Shacking Up

by Knox, Abby

  Shacking Up

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Proofread by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Dedicated to Sam Elliot. Obviously.

  Contents

  Shacking Up

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Shacking Up

  Sam may have a ranch to run, but he's not one to shirk his civic duties when he receives a jury summons in the mail. Fate, however, seems to be summoning him to the jury pool for entirely different reasons when a fellow juror half his age buddies up to him and refuses to leave him alone.

  Nobody has ever stuck up for Wren before, who's been on her own since 17. When the grouchy rancher, Sam, acts on his protective instincts, Wren is sure beyond a reasonable doubt that he's meant to be hers for life.

  Court is in session and you are going to put on trial for some inappropriate thoughts in this age gap love story with a swoony HEA, one hot cowboy and one sweet pixie siren!

  Chapter One

  Sam

  “I like your boots.”

  The compliment comes from the husky-voiced young thing with the tattoos, the exact person I didn’t want to sit next to me.

  She’s speaking to me while holding one small Bluetooth earphone in her hand, like we’re about to engage in an important enough conversation that she needs to be all ears.

  I don’t want this lady near me because those barely-there cutoffs caught my eye as soon as she breezed in the door of the jury selection room this morning. Hardly appropriate for court. And fifteen minutes late.

  The summons I got in the mail—the one I presume Little Miss Short-Shorts also received—clearly said to arrive for jury duty at exactly 8 a.m. Dress code? “Business or business casual,” it read.

  Not that I’m a huge fan of the government telling me when and where to show up for things. But I’ll do my part for the justice system. I don’t mind fulfilling my civic responsibilities, even though I have a ranch to run and several new ranch hands to train. I did leave my tried-and-trusted ranch manager, Smitty, in charge. He’s like the son I never had. But still, it’s calving season; I hate to miss things.

  I probably won’t be chosen to serve on a jury anyway. I’m a cranky old dude who probably looks like he regularly shouts at kids to clear off his lawn. The kind of guy who has no patience for fancy legalese.

  I’m not actually like that, but I don’t mind if I look a little scary.

  I can’t imagine the tattooed young lady has huge demands on her time. Looking like a free-thinking little rebel chick, she’s perfect if a criminal attorney is in need of a jury of peers for her client. A very pretty, nice-smelling peer who flits about as if she could be carried off by the slightest breeze.

  All that bare skin is making me uncomfortable. Her proximity, and now her talking to me, is making it difficult for me to mind my own business and concentrate on the book I’m reading.

  “Thank you,” I say, giving her a nod and glancing down at my feet. They’re not the fancy kind of country singer boots, just basic brown. But they do shine up nice and seem appropriate for court, unlike my usual shitkickers.

  This wisp of a woman has eyes that are impossibly violet, and they’re locked onto me as she leans back in her folding chair. She crosses her legs, one foot resting on her bare knee. I think she’s waiting for me to pay her a compliment in kind.

  I blurt out, “I uh ... like yours too.”

  This is a lie. I don’t like her boots. They are knee-high, lace-up monstrosities with a four-inch platform and look like they’re from a costume for Frankenstein’s monster. They don’t suit her thin frame at all, nor her overall ethereal glow. Before I can stop myself, my eyes travel up her leg and land on her right thigh, which is just barely brushing against the outside seam of my jeans. Why are these chairs so close together in here? Can’t the county afford to spread these seats out an inch or two to let people breathe?

  The tattoo on her nearest thigh appears to be Latin and says something about bastards. It feels familiar but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Sure would like to put my fingers on that bare thigh and let her explain it to me, though.

  Shit. Five minutes back in civilization and this is what happens. I’m already having inappropriate thoughts about a younger woman. When I’m on the back of a horse, I don’t think about anything but taking care of the land and taking care of my animals. Being all alone in wide open spaces suits me much better than being stuck in this windowless box, rubbing up against this punk pixie siren.

  “Thanks,” she says. That low, sexy voice doesn’t seem suited to a tiny thing like her either. She looks like a person who might have a Minnie Mouse kind of voice. Minnie Mouse with an attitude.

  I glance around to see if there’s an empty seat I can escape to. Anywhere but next to this woman, with her strange, silvery-lavender hair and herbal scent. She looks like one of those protestors who once tried to break in through my gate to free some of my cattle. I wonder if I’ve ever had to call the cops on her or some of her friends. Wouldn’t be surprised.

  The only other other open seat in the room is in front of me, next to the corny guy. A minute ago I heard him comment to his neighbor to the other side, “I guess it’s time to hurry up and wait,” and then guffawed at his own joke like it was the first time anybody had said that.

  All right fine, I’ll stay where I’m at. As painful as it may be. I’m just gonna read my book.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young lady cock her head to read the cover of my Wild West novel, but I keep my eyes trained on the words in front of me. Maybe Louis L’Amour will be enough to ward her off from trying to talk to me.

  He seems to do the trick.

  She sits back in her chair and takes out her phone, then tucks her earbud back into her ear. That’s right, darlin’. I’m boring as shit. Just keep your thighs to yourself. I mean eyes. Not thighs.

  Suddenly, I hear a strange voice, one that’s definitely not from these parts. A highbrow kind of British accent from one of those PBS programs where fancy folks laze about a manor house and give each other knowing looks while discussing the weather. I mean, I don’t watch those shows, but I’ve seen them advertised. And I might’ve caught a minute or two, here and there. And maybe I’ve lingered, if something interesting is happening, such as a lady turning down a proposal of marriage from some oily dude. Anyway, how could a guy like me resist looking at well-mannered English women wearing historical costumes that show off their tits?

  And then my brain registers what that British male voice is saying. And it for sure ain’t a costume drama on public television.

  “Take it out and hold it in your hand. It’s quite massive, isn’t it? Now, pet, you’re going to do as I say and put it your mouth.”

  People s
eated around us give themselves whiplash as they swivel around trying to locate the source of this filthy narration. Some of them stare at me and the young lady, but she’s just sitting there staring at her phone screen, perplexed. Someone nearby titters. Some old lady in the row in front of us gasps, horrified.

  The sounds of smut continue, the breathing becomes heavier, and the invisible British man is getting bossier now. “I said, stroke it and tease the tip. Be a good girl, now, and you’ll get your reward.”

  I realize what’s happening. The young lady is listening to something filthy on her phone and she doesn’t realize the Bluetooth connection isn’t working.

  Jiminy Christmas. What in the world is she listening to? And where can I find the female-voiced version of it?

  “Ma’am,” I say, shifting toward her although it’s the last thing I want to do.

  She ignores me. Must be noise cancelling headphones.

  I don’t want to touch her, but I tap her gently on the shoulder.

  She turns her head and her mouth drops open, giving me a questioning look.

  “What?” she says, a little too loudly.

  I point at her phone, and then at her ear, and shake my head.

  Her eyes widen in horror when she realizes what has happened.

  Rushing to stop the track playing on her screen, she fumbles the phone and it clatters to the floor. Meanwhile, the words broadcasting from it become more graphic with every passing moment.

  “Fuck," she says, her hands scrambling and missing. Some people around us are in stitches, some are murmuring about public indecency. The phone skids across the floor and I reach out one foot to catch it, pinning it beneath my boot.

  Leaning forward, I press the pause button on her screen. “Sorry, folks,” I say to the half-horrified, half-amused faces all around me as I sit up straight again. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Must have drifted off and started talking in my sleep.”

  I hand the phone back to the young lady.

  While trying to get back to my book, I can feel many pairs of eyes on me, including the lovely ones belonging to the tattooed woman next to me. I can tell her jaw is hanging open.

  Without looking up at her I ask, “You trying to catch flies with that mouth?”

  “I’m Wren,” she says.

  I tear my eyes away from the page and look at her. Her pretty eyes are full of gratitude. “Like the bird, not like Ren & Stimpy.”

  I shoot her a questioning look. “Ren & Stimpy?”

  “My mom’s a hippie. She named all her kids after birds. 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 in front of us crochets baby blankets. Me? I listen to guys jerk it while I cross stitch cuss words and pictures of vaginas. I didn’t bring the current cross stitch project with me today, though. I can’t very well be stitching “Fuck Off” at the county courthouse, I don’t think. That would be too tacky, even for me.

  I wait patiently and watch Sam stride back to his chair next to me. I give him another smile, which he acknowledges with a polite nod.

  Even though his rugged face doesn’t give a hint of a smile back at me, it doesn’t feel cold. In fact, everything about him feels warm. He’s handsome, kind and polite. I really hope he has kids; it would be a shame not to pass down those good genes of his. Calm down, Wren, I say to myself. It’s bad enough I wear my heart on my sleeve; I don’t need to advertise my baby fever, too.

  “It’s OK,” I say.

  “Ma’am?”

  I like the way he says “ma’am” instead of “what?” He oozes old school manners.

  “It’s OK if you don’t smile. I can read people pretty well, and I think you’re the kind of person who reserves your smile for when you’re really feeling it. And that’s perfectly cool. In fact, I think that’s kind of badass.”

  Sam assesses me from the side, leaning away and casting his eyes at me, his brow furrowed. “Glad I got your permission.”

  I like his brand of sarcasm. We all
know this dude does not give a shit about permission for much of anything.

  “Also,” I add, “thank you. For earlier.”

  He has to think for a minute as I study his focused ice blue eyes.

  “For taking the blame for she-bop soundtrack coming from my phone,” I whisper.

  Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Ma’am, I don’t have to know what that was, I just didn’t want you getting in any kind of trouble. If anyone gets sent home, I’d rather it be me, ‘cause for some reason you seem to be in your happy place. Just make sure I don’t ever have to hear that foolishness again.”

  I give him my best thousand watt smile.

  Just when I think he might see fit to allow himself to smile back at me, the bailiff interrupts us and lists off a bunch of numbers, indicating that the people assigned to those numbers will be called to go to a second room for interviews.

  My number and Sam’s number, along with a couple dozen more, are called and the bailiffs herd us down the hall. Once we are all seated in the gallery of a large, stately courtroom, I wonder if this is the same room the trial will take place in. If so, it must be a big deal. It ain’t gonna be an assault and battery charge, that’s for sure. This is the kind of courtroom, with its many long rows of seats and imposing columns and ornate wood details, that is seen in the movies. Something pretty important is going to go down in this room.

  The judge walks in, and the bailiff instructs us all to rise while she takes her seat on the bench.

  Once we’re settled, a tall woman wearing a dark suit and kickass heels introduces herself as an assistant district attorney. She begins asking questions to the potential jurors, addressing them by their numbers. “If any of you don’t feel comfortable answering my questions in front of the group, all you have to do is ask to approach the bench, and you may speak with the judge directly. Juror Number 3. Have you or anyone in your family ever been a party to domestic violence?”