Page 17 of My Cowboy Trouble (The Cowboy Romantic Comedies #1)

KENZIE

"We need chicken feed, mineral blocks, and.

.." Trent squints at his list like it personally offends him, then holds it up to the light as if that might make Clara Mae's handwriting suddenly legible.

"Something Clara Mae calls 'horse cookies' but refuses to write down the actual brand name.

She just drew what appears to be a smiley face with hooves. "

"I'll go," I volunteer, probably too eagerly. But honestly, I need to get off this ranch before I do something stupid. Like knock on Gavin's door. Or Asher's. Or Trent's. Or all three, which is becoming an increasingly tempting terrible idea.

It's been two days since the hayloft incident with Gavin, and the tension in the house is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Every meal is an exercise in pretending we're not all thinking about sex.

Every accidental touch feels like foreplay.

And don't even get me started on what happened when we all reached for the coffeepot at the same time this morning.

Four hands, one handle, and suddenly I'm having flashbacks to more interesting activities.

"You don't know where things are," Trent points out, still frowning at the list. "Last time you went to town alone, you came back with six bags of cat food. We don't have cats."

"Sir Clucks-a-Lot seemed to enjoy it," I defend myself.

"That explains why he's been following you around. You've been bribing him."

"I've been building a strategic alliance."

"With a rooster."

"With a demon who could peck my eyes out at any moment. So yes."

"I'll take her," Asher offers, appearing from nowhere with that ninja stealth of his.

He's wearing his going-to-town clothes—jeans that actually fit instead of hanging loose, and a button-up shirt that makes his eyes look impossibly blue.

"I need to negotiate with Carl about the lumber prices anyway. "

"Negotiate or blackmail?" Trent asks.

"Negotiate is such a harsh word. I prefer 'aggressive bargaining.'"

"I'm coming too," Gavin announces, strutting into the kitchen shirtless because apparently that's his default state now.

His jeans are slung low enough that I can see those cut lines that disappear into his waistband, and I have to look away before my brain short-circuits. "Can't let you two have all the fun."

"It's a feed store, not Disneyland," I point out, trying not to stare at the scratch marks I left on his back two days ago. They're healing, but still visible. Still mine.

"Everything's fun with the right company." He winks at me, and I try to ignore how my body responds. Like Pavlov's dog, if the bell was a wink and the response was wanting to climb him like a tree.

"Fine." Trent hands me the list with the resignation of a man who knows he's lost control of the situation. "But actually get what's on here. No more boots. And don't let Gavin convince you we need a llama."

"That was one time," Gavin protests, pulling on a T-shirt that's probably a size too small and does everything to show off his physique.

"Three times."

"The third one was an alpaca, totally different."

"How are they different?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Alpacas are fluffier. And they hum."

"They hum?"

"Like little fuzzy meditation monks. We need one," Gavin says. "I've been thinking about taking up meditation."

Trent snorts. "Yeah right. We don't need an alpaca."

"But think of how calm we'd all be with a humming alpaca around," Gavin argues. "Very zen. Very peaceful. Might help with all this sexual tension."

The kitchen goes silent. Leave it to Gavin to address the elephant in the room by riding it around and giving it a party hat.

"To the feed store," Asher says after a beat, grabbing his keys. "Before this gets even more awkward."

Fifteen minutes later, we're in Asher's truck heading into town, Billy in the backseat and me sandwiched on the front bench seat because Gavin called "shotgun" and then claimed the middle was technically shot-gun adjacent.

His thigh is pressed against mine, warm and solid.

Asher's hand brushes my knee every time he shifts gears, and I'm trying very hard not to think about how this seating arrangement reminds me of other activities.

Specifically, activities that involved a lot less clothing and a lot more moaning.

"You okay there, darlin'?" Asher asks, noticing my death grip on the dashboard.

"Fine. Great. Love feedstores."

"You've never been to a feedstore," Gavin points out, his hand landing on my thigh like it belongs there.

"I'm very enthusiastic about new experiences."

"We know," they say in unison, and my face burns.

"That's not what I meant."

"Sure it isn't," Gavin says, his thumb tracing circles on my thigh. "Remember that new experience with the?— "

"Gavin!" I slap his hand away, but I'm fighting a smile. “Billy’s in the back,” I whisper.

"What? I was going to say fence post. Your mind went somewhere else entirely."

"My mind went nowhere."

"Your red face says otherwise," Asher observes, turning onto Main Street. "You're thinking about the hayloft."

"I'm thinking about feed. And minerals. And whatever horse cookies are."

"They're actually molasses treats," Asher explains. "Clara Mae calls them cookies because she thinks it's cute. She also calls the vet 'the horse doctor' and refuses to learn his actual name after fifteen years."

The Tractor Supply & Feed is exactly what I expected—big, dusty, and full of things I don't know the purpose of.

There's an entire aisle dedicated to different types of rope, which makes me flash back to Trent trying to teach me to lasso and somehow ending up tangled against him.

Another aisle of work gloves reminds me of Asher's hands guiding mine on the hammer.

And the hay bales stacked by the entrance?

Well, those just make me think of Gavin and activities that definitely shouldn't happen in public.

What I didn't expect was for everyone to stop and stare when we walk in.

The store goes quiet, like someone just announced the pope was here. Or maybe the antichrist. From the looks I'm getting, it could go either way .

Billy, on the other hand, thinks the attention is for him, and he smiles and glad-hands everyone he can reach.

"Kenzie!" Clara Mae's voice booms across the store like a foghorn. "Honey! Come here and let me look at you!"

She's standing by the register with what appears to be half the town's female population, all of them eyeing me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen at the zoo. The kind you're not sure if you should feed or run from.

"Ladies, you know Kenzie," Clara Mae announces unnecessarily, grabbing my arm and pulling me into their circle. "She's the one who inherited the Dusty Spur from dear Maybelle."

"And apparently everything that comes with it," one woman mutters, her eyes flicking between Gavin and Asher like she's calculating something on an invisible calculator. She's wearing pearls with her flannel shirt, which seems like mixed messages.

"Now, now, Doris," Clara Mae says, but her eyes are gleaming with mischief. "Don't be catty. Just because your husband looks like a potato doesn't mean you should be bitter about other people's good fortune."

"My Harold is a perfectly respectable-looking man," Doris huffs.

"If you're into potatoes," someone whispers, and there's muffled laughter.

"Now, honey," Clara Mae continues, ignoring the potato debate, "we were just discussing the ranch. How are you settling in? Must be nice having all that help around the house."

The way she says "help" makes it clear we're not talking about ranch work. It's loaded with enough innuendo to sink a ship.

"It's fine," I manage, trying to edge away, but Clara Mae's grip is surprisingly strong for someone who claims to have arthritis whenever she doesn't want to anything heavier than a pie dish.

"Just fine?" Clara Mae's eyes gleam brighter. "A pretty young thing like you, living with three handsome cowboys, and it's just fine? Honey, if that's just fine, I'd hate to see what you call exciting."

"We're teaching her the business," Asher says smoothly, appearing at my elbow like a well-dressed guardian angel. But his hand finds the small of my back, possessive and warm.

"I'll bet you are." Clara Mae winks so dramatically, I'm worried she might pull a muscle. "So tell us, honey, which one's your favorite? Gavin with all that rodeo swagger? Asher with those pretty manners? Or Trent with that strong, silent thing that makes you wonder what he's thinking about?"

"I don't have a favorite," I say, probably too quickly and definitely too loudly.

"’Course not," another woman pipes up. She's younger, maybe early thirties, with the kind of bitter expression that suggests life hasn't gone according to plan. "Why pick one when you can have all three?"

The group titters with laughter, and I want to sink into the floor. Or maybe set the store on fire. Either would be preferable to this.

"Ladies," Gavin says, turning on his famous charm, "you're embarrassing our Kenzie. She's not used to small-town curiosity."

"Our Kenzie?" Clara Mae pounces on that immediately, like a cat on a particularly juicy mouse. "Well, isn't that interesting. Whose Kenzie exactly?"

"Mine," Gavin and Asher say at the same time, then look at each other with expressions that are part amusement, part challenge.

"I'm no one's," I say firmly, extracting myself from Clara Mae's grip. "I'm my own person who happens to own a ranch and needs chicken feed. Speaking of which..."

I escape down the feed aisle, but I can hear them talking behind me, their voices carrying in that way that suggests they want me to hear.

"That girl's got her hands full."

"Or maybe the boys do."

"Did you see that mark on her neck? That wasn't from ranch work."

"Unless 'ranch work' is what they're calling it now."

More laughter. My face burns hot. I don't know whether to smack those bitches or cry.

"Three men. Can you imagine? "