig friends occasionally. Even though my dad and I both have small doggy-doors on our houses for him to come in and out when he feels like it.
“You’ve been a good little piggy, yes?”
He squeals again, and I rub his head before putting him back into his pen. The other mini pigs snort their excitement when I pour some pig chow into their bowls, and then as a special treat, I give them some frozen fruits and vegetables. Spoiled rotten iswhat they are, but they’re adorable. Abra-ham is especially a hit with the people at church.
I’ll probably bring him tonight when I go for choir practice. He’s a show-stopper for sure. He sometimes even sings along with us. I crack a smile in remembrance and then frown when I remember that Braxton was there last week, glowering at me from the back pew. I don’t even know why he was there. No one he’s friends with is in the choir. Not even sure if he has friends. As far as I know, it’s just him and his mom, but nevertheless, Braxton was there watching.
It made me shift nervously on stage.
I hope he’s not there tonight.
But of course he is. He sneaks in after practice starts and sits in the back pew, his eyes narrowed at me. I run a hand through my hair as I belt out the chorus to “Amazing Grace.” Abra-ham is running around our feet, prancing and squealing loudly. But I barely notice it. My face is hot and my skin is tingling from the way that Braxton is staring at me.
Again, I can’t help but wonder why he’s here.
Maybe he has nothing to do on a Thursday night. That thought makes me slightly sad. Maybe he just needs a friend. Not that he wants to be friends with me, he’s made that crystal clear, but I do know that he moved here his senior year of high school, and after three years, I’ve still never seen him with another soul. Maybe he just doesn’t fit in here in Kansas, but then again, he doesn’t even try to. Those piercings and tattoos and clothes.
He reminds me a little of Ryan. Except Ryan is a goofball and weird, and Braxton is just…mean. Quiet and brooding. It’s a little unnerving, and yet I can’t quite seem to look away.
Choir practice ends and Braxton lingers for a bit while we all grab a bite to eat. Belinda brought a veggie tray, and Marcus brought some biscuits and homemade jam, which is, as always,delicious. I have a plate piled high with food as I bend down to hand Abra-ham a carrot when I catch Braxton eyeing me from across the church. His dark eyes are narrowed and his fists are clenched near his hips.
Always looking so upset, so angry.
I want to see him smile.
I throw a small grin his way, and he quickly turns his head, folding his arms across his chest and glowering at the wall.
Seems like that plaster offends him. I mean, it is a bit old and could use a nice patch job. But it never hurt anyone. Maybe I should offer to fix that up for Pastor Greg.
