Page 60 of Cattle Stop

“Buttercup can be your assistant. I think that would work out great,” Whit says.

“M’gonna tell Buttercup to escape again just for you.”

“It won’t be too hard, since he’ll be able to just walk over one of your cattle guards.”

“Buttercup would never.”

Fresh air blows in and Penny steps through the door, smiling and waving to them both. Cooper waves back and says, “Brad’s boss was here, I singlehandedly secured a giant sale of cheese.”

“Wow, really? Awesome, Coop.”

“One part of what he said is actually true,” Whit says.

Penny rolls her eyes. “The two of you.”

She slips into the kitchen while Whit counts out his tips, turning each bill to face the same way. He probably puts them in order in his wallet, too. Cooper takes the last drink of his beer.

“Have you talked to him today?” Whit asks suddenly.

“Who?”

“Brad.”

“Brad?” Cooper shakes his head. “No.”

Whit’s eyes are on him. Cooper’s stomach shivers.

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m done here, if you want to head out.”

“Right.” Cooper sets down his glass. He would’ve had a second beer, if offered, still well within his ability to drive. But Whit’s still looking at him, and heat builds beneath Cooper’s skin.

That’s…that’s a hint. Cooper’s not so dense as to miss the look in Whit’s eyes or the tension that sings between them.

They should be arguing about the pig fence, by all rights. Poking at each other over wholesale percentages and who could sell more wheels of Brie. He shouldn’t be here at the bar on Whit’s invitation, returning the look in Whit’s eyes, and certainly not agreeing to leave together. No, he should say. He should stay and have a drink as Penny starts her shift, order a plate of greasy fries, and wander back to the farm late enough that the excuse of the hour and early milking can easily staunch the suggestion hanging in the air between them.

Or, he could get laid. With Whit. Again. Oh hell yeah.

He jumps off his stool. “Let’s go.”

In the parking lot, Cooper slips Whit’s keys out of his hand. “You’re not really driving with a palmful of stitches.”

“Got here, didn’t I?”

But Whit doesn’t argue when Cooper opens the driver’s door to Whit’s truck and climbs in. He’ll have to come back for his own. Drew might ask. Might notice tonight, when he’s back from Albany. And if not then, tomorrow morning, he’ll see Penny’s motorcycle and Whit’s truck are parked in the barnyard, but that Cooper’s is conspicuously gone.

Drank too much to drive, flat tire, Whit’s stubborn refusal to admit his hand is injured—Cooper pokes his tongue into his cheek and lines up his excuses as Whit fumbles with his seatbelt.

Cooper leans across the cab, adjusting the strap so it lies flat against the strong lines of Whit’s chest. He can smell his skin, can feel Whit’s breath on his cheek. “There.” Cooper clicks the buckle closed.

Whit’s good hand covers Cooper’s over his breastbone. Readjusting what Cooper just arranged.

No, drawing his thumb over the back of Cooper’s fingers, light enough to raise goosebumps on Cooper’s skin. Slowly, Cooper pulls his hand away, feeling for the gearshift. He finds cold metal instead and a curl of rough sisal twine. The wrenches, still tied together, set in Whit’s cupholder.

“That way I’ll know if you steal them again,” Whit says.