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Dad. I wonder if I’ll ever call Hank Dad…or Otto Grandpa.
“You really need an update. You’re so young in the photo you don’t even have any gray hair yet,” I tease. “You could really show off the ranch, the broodmares, and stallions. Even add a few different breeding options.”
Otto brings a large plate stacked full of pancakes over to the island and sets it down, then turns and grabs the bacon and maple syrup and places those next to the pancakes. “What exactly are you thinking?”
Hank stands and removes three simple, white plates from the cabinet behind us and places one in front of each bar stool. Then he turns and grabs three forks from a drawer and distributes them. He watches me as he works, waiting for my answer.
“Well, your reputation for breeding excellent racehorses speaks for itself. But between all four of your broodmares, you can only produce two to three foals a year. If you used your stallions for artificial insemination, you could bring in even more income, for very little effort—no offense to the stallions,” I say, and the three of us chuckle. “Raymond—uh, my mother’s husband,” I add awkwardly, “started doing artificial insemination with our stallion a few years ago.” Raymond isn’t an equestrian, but he has a mind for business.
Otto hums thoughtfully.
“Ugh, do we have to talk about horse sperm at the breakfast table?” Hank asks, looking peevish.
Otto rolls his eyes. “Oh please. You’ve seen enough by now not to be squeamish about sperm.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. It really is a strange conversation.
“What’s so funny?” I startle at the deep voice that comes from behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Lincoln standing in the space between the kitchen and living room.
He’s left his Carhartt coat and dirty boots at the front door and is left in a tight, white waffle-knit shirt. He rolled his sleeves up to reveal his tattooed, muscular forearms. The shirt has three buttons in the front, the top two of which are undone, showing a smattering of dark chest hair. I wonder how far the chest hair goes. Is it just a smattering on his well-shaped pecs, or more of a Tom Selleck situation?
“Ahh, Linc,” Hank says. “You’re just in time for breakfast and horse semen.”
Lincoln’s eyes widen. “What?”
Otto shakes his head. “Don’t listen to him. Sit down and eat.”
I shift in my seat as Sunshine slips onto the barstool beside mine. I didn’t realize he was joining us for breakfast.
“I’ll just have some coffee. Poppy made a big breakfast,” Lincoln says, looking straight at Otto and not even glancing at me as he sits down.
“Sure thing.” Otto grabs a mug off a peg above the stove and fills it with coffee, then slides it toward Lincoln. “That Poppy sure is a good cook, just as good as your mama was.”
Lincoln nods somberly, reaching for the mug.
Was. Did something happen to their parents? I was so immersed in conversation with Poppy last night, I never even stopped to wonder about her parents.
“You want some coffee, Hattie?” Otto asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.
“Yes, please.” I smile then fidget, knowing my next request is going to draw more judgment from the hot but grumpy cowboy seated next to me. “Do you still have some dairy-free creamer?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Otto says, reaching into the fridge, removing the creamer, then sliding it across the bar along with a steaming cup of coffee. “You’re the only one who drinks this sweet stuff, so I don’t think we’ll run out any time soon.” He winks, his good humor putting me at ease despite the judgment oozing off Lincoln.
I can tell he’s finally paying attention to me as I pour about a half cup of French vanilla oat milk creamer into my coffee. The small market stocks several varieties of dairy free products, this among them.
Lincoln reaches forward and takes a napkin from the napkin holder. His arm brushes against mine with the movement, and the scent of his skin clouds my vision. It’s not cologne, or at least I don’t think so. It’s likely just his body wash or shampoo swirled with the smell of a hard-working man.
A foggy vision of standing in front of the stove in Lincoln’s farmhouse wearing an apron pops into my head unwarranted. In the vision I’m baking something, and Lincoln comes in the door with dust on his Wranglers and dirt on his boots. When he sees me, he grins, and his eyes drop down my body.
What the hell, Hattie? I shake my head, shivering, as I bring my mug to my mouth and sip. Not only do I not have a clue how to bake, but Lincoln would never smile at me like that.
Plus, Mister Sunshine is a judgmental asshole, and I wouldn’t want him to. No matter how great his ass looks in his tight little cowboy jeans.
When I break out of my haze, I realize Otto has placed a stack of pancakes in front of me with two strips of bacon. These men know how to eat, and I wonder if I’ve been malnourished my whole life. My mother is very particular about carbs and sugar. She always made egg-white omelets for us in the morning when I was a kid. They were awful.
Lincoln sips on his coffee, and I swear I can feel him staring at my profile. Maybe he somehow saw the thoughts in my head about his Wranglers. I would die if he did.
