And I might not enjoy his company, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the view. He looks good riding a horse. Really good. He wears the hell out of a pair of jeans on his worst day, and even twenty feet behind him I can see the definition of his arms. I picture sneaking up behind him and pressing my nose to the nape of his neck, just below where his hair is shaved close. A small shiver brushes over my arms at the thought. I don’t want him. I don’t.
