Laird's Choice Remmy Duchene (good inspirational books .txt) 📖

"Your little farm hand."

"Farm hand? I don't have enough livestock for that."

"The man outside tending to the horses isn't your farm hand?"

"Oh, you mean Race? Nothing like that. I've known Race since I was a kid. He was just out of town for a while.

Besides, he loves being out there with the horses."

"I see…"

"Oh boy. When you take on that tone of voice something happened. What did you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

Winston took a breath before turning to face Laird.

Laird couldn't stand the look in Winston eyes, so he shook his head and got up from where he was sitting to look out the window once more. Race wasn't there anymore and somehow that disappointed him. Turning to look at Winston, Laird released some air. "Nothing. He's just kind of full of himself."

"Race? He doesn't have an egotistic bone in his body. But then again, I don't want to have sex with him."

"I don't wanna have sex with Race McKade!

Besides the fact that he seems like a total tool—I just met him."

"I didn't say you did. You assumed I meant you."

"Who else were you referring to?"

Winston shrugged. "I don't know. I was simply making a statement. I never called any names. But you're going to tell me you haven't thought about it?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

Laird wanted to yell when Winston smirked at him

and eased from the bed. "You two have to get along anyways. Race is the one I want you to help find a house."

"Really? He looks like an oily hobo!"

"Yes. That oily hobo is a multi-millionaire. Do this, Laird, please? For me? He's a good man and he's been through some stuff no one should have to in their lives. I just want to see him settled, happy, maybe with a good man?"

Laird wanted to cry. Still, he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "All right. I'll help him. But the good man you're going to have to look for elsewhere."

"Are you sure?"

Glancing out the window, Laird nodded. "I'm not his type."

Chapter Three

The days slipped by slowly. Race spent his days

with the animals and trying to get a look at Laird Anatolis.

Each time their eyes met though, he saw something flash through the man's gaze just before he looked away, muttered under his breath, and walked away. Race could only guess Laird was damming him to hell each time.

Finally Winston cornered him in the kitchen.

"You! Stand still," Winston ordered. "What did you do?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Damn it, Race!"

Race leaned against the counter and stared, wide-

eyed, at Winston. He wanted to laugh but knew Winston would only rip his hair out. Clearing his throat, Race licked his lips and took a sip from the bottle he was drinking from.

"Winston, really."

"You have to behave!" Winston warned.

"Or what? You'll spank me? Look, he's just being a big city, spoiled brat. I didn't do anything to him."

Winston sighed and walked to the fridge. "Just, behave, all right? He's my friend and since having your back I don't have many of those left over. Please."

Race held up both hands in surrender and shook his head, failing to hold in his laughter. "I'm sorry!" Race managed through his mirth.

Winston groaned and walked from the room with

his water.

"I'm sorry!" Race hollered but Winston didn't stop.

Race turned to the window then and stared out into the dark. He found himself wondering about Laird: how he tasted, how he felt pressed into a wall being taken from behind—had he eaten? Why did he care if the twerp couldn't even take a joke? Taking a breath he gripped the counter and reached out the window. He pulled the panes inward until there was a slight snapping sound of it latching, and then threw the small bolts into place. He pulled the blinds down and turned to stare at the pots on the stove. Trying to be good, he shared some of the dinner that was still warm on the stove and carried the plate, a fork, and a bottle of orange juice down the hall and knocked.

"It's open," Laird called.

Just the sound of his voice left Race trembling. He stopped for a moment to gather himself. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in there with his cock tenting the front of his pants. Sticking the bottle of juice beneath his arm, he opened the door and walked in. Removing the bottle, he stood in the shadow of the door watching Laird, standing by the window. Laird's long, dark hair was finger-raked backward and his shirt tightened dangerously around his arms as they were folded over his chest. Race took a breath and held it before pushing it out his mouth.

"You haven't eaten anything," Race spoke, like a nervous teenager. "I brought you some dinner."

Laird didn't move.

"Are you hungry?" Race asked.

Laird glanced back then and a smile tugged at his lips. The only bad thing was the moment that sign of sunshine arrived, it was gone like smoke on the wind. Race walked closer until he could smell the heat radiating from Laird's body. When Laird took the plate, Race felt fire tracing from the spot where their fingers grazed each other.

"Why are you doing this?" Laird asked.

"Because you haven't eaten." It wasn't all a lie. But Race wasn't about to tell him that he was secretly hoping when he opened the door Laird would be naked and turned on. "Just say thank you."

Laird smiled again before sitting on the chair by the bed. "Thank you…"

"See? That wasn't so hard."

"What kind of house are you looking for? Do you want a ranch? Does it have to be in Brydon?"

"I love the peace Brydon gives. But there are certain things I'd like to leave behind here."

"Some things? Like what?"

Race cleared his throat. For some reason he just

couldn't have Laird look at him as anything less than what he wanted to be. He couldn't tell Laird about his conviction—wrongful or not. Laird was a