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So with a smile, I said, “Sounds fun.”
Presley bounced, and Cilla giggled from her hip. Her little hand flailed, and just like that, the lollipop was stuck in Presley’s dark hair.
“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, reaching for the offending candy.
“Mama, gimme monies.” She opened her palm where a sweaty quarter already sat.
“It’s highway robbery,” Presley said as I made my way around to help.
I was nearly finished when the door opened, and in stalked Jake with a milk jug hanging from that hammer he called a hand.
“Tell me I didn’t just hear a fucking goat out there, Olivia.”
“Bad word!” Priscilla called like she’d just gotten a bingo.
Jake’s cheeks flushed, but his face was still furious. “Sorry, Cilla. Hey, Presley.” He turned up the heat once he met my eyes again. “I thought I said no goats.”
“And I thought I said it’s a good business plan.” I pulled the lollipop from the last of Presley’s hair, but before I could take it to the trash, Priscilla snatched it and stuck it in her mouth.
Presley sighed.
“Goddammit, Olivia—I didn’t agree to this.”
“Monieeeeeees,” Priscilla said, leaning his direction with enough force and speed that Presley had to catch her before she fell.
“You know, we’d better go. I’ll text you later, Olivia.”
I offered a weak smile but said nothing as she set Priscilla down, hefted the milk jug, and waddled out. Jake didn’t notice a thing. He was too busy trying to send me to hell with his glare.
“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?”
