“Absolutely. Free laborandquality control.” Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of my neck. “It's all very strategic.”
“Using me for my taste buds.”
“And your goat-wrangling skills. Can't forget those.”
I kissed her again, slower this time. Her hands tightened in my hair, and I felt her smile against my mouth.
“We should probably—” she murmured between kisses, “—make the cheese.”
“We should.”
Neither of us moved.
Her phone rang, shrill and insistent from her back pocket. She groaned, breaking away to fish it out. Her expression shifted when she saw the screen.
“Walt.” She bit her lip. “I should probably?—”
“Take it.” I grabbed the milk bucket. “I'll get this inside.”
She answered as we pushed through the screen door together, the hinges creaking behind us.
“Hey, Walt!”
I carried the bucket to the stove, ran water over my hands in the sink before finding the strainer and cheesecloth already laid out on the counter.
“No, everything's great. The goats are good, the chickens are—” She paused, watching me set up the straining station. “Yes, I'm keeping up with everything.”
I poured the milk into a pot slowly, careful not to splash.
“The market? Yeah, it's been going well. Sales are up from last week, and—” Another pause. “What gossip?”
I glanced over. Her cheeks had gone pink.
“I don't know what Agnes Clarke thinks she saw.” Rosie turned away, lowering her voice like that would somehow keep me from hearing. “We're just... I've been helping with the dogs and?—”
The empty bucket slipped from my hands and clattered into the sink.
Rosie spun around, eyes wide, one hand clamped over the phone.
“Sorry,” I mouthed.
She held up a finger. The universal sign fordo not make another sound.
“That? No, that's just—” She turned back toward the window. “The, uh. The chickens.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Walt, chickens are loud sometimes. You know that.” A pause. “No, I'm not flustered. This is just how I sound in the morning.”
I set the bucket down again with exaggerated care and reached for the cheesecloth, moving as quietly as possible.
“Agnes Clarke needs to mind her own—” Her voice pitched higher. “Barbara, hi. Yes, everything's fine. The farm is?—”
I glanced over. Rosie had squeezed her eyes shut, one hand pressed to her forehead.
“I'm not beingevasive. There's just nothing to—” She pulled the phone away from her ear for a second, and I caught the faint sound of Barbara's enthusiastic voice. “Yes, he's very nice. No, I don't think—Barbara, we're just friends.”
I raised both eyebrows.
