Page 3 of Ready, Willing and Abel

He shoots me a glare.

I cover my mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I know they’re painful. But they’re not blades.”

“What the fuck ever.” He takes a step and grabs at his hip. “If you’re such an expert, what do you suggest?”

I grab his arm, trying to keep him from backing away. “The problem is, the spines have pierced your jeans and your skin. So every time you move, you’re making it worse.”

He tosses his arms up. “So I just live here now? In this field?”

I wipe my mouth to try to hide my grin. “Not what I meant.” I stare into his face, and it’s almost like looking directly at the sun. I avert my gaze down to his jeans. “The jeans are making it worse because they’re pushing the spines further in. If you keep walking around, those spines are going to tear your skin to pieces.”

“I do not want that to happen. So what’s the solution?”

“I can call EMS and they could bring a stretcher to pick you up.”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “That is not an option. Talk about a publicity nightmare. What’s your next idea?”

“I cut your jeans off here, then you walk back to my house, and I pull the spines out myself. I’ve been pricked enough in my line of work to know how to treat them.”

“Cut off my jeans?” he repeats.

“Yes. That thick fabric needs to be eliminated so I can see the spines to remove them.”

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbles. “I’ve done my own stunts for years. Fucking plant.” He stares at me for a moment, then nods. “Do it.”

So I fall to my knees and pull my garden shears out of my back pocket. With the wide brim of my hat and from my angle at his feet, I can no longer see his face. Which, frankly, is a blessing because his eyes make me forget my own name.

I swallow all the giddy girliness that’s swirling around inside me because… Abel Cartwright!

This close, I can see the majority of the cacti spines are on his hip, some on his thigh, and some on his very fine bottom. Not that I’m noticing that. I’m doing my damnedest to focus on the job at hand. Since the spines are mostly on his left buttocks and hip, I figure I can just slice his jeans up the outside of his leg and then peel them away from his skin. With any luck, most of the spines will come out on their own.

“So, uh, there’s probably something I should tell you,” he starts.

But I’ve already made the first cut into the denim. My garden shears make quick work, and I’m focused on my task, clipping the material to remove it from his body.

When I slice up to the waistband and the fabric peeks open, I’m face-to-face with skin.

I quickly glance up at him. “Commando? Really?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“Who wears jeans commando?” I shriek.

“I do.”

“I mean, I will admit they feel unlike any blue jeans I’ve ever owned. How are they this soft?”

Do not look at his dick. Do not look at his dick.

“They’re Brunello Cucinelli, of course, they’re soft.”

“Makes it make a little more sense that you’d go sans underwear,” I quip, as if I know the brand he’s mentioned. Which I do not. With the bulk of the denim cut away from his body, I can’t help it. I look at his dick.

His not-so-flaccid dick.

What is happening right now?

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters.