Page 40 of The Quirky Vet

"So… Your parents know," Muir says with a chuckle, as I struggle to breathe.

"Yeah," I pant, shooting him a look. "They know."

7

Muir

The afternoon sun blazes overhead with relentless intensity, its rays beating down harshly.

It's late March, which is technically Autumn in Australia, but today, you'd swear it was the peak of summer.

Sweat is pouring down my face as I struggle with the wire, pulling it tight against the post, while Fitz is a few feet away, hammering stakes into the hard ground like it's nothing. His flannel shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong, tanned arms, and sweat glistens on his brow.

He shaved his beard off shortly after the wedding, and he's keeping it nicely trimmed. It suits him, and as an added bonus, it means I'm no longer left with beard burn every time we kiss.

Which has been seven times in the last month. Not that I'm keeping count or anything.

Okay, I'm totally keeping count because how could I not be?

After weeks of weirdness between us following the trip to the Gold Coast and being so worried about telling him I might have feelings for him, we now find ourselves in this really cool place. A place where things have gone back to normal…but with a twist. A nice twist that involves kissing.

And possibly ogling my bestie.

Because how can I not?

His muscular arse looks fantastic in those snug black jeans.

Whenever we kiss, we always keep our hands north of the beltline. I run my hand over his jaw, and he loves playing with my curls. I've brushed my hands up and down his arms, and he's done the same in return.

But lately?

Lately, I've been thinking about what it might be like to explore down south a bit more. I've seen the bulge straining his pants, and I'm pretty sure he's seen mine. But I'm not sure if either one of us is readyfor more.

Yet.

"Why is your husband the only one doing any work?" Gramps asks, making me jump as he walks up to us with a tray of drinks.

"I'm working," I reply defensively.

"Checking out your husband's arse isn't the work I meant."

Fitz drops his hammer, and Gramps puts the tray down and hands him a glass of iced tea.

"I wasn't checking him out," I lie.

Fitz finishes taking a big gulp. "And if he was, can you blame him, Sid? It's a pretty spectacular arse."

Ugh. When these two get together.

"And stop calling him my husband," I say to Gramps. "He has a name."

That's all he's called Fitz ever since I told him we were married, and it's starting to get a little old. At least to me. They're both chuckling like drongos.

"Buthusbandhas such a nice ring to it."

"I'm never going to win, am I?"

Gramps places his hand on my shoulder. "That's the spirit."