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It feels like being smacked in the face with a snowball. What did he just say about my barn?
“Excuse me?” I snap.
“You’ve let this place go to shit,” he repeats. “So I might as well start fixing the place up.”
“I thought you were going to turn it into a golf course,” I say nastily, glaring at him and wishing he’d put on a few layers. It would be so much easier to hate him the way he deserves to be hated if he was wearing a puffer jacket.
“Oh, I am. And I have some investors coming to look at the place, so I’d like it to look like it has potential.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I reply, wondering what he’s up to. “Aren’t you just going to bulldoze the barn to put in a stupid sand trap or something?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “This is still Reindeer Falls, and I want the golf course to feel organic, so I’m gonna renovate the barn and turn it into a pro shop and restaurant.”
Did this fucker just use the words ‘feel organic’ to describe retrofitting a barn? I’m very nearly speechless. For a moment, I’d thought that perhaps he’d had a change of heart. That he’d been struck by the spirit of Christmas and realized he was tossing a single goat mom onto the streets. But nope. No. He’s just prepping my home to impress golf course investors.
Still, I can’t let him think he’s beaten me. I toss my hair over my shoulder. “Okay. Sure.” I nod as I say the words, as if I’m deeply considering his goals. “So what you’re really saying is you’re sticking around to do chores?”
He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “No, Sutton. I’m saying that this is my place, and I’m going to start fixing it up.”
“But—”
“If it helps you move out quicker,” he interjects, cutting me off, “I’ll do whatever you need to help get these goats in tip-top shape to be carted off to new homes.”
I stare at him, mouth falling open as I rush to cover up Sharon’s ears. “You absolute prick.”
“I’m saying I’m willing to help you,” he says, just before smirking. “Because in the end, it’ll help me.”
Yep. I was right. Stubborn jackass. And on a power trip to boot.
Well, guess what? If he wants to help out with the goats while fixing up my farm making it Goatvana-ready, then I’ll let him.
I fix a smile on my face, and then I grab a pad of paper from out of my apron. I was just scrawling ideas for a new soap, and I flip to a blank page and write out all of the chores I want him to do.
Scrub the troughs
Drop a bale of hay from the loft
Feed the goats
Brush the goats
Talk to the goats
* * *
I pass the list to Jake, still smiling. He reaches over to take the paper, fingertips brushing mine. I shiver, but only because it’s drafty in the barn.
“The fence on the north side of the barn needs repairing too,” I tell him as he glances over the list, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Talk to the goats?” He taps the paper with a flick of a finger, his eyes narrowing on me.
“Their mental health is very important if you want them to be ready for new homes,” I insist. “No one wants a sad goat. Very sensitive creatures.”
“Sure,” he says. “Whatever you say, Sutton.”
The way he says it, especially the way he says my name, makes my skin prickle. I wish it was in an angry way, but it’s not. It’s the good kind of chill that I definitely can’t give in to.
That does it, I decide. No more playing nice.
In my Airstream, I stew and eat cookies. And I don’t mean I’m making stew. I mean that I’m sulking, which is not normally my vibe. ‘Make love, not war’ is more my thing.
But Jake Sheppard is making me question my ideologies. Mainly the one where I don’t wish violence on anyone. Also the one in which I’m not attracted to suit types. Or jerks. Or men trying to evict me from my home.
What a confusing time.
I wonder if Mercury is in retrograde? I scroll the astrological charts while I shove another cookie into my mouth. It’s a molasses cookie, baked by Ginger Winter herself. We traded—cookies for goat cheese.
I peruse my favorite astrology site while I finger the labradorite locket around my neck. I consider myself a fair person, and as such, I must admit Jake isn’t entirely in the wrong. If the land belongs to him, I suppose that’s that. But really, what is land anyway? What is golf even? It’s silly, is what it is.
And he can build a golf course anywhere. Unlike me. I mean, a girl can’t find a functional barn with acreage and no discernible owner just anywhere.
