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“Lex,” I say slowly. “That entire gig is weird. You know this. I know this.”
“Weirder than usual,” she says. “I think she’s a little fixated on Ryan Sheppard and the house he inherited from his uncle.”
I roll my eyes. “I sure hope so. Maggie needs to get laid.”
“Ooooh,” Lexi replies. “I hope you’re right. That would explain why she kept clamming up when I asked her what was going on.”
As intriguing as this all is, I’ve noticed my soap is growing in volume in its pot, which basically means it’s destined for destruction if I don’t do something fast. I turn off the heat and then grab my trusty spoon and stir like mad, barely listening as Lexi says things like “at least I got to see the dog” and “fix the book club” and—
CRASH.
I nearly tip over the pot as the sound of something possibly exploding outside the barn hits me. The goats, both inside and outside the barn, immediately begin bleating and chuffing in annoyance, and it’s official. I’ve got a headache starting, right above my temple.
“Lex, I gotta go,” I tell her. “Something just fell over or exploded.”
“Something’s always falling over in the barn,” Lexi says. “You really need to fix that place up.”
She’s right, but I’m definitely not in the mood for it. I squeeze out another goodbye and hang up the call, turn the heat to low, and then bust outside, ready to give hell to whatever creature or natural force is to blame for the crash.
“Listen, if one of you took down another fence post…” I say, already starting to scold the small crowd of goats that’s gathered to bleat at me. “I know I love you, but…”
I let the threat linger in the air, even though they all know I’m full of shit. They blink at me, and I sigh, marching around the corner. I’m half-expecting it to be one of the raccoons that’ve been trying to get into the feed, so I jump around the corner dramatically, hoping to scare it away.
“Got you!” I say triumphantly, only it’s not a raccoon.
It’s a man, covered in hay, standing next to the bucket that clearly just fell on top of him.
A handsome man.
A man who’s too handsome to be allowed, actually.
A handsome man who fixes his dark eyes on me as he stands up.
Right before he opens his mouth to demand, “Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Two
Upon reflection—and after looking over my shoulder—the Porsche parked on the side of the road should’ve been my warning that an asshole had arrived on my doorstep.
How dare this man speak to me that way? Coming onto my property, upsetting my goats, possibly ruining a perfect batch of my signature peppermint soap, Snow in Love…
And yes, okay, that batch might’ve been ruined because the goats kept needing my attention to fix their bows. But I had everything under control until this guy came into my barn and caused a ruckus.
And what the hell is he doing in my barn, anyway? I take him in, from his cleanly shaven jaw to his tousled dark hair. He’s in a freaking suit, so it’s not like he’s some hiker who got lost. No, this is clearly a city guy who took a wrong turn.
“Who the hell are you?” I snap back, putting my hands on my hips. I have a momentary thought that I might look slightly crazy at the moment, with my Reindeer Falls Goat Farm apron on over a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt; my trusty tall red Hunter boots, because farm life is messy; and my hair gathered in a messy blonde knot on the top of my head.
But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what this trespasser thinks of my appearance. I care that he disturbed my goats and, by the looks of it, destroyed some perfectly good hay.
“I am the owner of this property,” he says, dusting a clump of hay from his shoulder. “And we do not have a tenant.” He glances around at the goats milling about, happily munching up the hay that he knocked over. “Or livestock,” he says, eyes narrowing pointedly at Farmer John.
Which is just so ridiculous. Because of all the goats, Farmer John is by far the cutest. She’s honestly my favorite, and not just because of the perfect black circles around her eyes or the smattering of freckled gray spots on her back. No, she’s a perfect angel goat who can never do anything wrong, who’s been with me through thick and thin. Naturally, I had to name her after my favorite Beekman Boy. So for this prick to look at her like she’s anything less than a dream goat?
Absolutely unacceptable.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “This is my farm. My barn. You’re trespassing—”
