The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil #1)(22)

“Grew up with horses, Izzy. We had them with Dad. Granddad had them too. Dad’s last died six weeks after he did, a week before I sold Dad’s place, or she’d have come to the mill with me. I’ll be able to handle it, and if I can’t, I’ll just come back and get you.”

Being good with keeping it just as having some company and sex with Johnny Gamble seemed easy when I was talking to Deanna.

It was a lot harder when I was actually with Johnny. Especially when I just kept learning more and more how wonderful he was.

I mean, he wouldn’t even let me carry in a six pack of beer.

“That’d be great. And that’d mean we can get to the guac faster. My chicken enchiladas are relatively famous in my circle. My guac is revered.”

He gave me his uneven grin and muttered, “Lookin’ forward to that.” His attention went to the back door, came again to me, and he said, “I’ll be back.”

I watched him disappear before I went to the Crock-Pot and took the top off.

But I didn’t immediately dig in to separate the meat.

I looked out the window and watched Johnny saunter in his faded jeans, which fit somewhat loose just hinting at all the goodness they covered, and dusty boots, but he’d put on a denim shirt, which was a nice touch. It said he was coming over to a woman’s house for dinner and he made the kind of effort the kind of man Johnny Gamble was would make, but he wasn’t going to show in a T-shirt.

I also watched when he stopped to welcome both dogs with firm rubdowns when they found him, and I kept watching as he carried on his way, the dogs dancing beside him, toward the stables.

I did this thinking it took me from probably fifteen to thirty minutes to get the horses inside and settled in for the night, depending on how cooperative Serengeti felt like being.

So I did this thinking that if there was a Johnny-type figure in my life, it would be really nice.

I loved my horses and never thought a second about the time it took to take care of them.

But having someone help would be lovely.

I’d never lived with Kent. Perhaps subconsciously knowing something wasn’t right about him, and Charlie stating about two months into the relationship, “Sorry, Iz, there’s just something off about that guy,” made me cautious. But even though we’d been together for over a year, we never took it to that place.

I’d never taken it to that place with any guy, not Kent, not the two longish-term boyfriends I’d had before him.

Maybe I’d find someone like Johnny who knew how to deal with horses.

Maybe I’d find someone who wouldn’t mind throwing in a load of laundry too.

And maybe I’d find someone who also wouldn’t mind throwing it in the dryer and folding it after.

Or someone who didn’t mind vacuuming the floors.

Whatever it was, even before I struck out on my own, with Mom working all the time and my sister a crazy person, from before the time I really should have been taking it on, I took on the bulk of the responsibilities of running a house with people and animals in it.

It would be pretty amazing to have someone help shoulder the chores.

Johnny and the dogs had disappeared into the stables when I realized ruminating on this wasn’t getting the chicken separated.

Fortunately, it fell apart easily like it always did after cooking all day.

And fortunately, I had the corn tortillas already cut, the real English cheddar already grated and the olives already drained so I could toss them in, stir them up, sprinkle more cheese and olives on top and then put the lid back on for it to finish its magic.

I got the black beans out, opened them up and poured them in a pot on the stove, ready to heat up before I dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to change clothes so I didn’t have to do that when Johnny was around.

He could chat with me while I made guacamole. But after he’d waited for me to arrive, I didn’t want to make him hang alone while I changed clothes.

I’d mentally planned my outfit so it took no time at all to get rid of the trousers, blouse and pumps and put on a pair of crop boyfriend jeans with wide cuffs and the green printed blouse with its cute, ruffle, barely-there sleeves.

I took off my gold bangles, my slim watch, left in my gold studs, and went barefoot down the stairs, lifting my hair in order to fashion a band around it in a big messy topknot.

I hit the kitchen and looked out the window, not seeing Johnny. I considered going out to check on him but instead decided to give him time and I grabbed the avocados.

I started on the dip, my eyes straying to the window often, so I saw it when, not five minutes later, Johnny and my dogs ambled out of the stables.

It was then I realized I liked the way he walked. There was a confident, masculine grace to it. He just was who he was. He looked the way he looked. He moved the way he moved. The fact that all of that was amazing didn’t factor to him.

It was just . . .

Him.

I’d scooped out the avocados and thrown in some salt and was mincing the onion along with the cilantro and chilies when Johnny and the dogs walked in.

“Serengeti felt like being a diva,” I guessed, looking over my shoulder at him and in the process of mincing, so I just swayed my legs against their bodies to say hi to my dogs when they came to say hi to me.

“Your dogs like strangers. Your palomino, not so much,” he answered.

“No, she does, when she feels like doing it. She just felt like being a diva tonight.”