Page 25 of Hogging the Hunk
A volcanic flow of flustered self-consciousness consumed me. It wouldn’t have shocked me if I spontaneously combusted and melted a hole in the driver’s seat for how warm I felt. “That’s a funny story.”
“Good!” At the promise of something that would make her laugh, Beckett forgot about the man who had a penchant for breaking her heart and bestowed all of her attention on me. Her eyes were bright, and a smile was already dawning as she rested her chin atop her fist. “Start from the beginning.”
“Okay. I guess there’s been nothing unusual about my day except the number of times my shirt was destroyed.”
“This ought to be good.” Beckett rubbed her hands vigorously, making me forget I was red-faced and partially nude, and laughed.
“First, I was at the Covet farm, helping with a breech calf. I always take my shirt off for that because it’s inherently a messy job. Apparently, I didn’t put it far enough away because the dairy heifers found it hanging on a gate and dragged it into their paddock with them where they proceeded to play with it. I almost couldn’t find it since it was trampled deep into the mud. I tried hosing it off, but it was no use. Cow stink doesn’t come out of fabric very easily.”
“Oh, I know. You should ask Parker about it. Did you know the first time he saw Maren when he moved to Button Blossom, he was trying to be all suave and ended up landing square on a cow pie?”
The mental image of Parker, stunned and covered in gooey cow excrement made me laugh. “I’d heard rumors about it, but you’re telling me it's true?” She nodded eagerly. “Parker has some explaining to do then. He has vehemently denied all allegations of that occurring.”
“So,” Beckett said after riding a wave of laughter, “your shirt was ruined for the day. What about your coveralls? Couldn’t you wear them without a t-shirt underneath?”
“I usually do, except my coveralls were ruined when Mr. Donahue’s blue heeler discovered I keep a handful of treats in my back pocket. While I was busy deworming the sheep, the dog latched onto my rear and tugged so hard it ripped halfway down my leg. He only stopped when the treats fell out.”
Beckett covered her mouth with a hand, sniggering anew as she apologized. “Oh no! That sucks.”
“I was due for a new set of coveralls, anyway.” Putting on my turn signal, I slowed before turning left onto the highway out of town. “I keep a spare shirt in my truck at all times, but you know how they say bad things happen in threes?”
“Yeah.”
“That poor shirt was the third.”
Beckett caught her lip between her teeth, and something warm welled up within me. I did my best to ignore it by keeping my eyes on the road. “What happened?”
“Remi called. She needed help trapping a bunch of feral farm cats. I help her run a trap and release program, so everyone’ll be spayed or neutered, get their shots, and happily go back to living their lives as rodent control.”
“And your shirt got the worst of it?”
Reaching to the seat behind me, I felt around for the tattered remains of my shirt. When I held it up, Beckett exploded with laughter. “That’s your shirt?”
“What’s left of it.”
Beckett took the shreds in her hands. “How did you make it out of that altercation unscathed?”
“I didn’t.”
With a flash of her eyes, Beckett assessed my condition, and I was reminded of the burning scratches on my left side, forearm, and back. They were mostly superficial, nothing that cleaning up and time wouldn’t heal.
“You were scratched?” she asked.
“Nothing life threatening. They were barn cats, not lions.”
“Let me have a look.”
I hesitated. I was comfortable in my body, and Beckett was a medical professional. What gave me pause was our location… the proximity. The relatively small space of the truck cab and the nature of her request would require us to be very up close and personal.
“I’m fine.” I inched away from her and leaned my elbow on the door armrest, trying to be casual about my refusal.
Firmly grasping my wrist, Beckett let me know she wasn’t flustered, not even by my exposed skin. “It won’t hurt for me to take a peek.”
I ran my finger across my lips, considering my options. It pretty much came down to two—let her look, or open the door and tuck and roll when I slowed to make a turn.
Extreme, much?
“You helped me out. Why won’t you let me do the same for you?” Beckett smiled warmly, and I wondered if bedside manner was something they covered in med school. I bet Greg earned himself an A+, not because he was genuinely good at making anyone feel comfortable, but by schmoozing the teacher. The only thing I remember them telling us in vet school was don’t make direct eye contact with our patients. “If you’re good, I’ll give you a sticker when we’re done.”