Charming as Puck(66)

Everything’s wet.

Kami’s shrieking and leaping away from me and trying to cover her cooch and lunging behind the cow, who decides to charge and moo and holy fuck, I have to throw myself against the wall to avoid taking a hoof to the leg.

Mom’s firing a super soaker, and it’s fucking cold, and I’m not in a shirt, and my dick’s throbbing, and she’s still yelling too.

“She’s an animal with feelings and rights and—ohmygod, NICHOLAS?”

I swipe the water off my face and I’m trying really hard not to glare at my mother for cock-blocking me, but it’s fucking hard when my jeans are soaked and weighing down a two-ton erection that’s not getting any relief now because Kami just snatched her own wet jeans from under Sugarbear, and she can’t quite crouch low enough to not be recognized.

“KAMI?” my mother screeches. “Nicholas Archibald Murphy, why are you go—lick—aaaaahh. You leave Felicity’s friends alone, do you hear me? AND QUIT MAKING OUT IN MY COW SHED.”

She leaves as fast as she came, slamming the door behind her.

Sugarbear’s mooing so hard and fast she’s gonna give herself a stroke.

I can’t tell if Kami’s laughing or crying.

Or both.

“Oh my god, your mother saw my vagina,” she moans

“Probably not,” I say. “I mean, my head was in the way.”

“That’s not any better. Oh my god, I can’t get my pants on. They’re soaked. Dripping. Sugarbear, I am so sorry. I promise I’m going to find you a home where people like me don’t try to have sex in your bedroom.”

“Kami—”

“I can never look your mother in the eye again.” She pops just the top half of her head over the top of Sugarbear’s back, and her brown eyes are huge and horrified and she’s blinking really fast, like she’s definitely trying not to cry.

“You know, odds are pretty good that my dad has—”

“Do not finish that sentence if you want to live,” she screeches.

“You are so grounded, young man!” my mother hollers outside the shed. She’s still muttering, and it’s probably something about either telling my father, or being really fucking grateful that she’s not telling my father.

“I told you she was my girlfriend,” I yell back.

“No one believed you!” she shrieks. “We thought you were pranking us because this is too good to be true!”

“I’m buying that farm tomorrow,” I tell Kami. “We can do it with cows and chickens and—”

And there’s the laugh I’ve been looking for.

It’s a little high and tight and unhinged, but it’s a laugh. “You are so very, very wrong,” she huffs out.

“I’m not afraid to get hay stuck in my butt cheeks if that’s what you’re into.”

“Where’s my vest? And my purse? I need to call a Lyft.”

“We could take this back to your place,” I offer. “I probably shouldn’t sleep here tonight either. Bad vibes. Might fuck with my game brain.”

Also, I’m pretty sure I can’t whack off in my parents’ basement shower without knowing that my mother will realize that’s exactly what I’m doing, so even if Kami’s not planning on letting me anywhere near her pussy again tonight, I still can’t sleep here.

I am definitely buying a farm first thing in the morning.

“I need to get some sleep. I’m neutering three dogs tomorrow, including putting neuticles implants on one, and I need to not be that vet who screws the pooch. As they say.”

I wince. “Okay, that’s helping the boner situation.”

She glances down at my crotch, and one of her sorry smiles wrinkles her face. “I’d offer to work that out for you quick, but your mother would probably come back with the whole hose, and poor Sugarbear’s already traumatized.”

The cow’s huddling against Kami, trapping her between the back wall and the shelves. And she’s still snorting out moos while Kami rubs her back.

I’m jealous of a fucking cow right now.

I grab my shirt—which is relatively dry, though it still smells like liquor and beer—and check out the door. “She’s gone. C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

Kami lifts a brow.

I grin.

What can I say? I’m ever the optimist.





Thirty-Five





Kami



After guilting Muffy into checking on my dogs for me, I spend the night at my parents’ place, because there’s no reason for Nick to spend another hour on the road when he can drop me five minutes away.

And spending the night at his parents’ place is not an option.

For every reason under the sun.

I roll out of my parents’ guest bed—they’ve converted my brother’s bedroom to an office for Dad, my sister’s bedroom to a photography room for Mom, and my bedroom to an adorable guest bedroom decorated with Dalmatians—and stumble downstairs with every intention of raiding the fridge.

I don’t care if I’m thirty or seventy-three, it will always be appropriate to raid my parents’ fridge. It’s a life rule.

However, when I walk into the kitchen, I realize I’m not the only one with designs on my parents’ food.