AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“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.
It was strange, the feeling I had as I pulled on my canvas sneakers and grabbed the keys to Pop’s truck. Like I was still a teenager with a brand-new license, feeling very adult and very responsible. Only now there was no one’s permission to garner, no one to kiss me on the cheek and tell me to be safe. In this house, I didn’t feel like an adult.
I was a passenger, unable to grasp that the house was mine. That the farm was mine.
Or half mine, as it were.
Once the house was locked up and I climbed into Pop’s truck, I glanced at Jake’s house, one of several at the back of the property. Golden light spilled from the windows, filtered through curtains I wished I could see past. Because whatever did Jake do in his free time? I couldn’t imagine him doing anything but working.
The thought made me sad.
The truck roared to life when I turned the key, and I thought I caught a flicker of motion at one of the windows. I wondered if he had any hobbies. Maybe he read books. Perhaps he was a secret baker, and I laughed at the thought of Jake in an apron with flour on his nose. I bet he knitted, and another burst of laughter filled the cab of the truck. Knitting needles would look like chopsticks in his big hands.
