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“Why not? It’s so fun.”
We step up to the man with the clipboard and Jimbob signs us both up, leaving my mind spinning. Jesus fuck, what has he gotten me into?
I forget about my anxiety entirely when Jimbob strips his shirt off and stretches his arms over his head. He looks damn good half-naked, and I feel very proud that he’s mine.
When the gun goes off ten minutes later, Jimbob gets to work, stacking hay like it’s his job. Which it is. Literally. His muscles flex and a fine sheen of sweat covers his skin. He looks so fucking hot that it’s making my dick hard.
What a complication.
I watch him slack-jawed, trying to cheer but only succeeding in moaning slightly. When he’s done, clearly in first place, he turns around and beams at me. Like the fucking sun.
He shines so bright.
“I did it!” he says, pumping his fist in the air. I grin back at him, and he takes a few steps toward me. He has hay on his chest and some in his hair, so when he finally reaches me, I pick it off him, tossing it onto the ground.
“You’re up next, Braxton. I can’t wait to see you win.”
I roll my eyes at that because I never win at anything. And I certainly don’t do what Jimbob expects.
My goat is a stubborn fuck, fainting every time I try to get it to move forward.
“Come on, you little shit,” I murmur, not wanting to insult the goat’s owner. But it’s not like what I’m saying is untrue. This goat is a shit. It’s very dramatic and when it’s not fainting, it’s nibbling on the grass like it isn’t in a fucking race.
Jimbob is whooping from the sidelines, yelling words of encouragement to me, and I swear, if this was any other time, I’d be so damn embarrassed, but it’s all in good fun. And when I finally make it to the finish line and Jimbob looks at me like I’m the fucking stars in the sky, I can’t help but love my goddamn life. I love it.
So fucking much.
Jimbob has made me so much happier. And I know that my happiness shouldn’t be contingent upon someone else, but it is.
It so is.
He’s my ray of sunshine, my happiness. My all.
“You ready to go have a bite to eat and celebrate our wins?”
He has his first-place ribbon in hand, and I have a participation one that the goat snatched from my hand, so it’s half-chewed.
“I mean, that’s a word you should use loosely,” I say, showing him my shredded ribbon.
“Aw, but it has character. I love it.”
I peer up at him, and he looks sincere. So fucking ridiculous, and yet, I crave it so damn much.
“Yeah, okay, that sounds good. Food and then we can go to this weird-ass street dance.”
“Oh, but it’s not weird at all. It’s so fun.”
We’ll see about that.
thirteen
. . .
jimbob
After gettingeverything packed away at the farmer’s market and taking it back home to the farm, we spent the afternoon snacking on my back porch. A board I picked up at the market full of cheese—from Beck’s own farm—bread, salami, and grapes sits between us, Abra-ham getting fed far too much as well.
I glance over at Braxton and can’t help how my heart swells with pride.
