This morning, before I had left my apartment for the summer, with my car packed up for this next big adventure, I stopped by the new Santa Barbara location of Southwinds coffee, the local coffee chain owned by the boyfriend of my best friend, Amelia Crowley. Amelia's fiance, Ryan Fielding, happened to be working there when I stopped in, so I chatted with him while they made me the most amazing coffee. He knew that I was vegan, therefore I didn't even need to say that my coffee needed to have non-GMO soy milk and organic coffee beans. He just checked the boxes and handed it to the barista and then smiled at me and asked me about my summer internship.
Boy, he was cute. Yes, he was my best friend's surfer hottie, and they were totally devoted to each other, and I would never get in the way of that, but I had eyes and it was impossible not to stare. The fact that I was looking at him, however, probably meant that I seriously needed to get laid.
I shouldn't have ordered the ginormous soy latte, though.
Seven minutes to go. Now I was bouncing along a dirt road. The ruts and ribs in the road did nothing good for my bladder.
God, I didn't know if I could make it. I felt like a little kid. The bushes on the side of the road were starting to look mighty tempting.
I was driving to Headlands Ranch, my temporary home and job site for the summer. For the past year, I had been going to school at the University of California at Santa Barbara, getting an advanced degree in Counseling Psychology. I became interested in counseling, honestly, after being with Amelia when she went through her suicidal depression. I felt hamstrung by not knowing what to do to help her. So, I went back to school, keeping my job as a preschool teacher at a progressive school during the day, and going to school at night. Although I wasn't sure where I wanted to end up, either setting up my own practice, or working somewhere, I knew that I wanted to help disadvantaged or special needs youth.
Hence, my interest in a counseling job at Headlands.
I had found Headlands Ranch on the internet after I saw an internship posting on Craigslist. From its website, I learned that Headlands was run by the fourth generation of an old California farming family, with William Charles Thrash, III now in charge.
Headlands Ranch was located on California's Central Coast, about halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco, north of Santa Barbara near Santa Ynez. This was a rural part of California, where gentle rolling hills met the Pacific Ocean. Often green with lush grass during winter rains (if we were lucky), the hills were brown in summer, with stocky, Coast Live Oak trees standing guard over row upon row of grapevines. It looked like the famous Napa Valley in parts, but it did not get as cold in winter as Napa. The flatter areas generally were planted with row crops—strawberries in coastal areas, colder crops like kale and cilantro inland. Some areas had cattle grazing; being a vegan, I did not approve of their ultimate use. But the area more than made up for it with its natural beauty. Only a few scattered towns were in this area, which had an overall tiny population compared to the urban areas of California.
While the ranch was a diversified farming operation, with apparently everything from organic strawberries to blueberries to avocados to citrus to grapes for wine, what interested me was its affiliated nonprofit association. Headlands Ranch ran a therapeutic horsemanship and agricultural program, called the Headlands Program, which was my new employer.
It had two types of programs. The first was for urban kids from Los Angeles, San Francisco, and other cities in California such as San Jose, San Diego, and Sacramento. These were kids who had never seen a cow, and they essentially went to camp at Headlands for a week to experience new things: stay in a bunkhouse, learn to take care of animals, help around the ranch, and do teamwork skills. The other program was for special needs kids. The ranch had a lot of therapy horses and other animals, and the kids would come up and stay and spend time with the animals, learning to ride horses and spending time in the fresh air. With both programs, the kids would come up for a week with their adult leaders or parents, stay in a bunkhouse, help with easier tasks on the ranch, eat in a mess hall, and experience the rural life. The ranch received some grants for running this program, and it had had full-time horse wranglers and other staff. I was hired as a glorified camp counselor, to watch over the kids and help with any counseling that came up, as well as run the teamwork skills and games. I was lucky that it counted for internship credit for my graduate degree program.
This was going to be so much fun!
But not when I had a full bladder. As the clock on the GPS ticked down to five more minutes until arrival, I passed through a gate with an arch overhead that read HEADLANDS RANCH, ESTABLISHED 1910 in rustic font, very old-fashioned and Western-looking. I continued down a rolling dirt road and pulled up at a collection of farm buildings at the end of the line. There was a huge, old, white farmhouse, what looked like a bunk house, some newer looking ranch houses, a couple of barns, some corrals, and some other accessory buildings.
I parked my car and got out immediately, hoping against hope that there was a place to go pee, like, now.
A tall, thin, tan, no-nonsense, horsey-looking woman, forties-ish, with sea green eyes and long, straight blonde hair in a ponytail, came out of the bunkhouse and said, "You must be Marie Diaz-Austin. Welcome. I'm Janine Thompson, the head wrangler for the Headlands Program."
Sticking out my hand, I said, "It's nice to meet you. You wouldn't by any chance have a bathroom I could use, would you? It's been a long drive and I'm dying here."
She smiled warmly and pointed to the closest building, the old, white, farm house, and said, "Sure, go right ahead in there. Second door on the left down the hall."
I was embarrassed enough already, so I tried not to run, and instead walked really, really fast to the building, like they speed-walk in the Olympics, then ran up the stairs, flung open the front door, scooted down the hall at a clip, and opened the second door on the left—
—and literally ran, full body, full bore, into a naked, wet man, who staggered with the impact of my weight against him. My breasts hit his back, my legs straddled the sides of his, and I grabbed onto his soaking nude waist to keep from falling. The front of my shirt, my shorts, and my legs got wet from the water on him.
"The fuck?" he grunted.
"Ohmigod, I'm so sorry," I started as I jumped back immediately, hands up like I was being arrested, and then I got a look at him. He turned around to look at me, hands on hips, completely unabashed at wearing his birthday suit.
Well, this was interesting.
He was totally naked, as in just stepped out of the shower naked. He had not even had a chance to grab his towel, he was so naked. Did I mention that he was naked? And he was dripping on a bathmat, with the water that had not rubbed off on me running in rivulets to the ground, standing there, glaring at me.
I couldn't tell you what I noticed first about him, except that he was belongs-in-a-naughty-magazine's-centerfold attractive, so I'm just going to list what I saw, in body order, from top to toe.
He was really tall, like at least six inches taller than me, and I was a not-short five foot ten.
His hair was longish, wavy, wet (obviously), and a lush, dark brown.
The pair of eyes that glared at me were a deep, dark, chocolate brown. They were rimmed in enviable thick, dark brown lashes that curled. Why don't women ever get natural lashes like that?
His face was classically handsome, with strong eyebrows, a straight nose, and high cheekbones, with hollows underneath, and some yummy stubble along his square jaw.
He was tan everywhere. In other words, although this was a farm, he did not have a farmer tan. And, since he was naked (as I may have mentioned), I could tell. He had a brawny chest, strong, thick arms, with meaty forearms, a washboard waist, and strong legs.
And, his junk. Yep. There. Unlike a turtle, it was not hiding in a shell. He was at half staff and boy, full staff would be a treat. His junk was the kind of junk that you used "feet" rather than "inches" to measure. As in "more tha
n half a foot," unerect. Well beyond.
A fucking gorgeous man.
Totally pissed at me.
I so knew how to make an entrance. I tried to salvage the situation, by mumbling "Janine told me I could use this bathroom," but he interrupted.
"Ever think of knocking?" he snarled, as he reached for a white towel and wrapped it around his waist, now looking like an ad for razor blades.
"I'm sorry," I said, aiming for sincerity. "It's been a long drive and I really have to pee." This last bit may have come out of my mouth just a wee bit desperately.
"Go down the hall, there's another bathroom. I'm using this one." And he pushed me out, by physically pushing my shoulders, and shut the door.
Way to start the interactions with my fellow staff.
I took off down the hall at a bit of a trot, found the bathroom, and relief. All was well, for now.
As I headed back down the hallway, his bathroom door opened and he came out, dressed in dark blue Wrangler jeans, with a huge belt and belt buckle, a tight, faded blue t-shirt, and cowboy boots, hair still messy, curly, and wet.
He looked me up and down and said, "You're a fucking liberal, aren't you?" Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a can of Copenhagen and stuffed some chew in his cheek.
Disgusting.
And, the fuck?
I was extremely liberal, but so what? How could he tell? I was wearing normal clothes: my denim short-shorts, Tom's shoes, and a white cami (that was probably see-through due to my literal run-in with Mr. Shower). I would have to change.
Well, I suppose my non-conservative status was obvious, given my tattoos and my eyebrow piercing. My hair was normally dyed in colors that were not found in nature. But right now, it was a bleached blonde, and would probably stay that way for the summer. Naturally, my hair was a medium brown, to match my medium brown eyes. I was skinny, with long legs (it was genetics, my parents were that way) but I had some boobage going on (again, genetics).
But how dare he judge me so quickly. And what do my politics have to do with working on a ranch?
"What's wrong with that?" I shot back.
"Darlin', life's too short to list all the things that are wrong with being a liberal," he drawled, and then sauntered out the front door and down the steps of the ranch house.
Oh, I was pissed at him for being such a gross, judgmental asshole. But I didn't want to get into a fight in the first five minutes of my new job so I kept my mouth shut. For now.
Still, I couldn't help but watch him go. He had a damn sexy walk, almost like he owned the land he was walking on. Now, I'm not one who goes for Wrangler jeans—my favorite type of music is "anything but country"—nevertheless I noticed that he filled them out well. But then he turned around and said, "This is Reagan Country, and don't forget it."
And he kept going until he was out of sight.
Reagan Country? Was he kidding? Was he even born during the Reagan years?
Ugh.
Motherfucker!
The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) Page 20
