Page 2 of Wedding Wrecker

Both my parents glare at me. Okay, so maybe joking like that about my sister’s horse is a bit mean, but could they not give it a rest?

I soften the blow. “This was delicious, Mom. I’m meeting a friend in town, so I really need to go.” I get up and grab their plates as well.

My blood is buzzing and if I don’t let off some steam tonight, I might just explode. I’m not a violent guy, but I’ve punched a face or two in my life, and my parents are not people I want to even exchange hurtful words with.

It’s enough that I have to endure the shame of them knowing what a disaster my own almost-wedding was. I cringe just thinking about it.

“We will get back to this conversation,” Dad says, and I hear Mom shushing him as I grab my denim jacket off the hook by the door.

It’s hard to believe that there was a time when I itched to do exactly what he wants me to. But the dreams of living out the rest of my life on this ranch, with a loving wife and children are long gone. They were dumb anyway.

There are no friends to meet. I just need to clear my head on horseback, and since I don’t want my parents to know this, our own stable is off limits. But I know just the place to go instead.

Unless something changed during my long absence, that is. My southern accent and cowboy hat immediately single me out as a transplant in Indiana, yet it’s here that I feel like an outsider who no longer fits in. Funny how things change.

I hate it. But it is what it is, so I get in my car and head off, exhaling with relief once I’m out of speaking distance and no longer have to watch everything I say or do.

The trip only takes twenty minutes. The sky’s dark blue and orange when I step out of the vehicle and face the reception building housing all the offices, as well as community rooms for the people boarding their horses here. So close to Dallas, the Hones have lots of business from people living in the city, and while I haven’t been here since I first left for Indiana, I can see that the riding school must be thriving. I spot a new barn close by, and the coat of paint on the reception is fresh.

I see no other vehicles in the parking lot, but there’s a light on in one of the windows, so I head for the entrance and step right in.

“Hello?”

No one’s at the desk, so I walk past the door to the stables, inhaling the calming scent of fresh hay. Someone whistles beyond the stall inhabited by a particularly beautiful dark horse, leading me in the right direction. I smile and tip my hat at the tall animal, but when I get close enough to see the back of a man bending over to get fresh hay on his pitchfork, I stop in my tracks to admire the view.

What can I say? I’m a red-blooded man with steam to blow, and that right there is the Ass of the Year.

Chapter 2

Logan

I hover under a lamp attached to one of the pillars supporting the roof of the big stable building, but Mr. Ass of the Year hasn’t noticed me yet and keeps loading hay onto a wheelbarrow. His whistle goes straight to my balls, high in pitch yet somehow soft as he tilts his hips and places the pitchfork against the wall. As he stands upright to adjust the folded sleeve of his green flannel, I see he is slightly shorter than me but fit, with nice shoulders and firm thighs.

But as I admire his round backside, which looks so perfect in those torn jeans, he turns my way and stalls before pulling out wireless earbuds. I bite my lower lip, recognizing that his front is just as appetizing as the back.

His jaw is square in that masculine way I like, but his brown eyes are big and soft as a doe’s. Clean-shaven, with black hair cut short at the back and sides but a bit longer at the top, he’s the embodiment of what a wholesome country boy should be. When he smiles, I know that if my sister brought him home, Dad wouldn’t even feel compelled to make jokes about having a shotgun on the ready for anyone who might hurt his little girl.

Because this guy couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.

No, he's the type to always help old ladies across the street and who volunteers at an animal shelter.

I rather like him smiling at me.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. We’re closed,” he says, shoving the earbuds into a little case.

“Don’t worry about it. I used to come here often, so I knew my way around the place.” I step closer, drawn to him as though he’s a magnet for my dick. Oh, how I’d love to find out if his dimples are still visible when he sucks cock.

Please don’t be straight. Please don’t be straight. Please don’t be straight.

An ass like that is wasted on straight women.

He blinks, and my stomach clenches when recognition flashes through his gaze. “Logan, right? Logan Ashen?” His smile widens even more, and he steps closer. His features are vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place them when he shakes my hand. “I was a freshman when you finished high school. I was in your sister’s year. Kyle Hone?”

Oh. I do know. But he must have been fifteen when I last saw him, and now? Wow, he’s grown.

I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t, but I already know I’ll scratch at him a bit to see if what I crave is under the surface.

It’s not conceited of me to say I have an easy time getting laid. It’s just the truth. I fit what many people want in a guy. I’m tall, muscular without looking like a meathead, and I’ve been blessed by genes that make my face enticing to anyone who likes men. I have a tan, short brown hair, a bit of scruff, and a sense of style that screams hot cowboy from my hat to my boots.