Page 20 of Big Britches

Titus jumped, physically jarred by the interruption. He felt like one of those secretaries in the popular soft drink ad. The one where they all take a diet soda break at the window to watch a hot construction worker removing his shirt before turning up his own can of the cola.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he shouted back, shaking his head to dispel the sensation.

When his eyes returned to the window, Pedro was back on the mower, reaching down and turning the key. The engine revved, and the tractor began moving again.

Titus looked down at the slight pup-tent in his pleated Nautica shorts.

Yeah. I may need a minute.

Five

Pedro began with the front yard, his mind shifting back to work mode. Chance encounters with good-looking men had rarely disrupted his routine. Not that he didn’t meet handsome men sometimes. In fact, the longer he spent time in Georgia, the more he’d come to appreciate the charm of some of its inhabitants, especially those of the male persuasion. The concept of romance had never come into play, though. Pedro had not even considered it. His goals took precedence. As he had explained to Miguel earlier that morning, any extracurricular activity could wait. First, he needed to secure some things in the big picture–work, citizenship, and relocating his mother. These were his priorities. Once he achieved those objectives, there would be plenty of time for things like love.

Love?

Infatuation was more like it. Love doesn’t happen that fast. It needs time to evolve. He’d read enough books to know that. Love at first sight was a trope—and an unrealistic one, at that—tapping into readers’ subconscious desires for centuries. Everyone wants a Prince Charming.

Then why, out of an abundance of words to choose from—dating, courting, wooing, cooing, flirting, touching, spooning, horseplay, fooling around, sucking, or fucking—why was that word the first one to come to mind?

Because something about Titus felt different.

Impossible.

And I think he may have felt it too.

Absolutely not. He was always over thinking things. Hadn’t Barb praised his imagination at breakfast that very morning? Physical attraction was more likely the culprit. After all, he had the libido of any healthy twenty-three-year-old. Hormones were unpredictable, difficult to wrangle.

So, you just met a man so hot you can’t think straight?

He grinned at the rationalization, shaking his head and lowering the trailer’s gate. After securing the ramp, he mounted the mower, assuring the gears were in neutral before reaching for the key in the ignition.

Testosterone overload.

That was it for sure. Biology–a logical premise and, once recognized, Pedro could move more easily past it.

If it’s that easy, then why are you still thinking about him?

His hand froze before turning the key. The image of his new employer lingered in his mind’s eye. More than Titus’s face, though. Pedro also saw those broad shoulders, wet and sparkling in the sunlight, the massive chest peaks, mountainous and round, the large hands and thick fingers grasping his own. Firm yet soft.

So soft.

His recollection veered below the waist, too, remembering that snug, wet swimsuit housing an altogether different appendage, one that Pedro could have sworn he saw move ever so slightly beneath the shimmering fabric, like a python seeking release.

You need to stop this right now and get to work.

But his hand remained steadfast on the mower key. It was Titus’s face he saw now—caramel eyes, warm and boundless, and a smile equally alluring. The combination still flustered Pedro, even in retrospect. Titus Shepherd was the type of man he’d always fantasized—genuine, unconsciously sexy, and?—

Grande.

Yes. Titus was big. But it was more than just his physical presence. His personality was big, too. Pedro had been attracted to large men since he was a little boy in Mexico. Some primal instinct, he suspected, equating size with a sense of protection. He wasn’t weak, by any means, but he was petite. And a man of Titus’s size embodied a security which he found equally alluring.

Amor a primera vista, he heard his mother whisper.

“No,” he said aloud. Then, in his native language, dragging the syllables doubtfully... “Imposible.”

His mother often used the phrase love at first sight when speaking of his father. Pedro had never believed her, though. Such concepts were romantic frivolity.

Still, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have those large hands touch him again.