Page 31 of That Conflicted Feeling

Thenhe turns to look at me and stands there, head cocked to one side, hands on hips, bare feet caked in mud, one pant leg rolled up, the other with a hole nibbled in it, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a giant goat pee stain on his shirt.

It’sthe hottest sightIever did see.

Andthat’s what tips me over the edge.Likea volcano that’s been ready to erupt for decades, laughter bursts out of me.

Firstmy head flies back.ThenIfold in half with one hand holding my stomach, the other on a knee to keep me steady.

“Oh.”Ican barely get my breath enough to force out the second word of the two-word sentence. “God.”

“Areyou having a seizure?” he asks.

Ishake my upside-down head.

“Ilookthatfunny?” he asks.

Inod my upside-down head.

“Didyou do this on purpose?”

Imanage to gulp in some air and pull myself vertical.

ButthenIsee him again, this beautiful man with his finely tailored, pee-soaked shirt plastered to his solid pecs, his perfectly formed forearms splattered with mud, and one ankle that’s more attractive than any ankle should be, sticking out of the bottom of a chewed suit leg.AndhereIgo.I’moff again.

Mystomach actually hurts now.

“StillthinkIcare?” he asks. “Howabout this?”

Heyanks his tie free from its knot, then slides it through the collar of his shirt.Whatthe hell is he doing?

“See?”Heholds it at arm’s length, then drops it in the mud. “Don’tcare.”

“No, no,”Isplutter at him, my laughter coming to a sudden stop. “I’msorry.”

“Youknow what elseIdon’t care about?”

Oh,Iam on a handcart straight to hell—he’s unbuttoning his shirt.

Hisexpression saysbring it on.

Mybody replies with all thehell yessignals it has.

Myfingers itch to help with the unbuttoning, my mouth wonders what that smooth spot between his pecs tastes like, when it doesn’t taste of goat pee, and my lady fig is incoherently screaming her face off.

Butmy brain has more sense and drags me right back to reality, adding a sharp slap to the face just in caseIwasn’t sure.

“It’sfine.”Iwave at him to indicate he should stop. “Iget it.”

Buthe yanks the shirt out of his pants and undoes the final two buttons.It’slikeI’mgetting a private performance of a particularly mucky version ofMagicMike.

Thestrip of flesh on display through his open shirt is hypnotic—the dip in the center of his chest, the glimpse of an ab outline, and the downy trail just above his pants.

Oh, holy shit, he’s taking the whole thing off.

Nowthere are square shoulders and curved biceps and wide pecs and pink nipples, and the whole hot damn kit and kaboodle is on display.

“Christ,Max, it’s okay.Youhave fully demonstrated you don’t care about material things.Orbeing clean.Iget it.”

Heholds out the shirt at arm’s length, like he did the tie. “Didyou?”