Betting on Grace

August, one month later

Monday morning

“Where’re you headed?” Lane Miller hollered from the south end of Dead Heat Ranch’s main barn. 

Lane had walked into the enormous steel building just in time to see, through a hazy dust-mote stream lit by the rays from the early-morning sun, Grant Kingsley high-tailing it across the marred concrete floor. Grant was moving like his ass was on fire, which was, quite frankly, a sight to see.

With the sound of Lane’s heavy footsteps resounding off the metal walls, a few goats bleating their morning greeting, and the scent of manure and hay flooding his nostrils, Lane picked up his pace, attempting to keep up with Grant before he hit the wide-open double doors on the opposite end. 

​Lane was halfway across the barn when he noticed that, in his haste to ensnare the hunky cowboy trying to evade him, he had captured the attention of Budweiser, one of the three Labrador retrievers that lived on the ranch. The charming black dog ran toward him, tongue lolling, tail wagging, but Lane didn’t pause to pet him as he normally would, fearful that Grant would disappear if he veered off course.

“Asking a question here!” Lane yelled, trying to get Grant to stop. “Where’re you off to?” he repeated.

“Runnin’ into town.” 

For a fraction of a second, Lane wondered if Grant meant literally because of the fast pace he was maintaining. Doubtful, but the mental image was quite amusing. And picturing Grant huffing it into town sure beat thinking about the way Grant had answered. Grant had drawled the response as though he didn’t have a care in the world; however, he didn’t bother to spare Lane a glance, which was Lane’s first hint that something was up. 

Hell, for as much attention as Grant was giving him, Lane could’ve been anyone, certainly not someone who was actually supposed to be important to Grant.

Drop it, Miller. Not gonna get you anywhere today. Chin up.

Doing his best to heed his own advice, Lane set off in a half jog, half run, in order to catch Grant before he got too far away. Budweiser, of course, thought it was a game and trotted alongside him, barking happily.

“Hey,” Lane called to Grant again, trying to get him to slow his roll. It didn’t seem to be working, so he glanced down at the animal scurrying along beside him. “Mornin’, Budweiser,” he muttered to the dog, earning another enthusiastic woof from the animal.

Well, at least someone was paying attention to Lane.

“What?” Grant exclaimed a little unexpectedly, and Lane hauled his gaze back up, where he saw that, yes, Grant had actually stopped walking. 

Finally.

When Grant spun around to face him, Lane came to a jerky stop, surprised by the irritated expression on Grant’s too-handsome face.

“You okay?” Lane asked, concerned, standing less than a foot away from the man who, in recent weeks, had sent Lane’s entire world on its ear.

In a good way.

“Yeah. Fine. What do you need?”

Okay, so someone was lying, and since Lane wasn’t the one spouting off that he was fine when he clearly wasn’t, the award went to Grant. 

“What’s your problem?” Lane mouthed off, getting a little defensive.

It wasn’t that he was surprised that Grant was in a foul mood; after all, this was Grant. He wasn’t always chipper, but that hadn’t been the case so much lately. In fact, Grant had been the picture of sunshine for the last few months, and Lane wanted to think that he played at least a small part in that. Rightfully so, Lane hadn’t expected to be met with such animosity that early in the morning.

“I’ve got things to do, Lane, what the hell do you want?”

Lane glanced just past Grant’s head, making sure they were alone, not wanting to risk someone stumbling upon them when he…

“Oomph.”

Lane pushed Grant’s lean body up against the inside wall of the barn, successfully slipping into the shadows before he crushed his mouth down on Grant’s in a kiss that threatened to spark the dry hay stored there into an inferno. Again, Budweiser thought it was time to play, pawing at Lane’s ass as Lane took control of the kiss, cupping Grant’s stubble-covered jaw as he leaned into him.

Despite the attitude, Grant pretty much turned to putty in his arms, and Lane didn’t let up, sliding his tongue into the hot cavern of Grant’s mouth. He trailed his hands down Grant’s neck, over the hard planes of Grant’s chest, across his rippled abs, then lower until he was gripping Grant’s narrow hips. Lane held him in place, rocking his erection against Grant’s through the confining denim of their jeans, trying to get as close as physically possible because… Well, just fucking because.