“This will help cleanse your aura,” he said sagely.
“My aura doesn’t need cleaning.”
“Hooo boy.” He let out a low whistle. “It does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Noooooo,” I said, drawing the word out with deliberate intent. “It doesn’t.”
“All right,” Miguel quipped. “Let’s meet in the middle and say it does.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Look,” he said. “You’ve got some bad juju surrounding you. And we need to get rid of it. All of it. Am I right, Adelaide?”
“He’s right,” she concurred. “Salvia, which is the Latin word for sage, stems from the word heal.”
“See?” Miguel spoke serenely. “I’m healing you. Now be a good boy and turn around.”
I refused to budge, and he simply walked around and waved the smudge stick across my ass. “Air, fire, water, earth,” he chanted like a shaman. “Cleanse, dismiss, dispel.”
“Time out,” I shouted. “Time the fuck out!”
That got his attention, which was saying something considering Miguel had the attention span of a cat with a laser wand.
“Now.” I folded my arms across my chest. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Miguel extinguished the smudge stick in a bowl of water. “What was the question?”
“Who’s Lucy?”
“A girl you matched with on FarmersOnly dot com.”
I said nothing, waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I said, “Care to elaborate how we matched?”
“Oh, you know...” He kept his gaze averted. “She must have seen your profile and liked what she saw.”
“I want to see it.”
“Err...” He hesitated. “Do you have to?”
While he was blatantly stalling, I cut my gaze to his accomplice. “Adelaide?” I said quietly.
“Okay, okay. I’ll show, I’ll show you,” she said in a panic, fumbling for her phone.
It didn’t take her too long to pull up my FarmersOnly profile. Within seconds, a shirtless picture of myself was on the screen. The sun was hitting my face at just the right angle as I stared off into the distance, looking deep and reflective.
Gag me now. So pretentious.
And I appeared to be glowing as the sun blazed a path through my hair while I stood in the middle of a golden field with a blade of a wheat straw set between my teeth.
“See,” she said airily. “You look so ruggedly handsome.”
“That’s the look we were going for,” Miguel added proudly. “Note the slightly relaxed mouth and hint of a smile. Very sexy. Look at that defined jawline and that face bronzed by an outdoor life splitting wood with an axe. Very Hemsworth-esque, I might add.”
“I am a Hemsworth.”
“Pssh!” He waved my words aside. “The other ones, Chris and Liam, the movie stars.”
“And I’ve never in my life set foot in a cornfield.”
“We know.”
“So you did this—how?”
“Photoshop,” Adelaide supplied.
“Ed-Ed-Edric...” Miguel stammered as I began scrolling down. “You really don’t need to read that.”
A muscle flexed in my jaw as I read my bio out loud. “‘Hey, darlin’! I’m a good ole country boy who likes huntin’ and fishin’ and ridin’ four-wheelers. I’m also real good at fixin’ busted Chevy trucks. Most days, you’ll find me livin’ my best life out here on my ten-acre ranch. Yep, right now I’ve got horseshit on my boots and I don’t give two hoots. And I might not be wearing a shirt, but trust me, I look fine A.F. in a plaid shirt and puffer vest. Now I ain’t looking to horse around here. I’m lookin’ for a down-to-earth gal who keeps it real, yer know what I’m sayin’? If you like what you see, my name’s Edric Hemsworth and I’m lookin’ for my forever gal.’” This was followed by a winky face emoji.
“Pretty good, eh?” Miguel winked at me. “What do you think?”
“Sounds like the insane ramblings of a syphilitic brain. And you lied about me.”
“Well,” Miguel said a tad defensively. “There’s no mention of you being a farmer.”
“Yeah, but you lied about everything else. You know damn well I don’t hunt or fish or fix trucks.”
“In my defense, I was trying to create this persona, if you will, of a rustic rancher who might attract a girl looking to date a farmer. And I didn’t exactly lie about everything. You do live on ten acres, and look at this message right here,” he pointed out. “Lucy says you had her at ‘horseshit’ and ‘ten acres.’”
“Okay,” I said tonelessly. “What else does her message say?”
“Here, I’ll read it out loud for you.” Clearing his throat twice, he began, “‘Greetings, Edric. You had me at horseshit and ten acres.’”
“You already said that.”
“Patience, please! I’m getting to the best part.” He expelled an annoyed groan and tried again. “She says, ‘I just got pregnant from your smile, lol. Anyway, I think you’re cute and you look like you have a good credit score. Let’s banter.’ And then she signed off with a winky face emoji.”
“Is that it?”
“Oh, wait,” he said suddenly. “She also left a comment under one of your pictures.”
I frowned. “You uploaded more pictures of me?”
“Just a couple.”
“Well,” I prompted. “Her comment—what does it say?”
“It says: ‘Eyebrows carved by Jesus.’”
Adelaide smiled, cocked her head and said, “You do have perfect eyebrows, Edric, and I like her. I like her sense of humor.”
“Me, too!” Miguel exclaimed. “So listen up! Lucy has a horse and she’s looking to date someone with some land, which, as you well know, is pretty hard to come by in the Bay Area.”
Adelaide nodded. “Nearly impossible.”
This went right over my head. “And what has that got to do with me?”
Turning toward the window, Miguel gestured expansively. “Look outside! You’ve got land. Plenty of it. In case you’ve failed to notice, this estate sits on ten acres of lush, green, horse-grazing pasture.”
“So you think I should date Lucy because she’s looking for horse property?” I threw my head back and laughed, obviously finding it a little more amusing than he did.
When my laughter had finally petered out, Adelaide said earnestly, “I like Lucy. She seems lovely and she’s refreshingly straightforward. I appreciate how she’s upfront about what she’s looking for in a man. Granted, she’s not your usual type but at least she keeps it real.”
I have a type? “Tell me,” I said. “What exactly is my type?”
Miguel coughed loudly. “I’ll answer this one.” With glinting-eyed relish, he said, “Oh, you know, vapid, needy, pretentious, self-entitled. High-maintenance. Diva-like. Usually an Instagram model or some sort of social media influencer. Drinks green juice out of mason jars. Passionate about being gluten-free. Imposes her lifestyle on you and if you aren’t careful she’ll eat you alive and use your bones as toothpicks.”
“Yeah.” I strove for a bored tone. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“Everything. And they all have the same personality. It’s called ‘I Don’t Have One.’ It’s like a Lazy Susan of ‘no personalities.’ Besides, that hasn’t seemed to work out for you, so why not try dating outside your comfort zone?”
“And you want me to date a horse gal?” I scoffed. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
Now it was Miguel’s turn to scoff. “Why not?”
“Why not? Why not? Let me count the ways. How about I start with the obvious?” I began ticking off my fingers. “One: Every girl with a horse on that dating site is only looking for a place to keep her horse. She’s not looking to date. Girls who have horses have zero time for dating. Horses require a ton of care and an enormous commitment, which leaves little to no time for anything else. Two: Horse girls never want to
ride anything but their horse. Three: They often smell like the barn. And horseshit. Four: Their horses always come first. If you date a horse lover, your relationship will never ever be a priority.”
“You’re repeating yourself,” Adelaide said quietly. “Four and one are essentially the same.”
“And five,” I went on, “money. Owning a horse is costly. It’s a four-legged financial drain so these girls are either spending Daddy’s money or your money.”
“Oh, my stars.” Miguel clutched his invisible pearls. “You think Lucy is a gold-digger?”
“What?” I retorted. “You think I’m reaching?”
“You reached so far with that you dislocated your shoulder, sis.” Miguel clucked his tongue like a disapproving aunt. “Yes, Lucy is looking to date someone with horse property, but I believe in my heart of hearts that she’s also looking for love.”
“Well, you’re a relentless optimist. I’m not.”
Adelaide let out a heavy sigh. “We are all in the gutter, Edric. But some of us are looking at the stars.”
“Oscar Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead,” I quipped. “Pessimists live longer, healthier lives than optimists.”
“I know he’s dead.” She rolled her eyes. “But he died of meningitis, not from being an optimist.”
“Look.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “I’m speaking from experience here. Once upon a time, I dated a horse chick and she was a spoiled princess. I had to spend all my time helping around the barn, driving her around, driving her horses around. And she was crazy. Horse people are crazy and that’s a fact. Tell me, what sane person would get on a thousand-pound beast that could easily kill you? A horse could kick out your brain with one blow.”
“Edric,” Adelaide implored. “You’re better than this. You’re judging Lucy simply because she has a horse. That’s terribly unfair. Why don’t you at least meet her first?”
“Yeah,” Miguel said harshly. “Meet the girl before you judge her.”
I inhaled sharply. Exhaled. “Fine,” I said at last. “Do you have a picture of her?”
Adelaide shoved her phone in front of my face. “That’s her. Isn’t she cute?”
Well, damn, now this had me rethinking everything. Lucy was cute and sexy at the same time—the best combo. I found myself admiring her long, silky hair that cascaded all the way down to her curvy, shapely butt.
“Ooooooooh,” Miguel cooed. “That hair of hers is lush, isn’t it? Lush. Somebody give this girl a Pantene commercial. Can we say hair goals? Becky with the good hair ain’t got shit on her.”
“She does have nice hair,” I agreed.
“Hmm.” His lips pursed for a moment. “I wonder if Lucy uses horse shampoo.”
“You mean Mane ’N Tail?” Adelaide chimed in.
“Yes!” His eyes lit up. “That’s it! I’ve heard it does wonders for human hair.”
True to form, Miguel was already veering off topic. “Tell me more about Lucy.” I stared at her picture, my eyes lighting on her snug shirt with the words ‘Queen Off Duty’ blazed across the front.
“You’ll find out more about her on your date. Oh and by the way, you’re meeting her for coffee at Brews and Brews.”
“When?”
“Two hours.”
While I hemmed and hawed, Miguel clucked his tongue. “C’mon, man. You have to meet this human shampoo ad.”
As my hesitation stretched, he said, “You’re overthinking it.”
“He’s right.” Adelaide offered me a warm smile. “You’re just meeting her for coffee.”
“And who knows?” Miguel clapped my shoulder. “This horse girl with the lush hair could turn out to be a dark horse. I’m telling you man, I feel it! I feel the love in the air.”
“Humph.” I set my mouth in a grim line. “I must be breathing a different air.”
“Alexa!” Miguel yelled at my Amazon Echo device. “Play Love is In the Air.” Then he began pumping his arms to the disco beats. “Do you feel it now?”
“Let me think.” I didn’t bother thinking. “Nope. Still don’t feel it.”
Chapter Two
Lucy
HOT DAMN! IT WAS HIM. Farmer Edric.
I recognized him immediately and my God, was he a rugged ray of sunshine.
A tall and strapping stallion of a man.
Country Roads began playing in a loop in my head. I took one look at him and began crooning, “Country boy, take me home. To the place I belong-oonnggg.”
For the most part, he looked exactly like his FarmersOnly profile picture, except he wasn’t chewing on a bundle of wheat head while spitting out seed shells.
As he turned his head, our eyes met across the crowded café, just like in the movies.
Is he going to say something that will sweep me off of my feet?
With a cool and silent swagger, he picked his way through the maze of tables and slid into the chair across from me. “Hi,” he said. “I like your hair.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, finger-combing the long strands so they fanned out around my shoulders. “I grew it myself.”
“Did you?” He smiled back. “I’m Edric.”
“Lucy.” I canted my head slightly while giving him the once-over. “I like your, um... sleeveless hoodie.”
“Ah, you’re a woman of impeccable taste.”
“I’ll be honest, though,” I said. “I’ve never understood the concept of hoodies with the sleeves cut off. Are you cold, but only kind of cold?”
He kept his expression light and flirty. “Are you mocking the way I dress?”
“Possibly.” A pause. “How shall I put this? You’re winter on top, spring in the middle, and summer on the bottom.”
He simply shrugged. “As you know, there are micro-micro-micro-climates here that necessitate dressing like this.”
I tried to keep myself from laughing, but only barely. “And what sort of micro-climates would you be referring to?”
“Micro-climates that vary based on the temperature from the ground up,” he said in all seriousness, though there was a hint of laughter in his voice.
Mmmkay. I couldn’t decide if I liked this guy or not. “Ahem.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I can’t believe you showed up for our date in a sleeveless hoodie and sweatpants.”
“If anything,” he said coolly, “I want to be judged by my actions and personality, not the clothes I wear.”
“Same.”
“But I enjoy judging other people.” His eyes flicked briefly to the entrance and he jerked his chin at a guy walking into the café, dressed in the slimmest silhouette I’d ever seen—the tightest pair of skinny jeans with about a million rips in them. “Don’t you love it when grown men work out so hard at the gym so they can look manly, and then they dress like teenage girls?”
I stifled a giggle. “Those jeans are so tight they’re practically meggings.”
“You mean jeggings?”
“No, I mean meggings. They’re jeggings for men addicted to the nut hug.”
“I see,” he said reflectively.
“Honestly, I think any guy over thirty who wears ripped jeans is a dingus.”
“Agreed.” He gave a crisp nod.
“I mean, it’s one thing if he ripped them during some grand display of physical activity—”
“But if he’s wearing ripped jeans because he paid for them, then Pssh!” He blew out a breath. “What a preposterous dingus!”
“Exactly.” In my experience, men obsessed with this trend were typically Easter egg baskets of douchebaggery. But this guy Edric over here, he dressed like he couldn’t give two fucks and I didn’t quite know what to make of him.
“I just don’t see the appeal,” he went on. “I want my clothes to last as long as possible; buying them with holes and rips just seems counterproductive.”
“You sound like my mom.”
“Your mom is a wise woman.”
“What if someone gifted you a pai
r of ripped jeans?”
“As long as I’m not swinging a nut or having my ass hanging out, I’d wear them at home when I’m in the garage or out in my back yard.”
“You’d wear them outside?” I said with some surprise.
“Why not?” He squinted at me. “What better way to get striped sunburns?”
I studied him intently. “Why are you squinting?”
“I’m not sure. Either that was a bright flash of light that came from nowhere or early-onset glaucoma.”
I looped a finger in the silver chain around my neck and began twisting it around my finger. “That was the sun reflecting off my necklace.”
“Ah. It’s good to know I’m not suffering from vision loss. You know they call glaucoma the silent thief of sight.”
“Wow,” I breathed. “For a moment there, I thought you were about to deliver a cheesy pick-up line.”
“Which one?”
“Your dad must be a thief because he stole the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes.”
“Whhaaattt?” He was incredulous. “Men actually use that on you?”
“All the time.”
“Tsk. Overused and overdone.”
“So what’s your go-to pick-up line?”
In a deep and tortured voice, he said, “Your eyes are as dark as a castle moat by midnight. Lower your bridge and let me cross.”
“Eww.” I made a face. “You use that?”
“Are you joking? I’d never. Neh-vah eh-vah.”
“All right,” I said squarely. “Then give me a line you’d actually use.”
“Are you a beaver?” His eyes caught mine, a flash of wry humor in their dark, entrancing depths. “Because DAM.”
I chuckled. “I’ve heard that one before.”
“You have? Well, that’s more my style.”
“Mmph. I get the pun and all, but why would I want to be compared to a giant rodent? I mean, a beaver is another term for—” I stopped myself. “Well, I won’t go there, but you get it.”
“Yeah, and to be honest I don’t really use pick-up lines.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.” He gave a careless shrug. “Don’t need to. I’m hilarious and my quick wit is very attractive to many.” He said this with a deadpan face, which would have left most wondering whether what he was saying was supposed to be funny or not, but I got him. I got his sense of humor.
The Good Mistake (Hemsworth Brothers #3) Page 2
