Why did I think being a pig owner was a good idea? And why didn’t I take one of the many many many outs Ford offered me yesterday? He practically begged to take her away to prevent me from being stressed over something I didn’t have to be. To protect me from the havoc this adorable pink creature would wreak on my life. I liked that. I like how he was never just concerned with Princess Pinky, but both of us. Which is completely nuts. He shouldn’t be! We’re strangers! Okay, not strangers any more since we spent the entire day and most of the night together. After shopping for Princess Pinky’s things and a very in-depth giggle fest worthy lesson on farm life, we spent the evening watching Clint Eastwood westerns with terrible beer. Not only did I learn a new love for cowboys outside of Toy Story, I found myself swooning over Ford’s accent while he quoted along and the adorable way he cuddled with the reason we were initially hanging out. He was gentle and sweet. Kind. Warm. To both of us. All the things I’ve never had from someone of the opposite sex. All things my best friend Camilla swears only exist in romance novels, which she pretends not to read, but I’ve seen her secret stash in the back of her closet. Before meeting Ford, I more than willingly agreed with her…After? Not so sure.
I snap on my snorkel mask and ditch the tube. My hands plant themselves firmly on my hips. “You ready for this?”
Princess Pinky oinks at me as if in disagreement.
“This is happening. And nothing can stop it.”
Seconds before I lean down towards her, the doorbell rings, and she squeals in delight.
I point a stern finger at her. “This isn’t over, young lady. This is just a pause.”
Quickly, I hustle out of the guest bathroom and straight to the front door.
The moment I open it, Ford’s face immediately shifts. “What the hell are you doing?”
My hand lands on my lounge shorts covered hips. “About to give Princess Pinky a bath.”
He tilts his head to the side. “And the mask is for…?”
“Eye protection.”
His mouth twitches to respond but abruptly stops. He simply lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head.
“Aren’t you early for dinner?” I motion my head towards the pizza boxes in his hand. “It’s like 4 o’clock.”
“I shot you a text to see if-” he cuts his own sentence short. “Ollie, where is Princess Pinky right now?”
“Waiting for me in the tub.”
“Tell me you weren’t going to get in it with her.”
My jaw drops in disgust.
“Tell me you weren’t about to have some weird modern version of deliverance.”
Unable to express my growing horror over the thought, I merely squeak and leave my mouth unhinged.
Ford tosses his head back in unabashed laughter. The temptation to slam the door in his face for teasing me is almost as strong as the one to stand here and observe the strikingly beautiful action in progress. His laughter is not only contagious, it’s almost magical. It envelops your entire presence. Burrows into your system making it impossible not to smile. His perfect parted lips and bouncing broad shoulders add to the list of reasons why looking anywhere else isn’t an option. How the hell is it possible for one human being to look this attractive while laughing at my expense?
With a wide grin, I shake my head. “Do I need to take away your visitation rights?”
He catches his breath and returns his smile to a calming one. “You know you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“That’s not true. Like…scientifically speaking.”
“Did you Google it?”
I twitch a glare which causes him to playfully smirk.
Difference between his jackass tendencies and Daryl’s? Ford never seems like he means it. The little jabs he makes always seem to be littered with the intent to do something just to see me smile again. I could be wrong. I’m probably wrong. I’m usually wrong. There’s no way in hell he gives a shit about me like that…even if a small part of me hopes he does.
“Just meant,” he sighs softly, “you’re more likely to get whatever you want out of me with sweet persuasion rather than threats.”
His tongue crosses his lips and I find myself desperate for that to be a double-entendre. Desperate to have those lips grazing my neck…my nipples…my clit…
The corner of his lip kicks up implying I got the point he was trying to make. At the sight of my face flushing, Ford offers, “Why don’t I put the pizza in the oven, the whiskey in the freezer, and help you give our piglet a bath?”
Backing into the apartment, I allow him to follow me inside. Once the door is shut and our eyes are locked, I state, “You might wanna ditch the shirt if it’s the only one you have. Something tells me this task is going to get very wet and slippery.”
Something strikingly similar to a moan lingers behind his sealed lips. As soon as his face begins to flash a deeper color, I give him a wink to let him know two can play his weird word choice game.
Wouldn’t mind him making me either of those things, and I know for a fact now it’s not just the unwanted abstinence talking.
While Ford places our dinner items in the kitchen, I make my way back to our pink problem at hand.
She may be adorable and probably sweeter than any dog I’ve ever met, but her tendency to get dirty no matter how much I try to avoid it is frustrating. And I know she’s a pig. They’re supposed to be dirty. They’re supposed to be gross. But she doesn’t have to be this bad in the two days I’ve had her. How she managed to get peanut butter and syrup on her is a mystery! I didn’t have either of those for breakfast or lunch!
Princess Pinky looks up at me with wide eyes when I return.
I fold my arms back across my Mario brother’s t-shirt. “That’s right, missy. I’m back. And I brought reinforcements.”
Her tiny squeals sound like sassy back talk.
Before I can get another word in Ford enters the tiny bathroom, his large size effortlessly conquering the space.
She oinks her tiny happiness at his return.
My lips press tightly together to prevent from voicing my understanding of her excitement.
It was so strange how much I missed him after he left. Daryl and I dated for almost five months and not once did I ever feel that…sad when he walked out the front door. Not even when we first started dating and people swear they feel like they can’t breathe without the other person. I never went through those emotions with him. I never had the craving or anxious feelings wondering when he would return. I was practically giddy when Ford texted me goodnight five minutes after his departure, even giddier when he asked could he come by for dinner, and the giddiest when I woke up to his good morning message. I know it’s irrational to feel this way, but as long as I feel it and never mention it, then it should be fine…That’s what I’m going to keep telling myself to refrain from checking into therapy for a physic evaluation.
“Hey little one,” he greets warmly, his accent getting unconsciously thicker. “You ready for a bath?”
She squeaks and wiggles around the bathtub clearly concerned about what’s about to happen.
“I don’t think she wants one,” I begin, turning to face him. “I think-”
My words shatter into a million mumbles the moment Ford yanks off his white polo shirt. An unexpected, smooth, chiseled chest greets me along with digitally altered abs perfect enough to make people riot in the streets that he’s airbrushed. Princess Pinky’s squeaks get louder, but my attention doesn’t waiver. I continue to boldly stare on at a sight I loathe being close enough to admire and do absolutely nothing about.
At least I don’t think I can do anything about it. No. I definitely shouldn’t do anything about it. Rebounding with my ex’s new girlfriend’s ex fiancé is a little too close cousin to bad reality T.V. for my liking. God, why couldn’t he have been her brother? Or her second cousin twice removed? Or her next door neighbor’s best friend’s dog walker? Why on earth does the one guy I’ve come across who gives me that weird butterfly feeling, keep smiling ‘til it hurts feeling, have to be who he is?
Ford gives his stubble covered jaw a small rub. “You’re making me feel a little self-conscious, Darlin’.”
I drag my eyes up to meet his stare. “What?”
“The way you’re starin’,” he continues, green eyes clouded with a hint of uncertainty. “Not sure if your tongue is hanging out because you’re rebuffed by what you see or because you’re wishing to see more of it.”
Definitely more. Like a lot more. Like the whole thing. Like the whole thing on top of me in a hot heaving mess.
A moan attempts to escape my lips. I force myself to focus on the task at hand.
He quietly questions, “You gonna tell me, which one it is?”
“Nope.”
His light laugh echoes around the room.
My eyes threaten to close, enthralled once more by the sound.
I’ve gotta get a grip on reality or get shit faced drunk tonight to forget I have spent the entire weekend playing the updated version of Elly May Clampett with a southern dream boat who is sexy enough to sink all of my senses with minimal effort. Yeah…Getting drunk definitely appears to be the easier of the choices.
The two of us lower to our knees at the same time. He makes the attempt to settle Princess Pinky while I turn on the faucet. From the first sound of the running water she squeals and whines her grievances.
“It’s not that bad,” I scold slowly changing the temperature.
“Have you ever had an ice cold bath?”
“Why are you on her side?”
He begins to lift a hand in surrender when she slips out of his grasp and starts splashing around the tub furiously. Ford scrambles to get a better grip at the same time he’s profusely trying to calm her down. Unfortunately, he fails. On both accounts. She lets out such a heart wrenching cry of pain I shut off the water in submission.
I’ve gotta be the worst pig parent ever.
Ford’s eyes meet mine and I whisper, “She’s terrified.”
“She’ll get used to it.”
“But look at her, Farm Boy. She’s shaking.”
His hands curl around the edge of the tub. “Ollie, most creatures are scared of new things. It’s natural.”
Like me of you? Like how attracted I am to you?
“She’ll learn to muscle through. She’ll see none of this is as bad as she’s thinks.” Suddenly, he scoots around me to switch sides. “Why don’t you hold her while I warm the water a bit and then we’ll put her in it?”
“You don’t wanna hold her?”
“I don’t want you to be the bad guy. You’ll be spending more time with her than I will…”
Instead of blurting out how I hope that’s not true, I nod and turn my attention back to Princess Pinky. “You wanna get out?” I slowly extend my arms towards her. “Wanna get away from the mean water?”
She scurries towards me, slipping in the process. The action makes her squeal in irritation, but she cuddles in close the moment she’s in my grip. He gives me a wink and starts the water again. This time she screams her fear yet allows me to hold her. To protect her.
An unusual feeling tumbles through me.
No one else has ever depended on me to take care of them like this. Daryl was a bit of a baby when it came to having someone do his laundry, his cooking, and making sure his favorite wine was chilled, but he didn’t really need me.
“Talk to her,” he encourages, testing the water with his thick fingers. “Tell her it’s gonna be alright…”
The combination of his tone and elocution stir up the feelings I’m trying to ignore. It’s strange when he says the words, I actually believe them…We’re not just talking about the ones for Princess Pinky but the ones for me too. How bizarre is it really, to find comfort with someone who is going through the same situation? To find solace with someone who was probably just as undervalued as you were?
“It’s going to be fine.” I give her slow steady strokes, and continue watching him fill the tub. “We’re going to get you all cleaned up. And fed. And then a nap in my lap…”
“Never thought I’d be jealous of a hog,” Ford teases sweetly.
If only he knew I would willingly bath him, hand feed him, and then let him fall asleep with his face between my legs…
Princess Pinky squeals in what I assume is joy. “Doesn’t a nap sound great? You love the heating blanket!”
After just a couple more minutes, he stops the water and motions his hands towards it. “Should be a good temp. Put her in whenever you’re ready.”
I look back down at the unhappy pink creature still quivering. “Nice and easy, okay?”
My attempt to place her in the drawn water is ten times worse than Ford’s efforts of holding her in it. Before I can even get her close, she manages to slip out of my grasp, land on the tile with squeak of pain, and bolt out of the room.
A huge sigh of frustration jumps out of me. “Damn it!”
Ford pins me with a mischievous grin. “Your downstairs neighbors are about to hate you.”
As I stand to my feet, I declare, “They already do.”
He lifts his eyebrows in curiosity at the same time he comes to his.
“I will show you exactly why after we catch ourselves a pig.”
“Hog.”
His correction is followed by a chuckle and the two of us rushing to catch the pink bandit hell bent on escaping.
“You really suck at this game,” I tease from my spot on the couch beside Ford. “I thought you were a cowboy. Aren’t cowboys supposed to be good at shooting?”
Ford misses the shot and a zombie successfully takes a bite out of his neck ending the game. He growls his frustration at the same time he snaps his face my direction. “First off, the aim of this thing is nothing like a real shotgun.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And second of all, I never said I was a cowboy.”
“Cowboy…Farm boy…Same thing, right?”
A look of dismay darts his eyebrows down. “Absolutely not.”
The look of unhappiness rushes me to defend, “Is there really a difference or is this the pig versus hog argument all over again?”
He tosses the controller onto the coffee table. “There’s a difference in those too.”
My hand mockingly waves side to side.
“Google confirmed it!”
Enjoying the fluster, I continue, “Did it really?”
Ford abandons one fit for the other. “Yes. There’s a difference between cowboys and men who farm or ranch. That’s like asking me is there a difference between a gamer and a geek.”
I gasp in a highly offended fashion.
“Exactly.”
Ford offers me a warm grin and I instantly relax back against the couch, thankful Princess Pinky didn’t wake up during my startled movements. After eventually catching her, I bit the bullet and got into the tub to insure she didn’t escape a third time. Ford spent most of the time making inappropriate bestiality jokes, and I sophisticatedly countered with several splashes of soapy water to his face that only looks even more delicious when wet. Talk about backfiring. By the time we were finished, we were almost equally drenched. While I changed, Ford dried and fed our stubborn pig. To my surprise, the entire thing was not only fun but felt easy to do together. The kind of easy I’m not used to. Most people I know have a difficult time being around me for long periods of time, never mind actually enjoying my company, but Ford treats me like I’m his oldest and best friend. No questions asked. No expectations shoved in my face. It’s refreshing. He’s refreshing…
He reaches for his glass of whiskey. “So, you drew the characters in the game?”
“Yeah.”
“Like all of them?”
With a nonchalant shrug, I repeat, “Yeah.”
His eyes bulge behind the sip he’s having.
“The four main leads were simple because I was given descriptions. The city sketches were based on a couple major cities I just fused together. And the zombie you just got eaten by, well, they were really just one type I designed with slight modifications to make them appear as different ones, like hair color, skin color, shirts. Nothing too special.”
“That’s incredible you did all those things.”
Uncomfortable with the praise, I deny, “Not really. I mean once I’ve got a sketch and recreate it on the computer; it’s pretty much a walk in the park. Not a big deal at all.”
“It’s a huge deal,” he corrects with promptness. “Stop selling your talent short, Ollie.”
I guess I never realized how much I do that. To me, it’s not a big deal. Maybe that’s why I have a hard time thinking it is. “I don’t…I don’t mean to. It’s just…drawing is what I do. Like breathing. Or eating. I pick up a pencil and doodle. Even when I go out to eat, I draw cartoons on the napkins…which is cute when you’re a kid but heavily frowned upon at twenty-nine-er-thirty.” Ugh. Thirty. My new least favorite number. “I guess I forget anyone else might consider it something special.”
Ford gives me a crooked smile. “You are special and while nobody should have to tell you that, the man in your life should’ve made you feel that.”
Daryl never did, yet here’s a man I’ve known for less than 48 hours making me feel like he’d hang the moon for me because he swore I pulled up the sun for him.
He clears his throat as if uncertain his comment was well received. “And I’ve always been shit at video games. My hands are better with real guns like when we go huntin’. Oliver, my middle brother, he was always good at this stuff. Still is. He’d always rather be inside than outside.”
“Sounds like we would get along great.”
A solemn look flashes in his green stare.
His discomfort tugs at my tangled heart strings. Why on earth would a joke like that bother him unless…well unless…unless I’m not as crazy as I am trying to chalk myself up to being. “So, how many are there of you anyway, Farm Boy?”
“Five.”
“From the same two people?!”
Ford’s laughter bounces around the room loud enough to stir the sleeping pig in my lap. He tries to dial it down by hiding it behind his balled fist. Once his composure is collected, he answers, “Yeah. My parents were high school sweethearts. Started at 18 and quit with me at 25…”
Hearing him speak of his family fondly encourages me to ask more questions, “And you’re really the smallest?”
“Oh yeah. My oldest brother William Jr. or Big Foot as we all call him, is 6’6, beating out Pop who is only 6’5.”
“Holy shit!”
He chuckles, yet continues, “Then there’s Edward or Eddie, he’s 6’5 along with Oliver and Blake. I’m only 6’0, so…a runt in comparison.”
Completely baffled by the information, the only thing I’m capable of is allowing my mouth to bob around.
The sound of his chuckles swells my heart once more preventing me further from speaking.
I wonder how wrong it is to completely love hearing someone else laugh as much as I love hearing him do it. I mean like hearing him do it. I mean enjoy hearing him do it. Yeah. I think I need another drink.
“Are both of your parents related to the Jolly Green Giant?”
He shakes his head, smile never ceasing. “Mama’s only an inch or so taller than you.”
“That’s crazy…”
“Only way to live a good life is with a little bit of that in it…or least that’s what Mama says.” All of sudden, he takes me off guard again, “What about you? Siblings? Short parents? Possibly members of the Lollipop guild?”
Pleased the conversation is never one sided, something else I am not accustomed to, I reply, “Only child with average sized parents.” We share a snicker. “They were both only children and never saw any reason to change the pattern.”
Ford nods his understanding. “What about you? Do you want kids some day?”
His question starts an unexpected ramble, “I-I-I-I-I don’t know. I don’t even know if kids like me. Hell, men don’t even like me long enough to really get that train of thought to leave the station.” The awkward confession heats my face with shame. “Besides, if raising kids is anything like raising Princess Pinky, I will probably suck at it and probably shouldn’t do it. Save the world some stress and destruction. My gift to society….”
He lets out a short laugh. “You’re not nearly as awful at things as you think you are. Your problem isn’t with the actions, Ollie. It’s with the confidence.”
Definition of my life. And yeah, I know self-confidence is an inside job. That’s something Camilla croaks at me at least once a month. But it’s not an easy one. It damn sure isn’t one I always feel like putting the effort into. Then again, like everything else, around Ford it just feels natural to do things differently.
“Alright, Farm Boy,” I swiftly change subjects. “Pick your western of the night.” Just as he reaches for the remote I declare, “But I think we should turn it into a drinking game.”
There’s no objection. “Rules?”
“Anytime there’s a horse on the screen.”
Ford shakes his head. “We’ll be drunk ten minutes into the movie.”
“Not sure I hear a problem…”
The smile I am becoming more and more enamored with is presented again. “How about every time Clint Eastwood rides his horse.”
“Deal.” His brightened grin ignites mine. “But if he only rides the damn thing twice I’m gonna be pissed.”
We share another round of laughter, which Princess Pinky pops open her eyes to. Ford offers to take her off my hands to do the next round of feeding. Glad to be sharing the responsibility, I transfer her over, and head to the kitchen to gather her things. Once she’s been fed, played with, and successfully gone potty, she’s wrapped back up in her heating blanket where she immediately drifts back to sleep. The two of us try to quietly consume luke-warm pizza in hopes she doesn’t wake up to repeat the cycle.
As soon as we’re certain she’s truly knocked out, Ford starts A Fistful of Dollars, his favorite Clint Eastwood western. From the minute the movie starts, the liquor is pouring. While the game rules are the ones we agreed upon, we decide it’s alright to sip a little extra. It doesn’t take long for a little extra to become a lot extra. Between the whiskey and Ford’s amusement flowing smoothly, it’s only a short matter of time before I am tipsy on two very different things. And the more I try to resist the latter, the more intoxicated I become.
I place a hand on my mouth to stop the giggle from escaping. “Why the hell is this your favorite movie?”
“Of all time,” he corrects. When I give him a pointed look he playfully commands, “You have to the say the whole thing just like I do with our hog’s name.”
Rolling my eyes, I brace myself back against the couch, realizing we are sitting closer than I think we were when the movie started. “Fine. Why is this your favorite movie of all time?”
His triumphant chuckle excites me in ways it shouldn’t. “’Cause Clint’s the anti-hero.”
“What?”
“He had been known for basically being the good guy up until this point. You know, the good cowboy who saves the day. Who does the right thing. Who lives an honorable way…” Our eyes lock. “But not in this one. In this one…he’s an asshole. He’s selfish. He gets what he wants…” Ford’s eyes drop down to my lips causing them to part. My breath thoughtlessly hitches as my heart begins to race a little faster. “For once…Clint took on a role where he wasn’t playing it safe. I guess I always liked the idea of that being me some day. Not necessarily an asshole, but more comfortable doing things…differently.”
The silence that settles between us softly sings to both of us to scoot in a little closer. So we do.
Ford drapes his arm around the back of the couch. “Carol Ann hated westerns.”
Her name ignites a sneer. “Clearly she has terrible taste if she left you for Daryl.”
Pride along with lust begins to fester in his gaze. “I think the same thing about him…”
What are we saying? What are we doing? How wrong is it to spend the weekend together like this? Am I really hot and bothered because he does something for me no one else has or is this revenge for being dumped just rearing its ugly head? Or is it just the damn good whiskey we’ve been slinging back? What are the chances that maybe out of a terrible situation for the two of us something beautiful just might be created?
“Daryl hated whiskey,” I add to the bashing. “He was a red wine or nothing type of man.”
“So, a snob?”
“Extremely.”
“Carol Ann hated pizza.”
She’s fucking crazy…
“That’s un American.”
Ford winks. “My thoughts precisely.”
“She probably should’ve been shot for her treason.”
His laugh sweeps the room.
“Oh! Daryl hated cheese.”
Yes. He was also fucking crazy and definitely should’ve been shot for treason. See. Perfect country betraying pair.
“Carol Ann hated spending this much time away from her phone.”
“I don’t even know where mine is,” I quietly confess. His light chuckle sways my body to brace itself against his. “Daryl hated to cuddle…”
Ford lowers his arm to my shoulder and tugs me in closer without hesitation. “I enjoy the hell out of it.”
An overwhelming inability to breathe tumbles through me. His green eyes hold my brown ones captive, while his arm flexes around me tighter. Slowly, he leans a little closer and I thoughtlessly whisper, “You’re not gonna kiss me, are you?”
For a moment he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Shit! I shouldn’t have said that! I should’ve just rested my head on his shoulder and watched this stupid movie! God, I’m like the world’s worst flirter! I have no business flirting with him and if I’m going to defy all social norms than I should at least do it better. Gah. Come first thing…eh…more like third thing, Monday morning, Camilla is giving me some fail proof pointers.
All of a sudden, Ford brushes a few strands away from my eyes before letting his touch drift down to my chin. “Not with whiskey on your breath Darlin’…”
The comment instantly stops what I hope was an overreaction; however, a loud noise from the screen causes me to jump in my seat.
“Relax, Ollie,” he declares, his snug hold increasing, “this is the best part….”
Why do I have this feeling in the bottom of my stomach his reference wasn’t about the movie?