Page 13 of The Bull Rider and the Bookworm
Shit. “You will yes. I just need to get them printed. The sheet is right there next to the pink LGBTQ book club signup. Yep! Let me bag these up then we’ll ring you out.”
Several more customers approached me as Hoyt lingered, filling the shop with raw masculinity that no one seemed to be noticing but me. My tie was much too tight all of a sudden. The heater was malfunctioning obviously as I was growing damp in my pits. Every time I chanced a glance his gaze met mine and my vow of chastity became foggier and foggier. When an hour had passed I was dabbing at my brow with my hankie as the lunch rush slowed to a mere four customers, one of whom was tall, dark, and gorgeous with his nose buried in a cowgirl poetry collection. His hat was resting back on his brow, his face smooth, the tightness of the pain of that injury seemingly melting away as he lost himself in verses. I could’ve stood there all day just looking at his profile.
And I probably would have had he not peeked my way just then. Caught gawking once more I hurried to rip my eyes from his to appear as if I were studying at the ceiling instead. Nodding thoughtfully, I then dipped back into the storage room to gather myself. Surely somewhere in this mess of books there had to be a primer on how to remain chaste in the face of temptation in a Stetson. I would find it if I had to research until I passed out.
The sound of a cough on the other side of the curtain shook me from my musings. I peeked around the dark green cloth to find Hoyt just a mere inch or two from me, his chest at my nose level, so I had to glance up from worn flannel and thick canvas to his face.
“Oh hello, I was just checking stock. Did you find a replacement for the Ginsberg book?”
“Several.” He jerked a thumb at the stack sitting beside the register. “You have a really good selection.”
“Thank you. I majored in American literature.” I moved back into the shop, passing sinfully close to the man who smelled of leather, wood smoke, and citrus. “I love Western poets though. Have I mentioned that before? If so I apologize. Did you study American Lit as well or did you dive right into English Lit with a high concentration on theory and poetics with a side of seminars on forms or specific poets?” I shoved my glasses up my nose while edging around the behemoth.
“Nah, I never graduated high school. The rodeo sang her siren song and I was spellbound to follow.”
“Oh. Well, you certainly are well-read despite having left school early.” I lifted a book from his stack, painfully aware we were now the only souls in this shop.
“I guess.” He moved around the counter. “Got any of the vanilla coffee left?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Silly me. I brewed it hours ago then forgot to offer it to the customers. Just like I forgot to put the apartment for rent sign in the window until two hours after opening. I’ve been in a whirlwind. Let me get you a cup.”
“Thanks, I like coming here to talk about poems with you. I’ve never really had a person that got it, the love of rhyme and verse, and how it feels to create a story in that form.” I glanced over my shoulder as I flipped over a store mug. Oh yes, that man with the hickory-colored eyes knew the love of words, of placing them just so on paper until they sang the song your heart heard. “It’s a better way to kill time while I wait get my stiches checked out at urgent care since the large animal vet refused to do it.”
“Ah, always good to get those taken out.” I returned to the counter with two coffees. “I cut myself once when I was about fourteen slicing a mango for a smoothie. Gee-Gee had to carry me to the car. I don’t do well with blood.”
“Good thing you were skinny then,” he commented then blew over his coffee. “My little brother was nothing but skin and bones when he was little. He’s bulked up a bit now though.”
“Some of us bulk and some of us stay scrawny.” I shrugged as I rang up then bagged his books.
“You’re not scrawny you’re just wiry. Like a roadrunner.” He gave me a lopsided smile that totally eradicated my notion of being a friar. I hid behind my coffee, blushing like a fool, unsure if this man was flirting with me or just being polite to the bookworm who liked poetry as well.
“Beep-beep,” I mumbled into my cup.
He chuckled softly. I was about to ask if he were a coyote and if so could he please catch me when the door opened, a wet breeze blowing in with an older, handsome fellow with damp hair. Quite tall, slim with strong shoulders, light brown hair and deep brown eyes. Fortyish if I had to guess.
Oh. It was raining. Hard to keep track of the weather when one was drooling over a cowboy. Even a battered and bruised he was simply yummy…
The abbot will want to have words with you when he hears of your licentious thoughts.
“My gosh, those April showers come on quickly. I’m here to talk to someone about seeing the apartment upstairs? My name is Colt Beckworth.”
The moment of whatever it was between Hoyt and I came to a soggy end, sadly. “That would be me. I’ll take you up now if you wish?”
Colt nodded. Hoyt placed his empty mug on the counter along with two twenties. “You go on and show him the apartment. I have to roll anyways. Colt.” He nodded at the man dripping on my floor, gathered his books, and exited out into the downpour.
Watching him dash down the alley I sighed internally then turned my attention to Mr. Beckworth.
“Let me just lock the front door and we’ll head up.”
Colt nodded as I fumbled about in my pocket, my mind on the tall drink of water who was challenging my every notion about hermitage. Perhaps I could request a chastity belt when I placed my next book order. Some big online sites carried just about everything after all.
Chapter 6
Hoyt
Ten days.
It took Abel ten days to come looking for me.
