In a few weeks I had an opportunity to present my business proposal for the ranch to the Tararua Rural Entrepreneurs Association. This was make or break. I’d been working on the slide deck for three months (the first month was spent working out what the fuck a slide deck was). I’d been serious about preparing for it by showing everyone I was NEW MIKE. It had been going really well. Until yesterday.
Making a crumpet of myself over Lyssa felt like it had undone a whole year’s worth of work. The moment I’d seen her twirl in that little cheer skirt, I knew I was in trouble. Each spin gave a glimpse of her perfect ass cheeks—she had such nice, girly ass cheeks and I couldn’t explain it better than that. They were round and high, just begging for a playful little slap or a bite.
I was fucked.
After that, there was the Oz thing.
Double fucked.
And the situation on the side of the road.
Triple fucked.
If my vet friend Carrie still lived next door I would have strolled over and asked her to tranq me.
I’d been sweating my ass off to prove to the Entrepreneurs Association that I wasn’t a hothead playboy anymore and could be trusted with investment and a high-profile tourism business. And I’d ruined all my progress in one day.
I was furious with myself. Oscar had needed a punch in the fucking nose so many times over the last few months, and each time I’d taken the high road because my business goals were more important. Then one crack about Lyssa and I’d popped him without a second thought.
My sister was right, I was a ham-fisted, ham-headed doofus.
Red paint splashed across my jeans.
“Fuck.”
There was a lot of red paint on the floor too. The whole shed looked like a crime scene.
I gave up and went and got a beer.
Sometimes you had to know when to stop thinking and start drinking.
My best mate Dean pulled up my driveway at about four that afternoon. I hadn’t been expecting him. He lived a few hours south of Woodville, but sometimes when he went up north for work, he stopped in for a night on his way home.
Dean wasn’t the most social kernel of corn, and these impromptu sleepovers were often the only time we got to catch up. Which was why he had absolutely no idea that Lyssa was staying here and ground to a stunned halt when he saw her sitting at my dining table.
“Whoa. What? Who?”
For Dean, that was a speech.
“Hey, mate.” I clapped him on the shoulder and offered him a beer. I was on my third and in the mood for some company—specifically, company I didn’t want to fuck.
“Dean, this is Lyssa.” I pointed to her with the mouth of my bottle. “Lyssa, this is Dean.”
“You’re Hannah’s husband,” she stood and offered her hand. “Hello.”
Dean was looking at her like she was an alien instead of a beautiful, radiant chaos queen. I nudged him with my shoulder, and he took Lyssa’s hand.
“Yeah.” He shook his head, “I mean, no, we’re not married. But Hannah’s my person.”
Dean was Han’s person too. Even I could admit that. When I first learned my best friend was dating my cousin, I hadn’t been happy. But neither of them had taken my advice to leave each other the fuck alone, and it seemed to be working out for them.
Maybe I should spend less time listening to my own advice.
We hung around my kitchen for a while before I suggested heading to the pub. Dad was usually down there on a Sunday, and frankly, the less time I spent in my house with Lyssa right now, the better. Dean was up for it—there were better dartboards there—and so was Lyssa, because she hadn’t been to the pub yet. We waited while she charged her power bank and found an outfit. I told her to wear whatever she wanted, thinking that would mean something casual. But when she came out of her room in a miniskirt that looked like Christmas wrapping paper folded up and glued together, I wanted to groan. After yesterday, the sight of her in a miniskirt was no bueno for me. Every time I blinked, I saw her in my truck, her skirt pushed up over her hips and her legs spread. The rest of her clothing consisted of a lace nightie over a T-shirt with a picture of sexy cats playing the drums, over which she’d tugged a coat that looked like she’d murdered Cookie Monster and put on his skin.
The outfit was a lot—way too much for Woodville—but very Lyssa.
When we walked into the pub, the outfit set off a chain of whispers I hoped she didn’t hear.
