It smelled like coffee. Sam must’ve made some before he left. Or…Sam had made some and was now bringing it upstairs to the bedroom? Muffled footsteps on the stairs reached his ears and grinned into his pillow.
“Hey.” A smiling Sam walked into the room wearing only his boxer briefs and carrying a tray with a couple mugs of coffee, a small creamer filled with milk, and sugar in a small cup. He set it on the night table then crawled into bed to kiss the stuffing out of Bo. Bo chuckled against Sam’s mouth and tightened his arms around Sam’s shoulders. Sam fell on top of him. The blanket was between them but it just made the morning seem cozier for some reason. “I brought you coffee,” Sam said when he extracted his tongue from Bo’s mouth. “But I don’t know how you take it.”
“Milk and enough sugar to make your teeth ache,” Bo said, voice a sleepy rumble.
“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” Sam pecked him on the lips before sitting up to make Bo’s coffee.
“One more,” Bo said when Sam dumped three heaping teaspoons of sugar into Bo’s mug and appeared to call it done. Sam raised an eyebrow, light brown eyes amused, but did as asked. “Mmm…” Bo thought about it then said, “One more, but just, like, a little.”
Snorting a laugh, Sam dumped another half teaspoon of sugar into Bo’s mug, and handed it over. Bo sat up to take a small tentative sip, not wanting to burn his tongue.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing Sam’s arm with one hand. “Why are you up so early anyway?”
“I usually go for a run at this time,” Sam said over his own mug.
Ugh. Mr. Tall, Sexy, and Fucking Good In Bed was athletic, too? So unfair. Why did he have to be so perfect?
Bo strategically ignored the past four weeks where Sam had taken his frustration and anger over the whole being-sued thing out on him because whatever. It was old news and they’d worked that out.
Sam was perfect. Perfect for him anyway, which amounted to the same thing.
“Want to come with me?” Sam asked.
“For a run?” Bo snorted and set his coffee mug on the night table. “Fuck no. I don’t run unless it’s to catch the bus.”
Sam laughed so hard that Bo grinned with him, something floaty taking flight in his chest. Taking Sam’s mug out of his hands, Bo placed it on the tray. He straddled Sam’s thighs. Sam’s breath stuttered.
“Good morning,” Bo said, grinning at him.
“Good morning.” Sam’s voice was a growl and his hands clenched Bo’s waist. “Do the animals need to be fed right this instant?” he asked against Bo’s mouth. “Or can they wait twenty minutes?”
Bo rubbed his erection against Sam’s, said, “They can definitely wait twenty minutes,” and pushed Sam’s shoulders until he fell back onto the bed.
Two hours later, Bo was putting the finishing touches on breakfast when Sam walked through his back door and into the kitchen, sliding the screen door closed behind him. He was freshly dressed and looking so yummy Bo was tempted to eat him instead of the eggs and toast he’d made them.
“Hey.” Sam leaned over the counter to give him a quick kiss. “Thanks for feeding me. Again.”
Bo joined him at the table. “I couldn’t let you pay for dinner last night. I invited you.”
“Actually I was talking about the stew from a couple nights ago.”
They served themselves eggs, toast, and fruit in silence. The morning sun poured into the kitchen, giving everything a rosy glow. It hit the flowers he’d put on the table just right, making the purple petals shine.
“What do dwarf Canadian primrose mean?” he asked.
Sam swallowed before replying. “What do you mean?”
“You know how roses mean ‘I love you’ and symbolize love and passion and the bond between lovers, and other flowers mean…other things.” That was unintentionally vague, but what did Bo know about flower meanings? “What do primrose mean?”
Sam blinked at him. “Well, if I had to guess, I’d say they mean ‘Sorry I tried to kill you with carrots.’”
Bo snorted into his orange juice. They ate in relative silence, enjoying each other’s company. Sounds filtered in from outside: chirping birds, PomPom splashing through the mud puddle in his pig pen, clucking chickens, wind through trees, cars passing by on the street out front.
“Why are the chickens dying?” Bo asked, remembering the aborted news announcer he’d cut off on the radio this morning.
Sam looked toward the backyard as if he expected to see a pile of dead chickens right there on the lawn. Bo laughed his ass off at the look on his face: a combination of horror and confusion.
“Fuck you,” Sam said, but he was laughing. He trapped one of Bo’s feet between his underneath the table, just like he had last night at the pub. “I don’t know why the chickens are dying. Look it up later.” He paused, then asked, “Why don’t you use your cell phone as an alarm?”
“I used to.” Bo spread jam on his toast. “But whenever I’d check it for the time if I woke up in the middle of the night, I’d inevitably also check my emails and Facebook. I didn’t want to do that anymore, so now I sleep with it off.”
“Smart,” Sam said.
The chickens gave a loud cluck outside, in sync, as if rehearsing for a chorus.
“Sometimes I wish my chickens were dying,” Bo muttered.
“They make damn good eggs though.” Sam forked the last bite of eggs off his plate and into his mouth. “Fresh, organic. Chickens don’t produce eggs forever, do they? What does Laura do when they stop?”
“She kills them and eats them, then buys new chicks and starts the cycle all over again.”
Sam’s fork fell onto his plate with a clatter.
Sam walked out of his house late Saturday morning after putting a load of laundry in the washer to find Bo standing at the bottom of his driveway. A newer model white SUV, license plate VETDOC, was pulling away from the curb. Sam recognized it as the one belonging to the vet Laura worked with. Doctor Rajan came by every couple of days to assess the state of the animals and ascertain whether they were ready to go home.
With Bo was a gentleman a few years older than Sam, a brown-haired girl who looked to be about five years old, a little pygmy goat, and PomPom. The girl kept trying to get PomPom and the goat into the bed of an animal transport truck, but the animals appeared so happy to see each other that they continued to play together in the grass.
Sam didn’t want to interrupt, but Bo stood a little apart from the others, shoulders straight and a tight smile on his lips. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, yet also like he was desperate to be part of the small group.
“Bye, PomPom,” Bo said. The pig ignored him and finally followed girl and goat into the truck. After a quick chat with Bo, the gentleman—the girl’s father Sam assumed—shook Bo’s hand, hopped into the driver’s seat, and pulled away.
Sam crossed his driveway. When he reached Bo, he put an arm around his shoulders and tucked him into his side.
“Do you like working at Big Sky?” he asked.
“Most of the time.” Bo rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. “Sometimes I wish I could keep all the animals, though. I don’t like saying goodbye.”