Ride a Stud
PizzyGirl, this one’s for you.
“Shit.” There was a hole in my favorite canary-yellow shirt. Must have happened while I repaired the fence last week. Guess I’d have to order another one.
I chose something in robin’s egg-blue instead—I wouldn’t be caught dead or alive in plaid—then dragged on a pair of jeans and well-polished boots. I may work in s**t and mud all day, but that didn’t mean I had to look like it. A man had his standards.
After checking my face in the mirror for wrinkles—aside from the crow’s feet that had taken up residence years ago—I frowned at the silver currently encroaching on my dirty blond strands. Traitors. My light gray eyes seemed to say, “Get over yourself,” in the mirror.
I sprayed on a little of my favorite citrus-scented cologne and sauntered to
