Calvin’s Cowboy by Drew Hunt Page A

tore his attention from the hunk and focused on Brock. “But he doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
    Brock shook his head. “Idiot.”
    Surely the man didn’t have an inferiority complex? He was sex on legs.
    Eventually Brock said they had everything he would need for the time being, and began pulling the loaded cart toward the checkouts.
    Calvin removed the two toilet seats; he’d pay for those himself.
    The bored-looking checkout operator leaned down and began to scan the various items with a hand-held scanner. He announced the total and Brock handed over his card, which the guy ran through the machine, twice. Then he punched in the details manually.
    “Is there a problem?” Brock asked after restacking the last of the boxes of floor tiles.
    “It’s declined the transaction.”
    “Shit!”
    “Do you have an alternate method of payment?”
    “No,” Brock shook his head.
    “I’ll page a manager.”
    “No, it’s okay, I’ll—“Brock said.
    The checkout guy ignored him and picked up a microphone and said something into it which Calvin couldn’t catch; the store’s acoustics were terrible.
    Calvin snuck a glance at Brock, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Calvin ached to do something, but didn’t think leaping to Brock’s defense, especially in public, would go down well. He’d learned his lesson from the ER the day before.
    A manager came over, tapped a few keys on the register and confirmed what Calvin had already suspected, Brock’s trade account was maxed out and they wouldn’t advance him any more credit.
    Brock looked embarrassed, and Calvin couldn’t stand it any longer.
    “I’ll pay for this with my credit card.”
    “No,” Brock said.
    “That won’t be a problem,” the manager chipped in.
    To Brock, Calvin said, “I’ll be paying for it anyway, so it makes no difference to me.”
    Brock hesitated, and then shrugged his reluctant agreement.
    Turning to the manager, Calvin said, “I will receive the same trade discount as you’d have given Mr. Brockwell.”
    “I’m sorry, Sir, that isn’t possible unless you have your own trade account.”
    Calvin, seeing that Brock was becoming increasingly uncomfortable at the situation, just wanted to get them the hell out of there.
    “Fine!” Depositing the toilet seats on the conveyor belt, Calvin took Brock’s arm. “Come on, bud, we’re outta here. We’ll get what we need from Home Depot .”
    “But what about your toilet seats?” the manager asked to their retreating backs.
    Calvin turned around. “You can stick ‘em where the sun don’t shine.”
    Calvin was relieved to hear Brock chuckle.
    Another manager, who—judging by the fact that he was wearing a tie—was more senior, caught up with them at the exit. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. There’s been a misunderstanding.”
    Calvin held his tongue.
    “On this occasion we’re prepared to let you use a different credit card to pay for your items.”
    “Big of you,” Calvin muttered under his breath and followed Brock back to the register.
    Calvin paid for the goods, including the much-maligned toilet seats. Brock pulled the cart out of the store and loaded his truck, all the while not saying a word.
    Getting into the cab, Calvin did up his seatbelt, and waited while Brock tried to start the engine. It finally coughed into life on the fourth attempt.
    “Fuck!” Brock said when they were finally underway.
    Calvin put a hand on Brock’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “At least someone in there had the sense to realize they were about to lose a sale.
    “I’m sorry.” Brock let out a breath and pulled his Stetson lower on his forehead.
    “You don’t need to apologize.”
    As he drove, Brock bit at his bottom lip. Calvin gave the man’s knee another squeeze before reluctantly returning his hand to his own lap.
    Brock pulled into another parking lot. “Need to visit the bank,” he said quietly, not looking at Calvin. “To deposit your check.”
    “No problem. I need to go