Page 25 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

What about a cow with no legs? Ground beef.

Gruesome, but he would cackle like I was the funniest man on the planet.

“Let me start over,” I said, sending him a plaintive look. “What would you like to do today?”

He shrugged. I liked to think I was capable of learning a lesson, so I stayed quiet until he answered.

“I wouldn’t mind just hanging out today.”

“Walk around like Heathcliff on the moors?” I cracked.

“Oh my God, Dad.” He thought about it, though, and lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”

I crowed, and he rolled his eyes before continuing. “If the rain lets up by tomorrow, Beau is taking that queer youth group over to the pool in town. I’d maybe like to go with them.”

I tilted my head, not recognizing any of the words he was using.

“Wait, youdounderstand that means you’ll have to be aroundpeople, right?”

Sure, I wanted him to be around teens his age, but I didn’t expect him to volunteer for it.

“Yeah.” He wrinkled his nose. “But I won’t have to be aroundyou.”

Maybe I’ll get my son back after all.

“Okay, fine. You hang out today, go swimming tomorrow, and I’ll take the art class.”

That, if anything, made him laugh even harder. “You? In an art class? This oughta be good.”

“I am not completely without skill.”

“I remember Pictionary, Dad. I promise you, you arecompletelywithout skill.”

“Shut up,” I said, cuffing the back of his head. He leaned into the touch, and I wanted so badly to pull him into a hug that I almost did. I came to my senses, thankfully, but maybe, one day, he’d let me hug him again.

He took one look at me and disappeared into his room. He returned a few moments later and shoved an old, ratty T-shirt into my hands. “Here. Put this on so you don’t ruin your new outfit.”

I took his shirt, grateful to be reminded that, even if art was hard for him, my son hadn’t lost his thoughtfulness.

“And you’resure I shouldn’t have gone with the ten-inch inseam?” I asked River, feeling super exposed.

I was wearing the quarter-zip rash guard that Beau said brought out my shoulders, along with the moisture-wicking cargos and hiking boots. Which, as I considered it, still didn’t really look like ranch gear, but I took a pass on today’s trail rides in favor of finishing up my painting.

“Oh my God, Dad. A seven-inch inseam is still practically Victorian.” River rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised Beau didn’t try to get you into some five-inch shorts,” he said, popping his brows.

Yeah, right.

“Nobody needs to see my pale fish thighs.”

“Whatever, Dad. You have nice legs. It’s okay to show them off.”

“Meanwhile, you’re swathed in all black and want to spend the day in the sun.”

“What kind of word isswathed?” His sigh was distinctly long-suffering. “Beau is never gonna hit on you if you act like such a nerd all the time.”

“Wha?” I sounded like I was choking to death. “Beau wouldn’t hit on a straight guy,” I insisted, ignoring River’s pointed look.

Straight-ish. Whatever. My son didn’t need to know about the two hand jobs and one awkward blow job in my repertoire.