“It’s my money, isn’t it?” I challenged.
“Technically, it’s the farm’s, and the farm doesn’t have a sack full of hundred-dollar bills to spare.”
“You said you’d stay out of my way.”
He took a step closer. “And I have. But you’re pushing it. First with that stupid picture of me you put on your social without my permission—”
“You said I could—”
“Post about the farm, not me.”
“That was the most popular post I’ve ever had, thanks to your refusal to wear clothes.”
He pointed at me. “Pushing it, Olivia. And I said no goats.”
“What’s your problem with them?”
“You gonna clip their hooves? How about mend all the fences when they bust out, because they’re a pack of brainless Houdinis. How about deworming? And you’ve gotta breed. You ever smelled a goat buck? Tell me, smartass—have you ever seen goats mate?”
I shook my head.
“Let’s just say, there’s a reason the devil has goat horns, and you’re gonna have a front row seat to the horror show. If you knew anything about anything, you’d never have started all this.”
Another step, his arms folding across his expansive chest, which was covered. And thank God. I couldn’t think when he was shirtless.
Part of me thought he knew it too.
“Lemme tell you something, Olivia. It’s gonna be me who deals with the fucking goats, not you. And I told you no.”
“Fine. I hereby take all responsibility for the goats. All hoof-clipping, fence-mending, and deworming will be done by me.”
He stared me down for a second, and whatever he was thinking tugged at one corner of his lips for that whisper of a smile. He stuck his hand out for a shake.
I took it, aware of every nerve touching his skin. The rough of his calluses. The warmth in his palms. The odd sensation of my hand being almost completely enveloped by his.
I squeezed and pumped our hands once.
“Just promise me one thing,” he said, still holding my hand.
“What?”
“Let me know when you’re clipping their hooves so I can make popcorn.”
He still had that almost-smile on his face when he let go of my hand. I made an impatient sound.
He laughed.
God, it was a nice sound, a deep, rolling baritone. I wondered what happy meant to him and how he could get more of it. Because laughing Jake was better than asshole Jake any day of the week, even if it was at my expense.
When he was through, he shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “Good luck with your goats. They’re as stubborn as you are.”
“Me stubborn?” It was my turn to laugh. “You’d argue that Alice’s spots were white on black instead of black on white, and she can’t even argue back. Never mind when somebody actually disagrees with you. I don’t come out to the milking station and tell you how to run your equipment, do I?”
“You could, but since you don’t know what you’re doing, you wouldn’t have much of an argument to make, would you?”
“Nope, but you came in here just yesterday and flipped through the journals and declared, Nobody wants paper without lines on it, and that it was for looks, not function. In fact, you’ve been in here every day to pick on me for something.”
“Picking on you?” He still had that amused look on his face. “What are we, eight?”
“You tell me. You’re the one always needling me.”
“Oh, so buying the goats had nothing to do with pissing me off?”
“Believe it or not, I really do want the farm to make money, and the goats will help. Pissing you off was a bonus.”
He humphed, scanning the store. Looking for something to mess with me about, no doubt. When his eyes narrowed, I braced myself for whatever he threw at me.
“Did you hang those shelves?”
“I did,” I said, straightening up. “I used a drill and everything.”
Another humph as he walked up to them and tested their bearing. When it wiggled, then slipped out a little, he gave me a look. “Go get me the drill.”
“I can fix it,” I insisted. “Just tell me what I did wrong.”
“These walls are sturdy, but these shelves are too big not to anchor them in a stud.”
I stared at him. “You lost me at anchor.”
“Exactly. So go get me the drill, and I’ll show you how to do it so you don’t kill somebody and get us all sued.”
As I headed for the toolbox, I wondered over him. He really had been in here every day, plus he’d followed me around while I trained the tour crew, using the script and talking points I’d drawn up. I’d thought it was just to intimidate me—it worked—but as I watched him move around the store looking for things to fix, I asked myself if there was more to it. If maybe he did want me to succeed. Or maybe he didn’t give a shit if I succeeded so long as the farm did too.
But the reason didn’t matter. Goats or no goats, he was on my side.
And that was something to celebrate.
11
Probably Knitting
OLIVIA
I stood in front of my closet that night with my hands on my hips, staring at the clothes like they were a calculus problem.
The issue was that I’d brought clothes for two occasions—milking cows and a funeral—and I could only guess what townies wore to a bar. But I figured it was safe to assume heels weren’t required. What I really needed was a sundress, and I made it a point to ask Presley where a girl shopped around here.
This is not a real problem, Olivia.
With a sigh, I pulled a tank top that was more fashion than function and tugged it on, half-tucking it into my jeans.
“Easy enough,” I said to no one, walking to the bathroom to get a last look at myself.
My hair was big and poofy, and I wondered how I’d gone all day without anybody telling me so. After a little product and some fancy fingerwork, I inspected my reflection. My cheeks were pink from all the sun I’d gotten, my skin ‘tan’, which meant a darker shade of pale. I leaned in, inspecting the bridge of my nose.
Pretty sure my freckles had multiplied.
I sighed, putting on a little mascara. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, held it above me at an angle, and took a selfie that I texted to Presley.
Formal enough?
My phone buzzed immediately. Are you wearing mascara? If so, you’re overdressed.
I smiled at my screen. My phone buzzed again.
Already here. How far out are you?
Ten! Be right there.
Should I get you a PBR, or do you prefer Miller Lite?
I paused. I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.
I’m definitely kidding, but fair warning: they’ve only got two types of wine. Red and white.
Guess I’m drinking whiskey then.
Now we’re talking.
My phone was back in my pocket when I reached the stairs, trotting down them like a baby deer. The house was empty and quiet, and I found myself grateful I had somewhere to go. And a Jakeless escape at that. If there was one thing I doubted Jake did, it was hang out at the bar, and if there was one thing I needed, it was a Jake-free night.