Shacking Up - Abby Knox Page 0,2
My younger brother is Raven. My older sister is Dee. Or sometimes Chick. Short for Chickadee.”
I don’t want to know any of these things about anybody’s family. The way people come up with names nowadays, I just don’t want to know.
“Sam,” I say, automatically reaching out my hand. She slips her small hand in mine. As I gently squeeze her fingers, I can’t help but wonder what those hands of hers are normally doing when she’s listening to that sexy story in the privacy of her own home.
One side of her mouth curves up when she smiles at me. “Hi, Sam. That’s the perfect name. You sort of remind me of—"
“Number 47!” calls the bailiff.
I watch Wren startle, pop up, and scamper away toward the front of the room where a court clerk sits behind a desk, confirming the validity of the questionnaire answers previously filled out by each juror. With a walk like that, I wonder if it would be all that terrible if she and I got chosen to serve on the same jury. Might make it bearable. Or terrible. She’s definitely a handful; I can just tell.
Her butt in those short shorts is round and squeezable, her hair is wild. The top half of her body is covered by a long cable knit sweater, the really soft kind that makes women’s curvy bodies look extra huggable. Dropping my gaze lower, she’s got even more tattoos decorating the backs of her thighs. When I sort out the words on one of them, I realize I’m in big trouble with this girl.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” it reads.
No need to worry. I probably won’t get picked.
Chapter Two
Wren
Nice ass for an old cowboy.
My new friend Sam’s number gets called shortly after I return to my seat in the jury room, and I have to smile at the way he mutters under his breath as he slowly rises to his feet, something about how his reading’s been interrupted right as the plot was starting to get good.
He can’t fool me. I can tell by the wear and tear, he’s read that book about eighteen thousand times.
Nah, he’s just mad I didn’t get dismissed. He’s getting increasingly worried he’s going to end up in the jury box with little ol’ me.
He doesn’t like the looks of me at all. He’d probably be shocked out of his mind if he knew I thought he was better looking than that mustached guy from Roadhouse—one of the greatest movies of all time.
I know the type. I see guys like him at the farm supply store where I work as a cashier every day. Not all of ‘em would dress up for court the way Sam has: pressed dark jeans, belt with a silver buckle—a small buckle, not too flashy—plaid button down shirt that’s slightly outdated but he carries it off well. And fills it out well, I might add.
Men like Sam are not an uncommon sight around here; this is cattle country, after all. What I do find unusual is the fact that he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Not even a dent in his weathered ring finger to indicate there might have been one there, once upon a time. Too bad. How can a virile, gorgeous, salt-and-pepper daddy like that not have a partner? Who knows. Maybe he enjoys being single. Maybe he’s a bad boy with a reputation with the ladies, or maybe he’s a serial monogamist who’s emotionally unavailable. All the possible scenarios swirl around in my head, and my intuition rejects every single one.
I watch him quietly answer the clerk’s questions, nodding respectfully and saying, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.”
I survey the crowd and notice a couple of other people staring at Sam too. Heat rises under my skin. I don’t like it that other people are admiring him. Why in the world would that bother me? I just met him less than thirty minutes ago. And using the word “met” might even be a stretch. More like I sat here bugging him to pass the time while we wait.
He seems like an interesting guy to talk to.
Not to mention he saved my face when I forgot to pair my Bluetooth earbuds with my phone and the entire first seven rows in the jury pool room got to hear the first seventeen second of my favorite audio smut.
It doesn’t embarrass me at all if people know what I listen to. Some people read cowboy books. The lady in the row