Page 14 of Cattle Stop

Back inside, he looks up toward the ceiling at where Whit’s room is. The two of them, sharing a bedroom. Maybe one of those wrenches hit Whit on the head.

Cooper’ll be fine down here. Chilly, uncomfortable, and smelling like farm dog and stale beer, but he’s slept in worse places over the years.

Whit’s room was warm, earlier, he thinks and immediately frowns.

The stairs are as creaky as they ever are as Cooper slowly climbs them. And Whit’s light is still on, a halo shining around his closed door. Gently, Cooper taps his knuckles against the wood.

“I hate that you had a good idea,” Cooper says as he eases it open.

Whit’s cross-legged on his bed. And he’s taken his shirt off. Oh Lord, this is a mistake. The lamplight shades Whit’s skin golden, and the shadows only throw into relief the straight lines of his collarbones and the curves of muscles in his arms.

Cooper squeezes his backpack tight against his chest. Just one night. Cooper can handle the mire of annoyance and attraction for one night. And it’s better that Whit just glances at him and then turns back to the book balanced in his lap, because Cooper can slip into the bathroom and shut the door between them.

The shower has drops of water clinging to the curtain. Viscerally, suddenly, Cooper can picture Whit in there, water sliding over his body, his arms shifting as he rinses his hair, soap suds sliding down to—

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is a bad idea. Cooper grabs the sides of the sink and doesn’t look up into his own reflection, just quickly scrubs at his teeth with his toothbrush. His mouth tastes like Whit’s toothpaste, and his skin pricks with the knowledge of where he is.

It’s even worse when Cooper opens the bathroom door. Whit turns a page in his book, his back rounded as he bends over it, and his ribs moving lightly on his breath.

He’s gorgeous. A total jerk. But a really pretty one.

“Uh, thanks.” Cooper plucks at the quilt on his bed. It’s made so painfully neatly that he feels a little bad pulling the covers back.

Though there’s a piece of hay in the middle of the pillow. Oh, nope, that came from him. A second piece wafts gently down, landing next to it. He quickly pulls off his sweatshirt and an entire shower of hay rains onto the bed. Whit’s watching this, he’s suddenly sure.

Cooper fumbles for the knob on the lamp for way too damn long and finally switches off the light.

Whit’s book snaps closed. “Guess I’m done reading for the night.”

“Sorry.”

Cooper’s not, even though now he can’t see to sweep the hay out of his bed. Though at least he can strip down to his boxers and T-shirt in the privacy of the darkness, and if Whit heaves an annoyed sigh, he can focus on the itch of chaff under his cheek as he slips into bed.

It’s just the one night. He’ll be fine.

Chapter Three

When Cooper wakes up, the sun is cutting into the room in a harsh glare, shining on Whit’s empty bed. The bathroom door sits ajar, the door to the hall closed, and Whit’s book is on top of the stack on the nightstand.

Cooper would think he’d been entirely alone, except that he’d dropped his backpack next to Whit’s dresser last night, and now it’s sitting by the foot of his bed.

Whit’s bed, rather. Or Whit’s extra bed. Whit who’s twenty-seven years old and sleeps in a twin bed because he’s just that cool.

Well, fucking noted about where Cooper can and can’t set his obviously inconvenient backpack.

Downstairs, the coffeepot is already half-empty, and Drew’s favorite mug sits in the sink, so he’s probably elbow-deep in cheese curds. And wherever Whit goes first thing in the morning, it’s thankfully not loitering around the kitchen.

Running, probably. That’d be like Whit, to jump out of bed at the first sign of dawn and pound out a couple miles before he starts work. Cooper grimaces as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Classic Whit, filling his day with every ounce of misery possible.

Cooper pushes his feet into Drew’s tall muck boots, not bothering with socks and letting his sweatpants bunch up around the top. Bleary-eyed and still yawning, he hunches into his sweatshirt as he makes his way across the barnyard. Only Socks is out there, tail lashing side to side as he studies a tall tuft of grass, some hapless critter likely burrowed inside.

“Is it a squirrel?” Cooper asks.

Socks flicks his tail, his butt wiggling as he shifts his feet under him.

Cooper nudges the cat with his toe. “Scram. Let it live another day. I doubt it’s the guilty party.”

Cooper sips at his coffee and scratches cows’ noses as they sniff at him. Whit must’ve already fed them, because instead of the clamor of a hungry herd wanting their breakfast, they root into fresh, fluffy flakes of hay. He probably did it while Cooper was still asleep, just to avoid him.