Page 3 of Ready, Willing and Abel (Dog Tags #6)

chapter

three

Esme

ME: You are never even going to believe what I have to tell you.

MIA: eye roll emoji

MIA: You’re so dramatic.

ME: I met Abel Cartwright.

ME: And saw his junk.

ME: And touched his butt.

My phone rings and I’m already laughing when I answer it.

“How’s that for dramatic?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.

“I don’t believe you,” my sister says.

“I swear on MaMaw’s old rosary.”

Mia gasps. “The one she said was blessed by Pope John Paul II?”

“Exactly.”

“Talk.”

So I tell my sister the story about how I found him in my field, he was trying to steal prickly pears—bare—handed, I might add!—the subsequent goat issue that then became the fell-into-a-cactus injury.

By the time I’m done with that, Mia is already in tears, she’s laughing so hard.

“You’re going to make me pee myself,” she says, then snorts. She wheezes a little. “Okay, go on.”

“So there he is, naked in my bed. Okay, not completely naked because he still had a shirt on and his shoes. But naked junk on my sheets and naked ass right at my fingertips.”

“This is gold.”

“I probably enjoyed removing the spines from his skin more than I should have.”

“I mean, if you have to look, might as well enjoy,” Mia says.

“True. When I got all of them out, I cleaned the area with peroxide, then smeared aloe vera on him. By this point, he was sleeping. I think it was Bruno that did him in. He might have nibbled on Abel’s bottom.”

“Smart goat.”

“Mia!” But I laugh too.

“And he just fell asleep in your bed?”

“Yep.”

“What did you do?”

“I went out to my couch and watched movies. When I woke up the next morning, he’d left a note and a hundred- dollar bill.” I’ve still got both of those in my pocket. I might be making light of the entire situation as I’m retelling it to Mia, but in reality, I’m rattled. Or something.

I’m a pretty no-nonsense person. You have to be to live on a farm, alone, in Texas. My jams and my goats keep me busy. My house is too small for me to hang onto unnecessary clutter. Money is too tight to keep a hundred bill out of the bank, no matter who gave it to me.

Still, something tells me I won’t be depositing the cash or tossing out the note anytime soon.

“A hundred bucks?” Mia snorts. “What for? Services rendered?”

“Actually, he took a jar of my jam.”

“That sounds kinkier than I know it was.”

“He actually took a jar. I believe it was a grovel gift to his future sister-in-law.” I explain the story he told me.

“Well, if his twin brother lives here, that means he’ll be back. You could see him again,” Mia says.

My heart thump, thump, thumps at the thought of seeing Abel again. Talking to him. Maybe telling him my name. But that’s just a silly fantasy.

“Oh my God, Esme, did he see the poster?”

That drops my heart directly into my stomach. “Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that. No, I don’t think so. I mean, it’s inside my closet, so there’s no reason why he would have opened that door.”

I hope.

Not that it matters. Despite Mia’s optimism, there is little to no chance I will actually see Abel Cartwright again outside a movie theater. Lord knows, I’m certainly never going to see his bare ass again.

He is a movie god. I am a country girl who’s never even been to Houston. Meeting him once was a freak accident as rare as lightning striking a lone cactus in a field of oaks.