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“It’s bloody huge,” I said, slipping my arms into it. It comfortably covered my bum and the top couple inches of thigh. The only good thing was that it was large enough to not be too tight around my body—an issue I’d had in my last relationship.
You know. Back in the Stone Age when I’d last dated.
Max shot me a grin before we headed outside, and I wrapped my arms around my waist. There really was a chill in the air, the kind that warned you that summer was rapidly coming to close and letting autumn take its place. Combined with the slight nudge of the sky darkening a little earlier, it was somewhat of a shock to the system.
It was definitely colder in the North.
Max’s gaze flitted to me when I shivered. “Are you really cold?”
“Little bit,” I mumbled.
“Bloody southerners.”
“Bloody northerners acting like they’re better than anyone else because they can hack it a few degrees colder,” I shot back. “At least we southerners know what to call a bread roll. None of this ‘barm’ shit.”
“Hey,” he replied, holding up a hand. “It’s not my fault we sometimes let you think you’re right.”
I snorted. “Please. The last time I had this argument with a northerner, she did everything in her power to convince me I was wrong.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was a proof-reader who was filling in for my usual one while she was on maternity. We even had a video call to argue the toss until I pointed out that I didn’t much care what she called a bread roll; my characters lived in Dorset and nobody in Dorset would call a bread roll a barm cake. Fucking barm cake. Honestly. What utter nonsense.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his laugh. “So we shouldn’t discuss the proper way to make scones, then.”
“My nan is from Devon. Absolutely not. She’d haunt me.”
“Noted.” Not bothering to hide his laugh, he hit the outdoor light switch for the barn and pushed the door open. All but one of the goats were inside, so Max grabbed the torch from the shelf and went hunting outside for the rebel.
“Hello,” I cooed softly, going over to the girls first. Goatie Hawn and Selena Goatmez trotted over expectantly, and I reached out to scratch their noses. Vincent van Goat was not amused that I didn’t have any food, judging by the fact he didn’t come over for any kind of loving.
That was fine by me.
If he couldn’t take me at my scritches, he wasn’t getting me at my treats.
After giving them sufficient attention, the boys on the other side all came when I walked over. I smiled at the sight of them in their pool noodles—Leonardo DiCapriGoat’s were messy and scratched, missing teeny tiny little chunks of foam, and I just knew that it was because of Winston using them as his scratching posts.
“Oh, I’m going to miss you dumbarses,” I whispered, straightening up Ryan Goatling’s orange pool noodle horn protector. “You be good for Esme, you hear? Stop eating her flowers.” I looked back at Vincent for that one. “That means you, you big lout.”
He huffed as if he understood me.
Maybe he did.
Ryan Goatling bit down on my sleeve, and I glared at him, then tapped his nose. “Get off. Now. That’s not a snack, you idiot.”
He chomped harder.
I bopped the end of his nose, and in his surprise, he released the coat sleeve, and I took a step or two back.
“Goatzart, you little wanker!”
I jerked my head up to look in the direction of Max’s shout, barely stifling a giggle, and caught a solid glimpse of the torch light flashing as if the holder were running.
My suspicions were confirmed a second later when a goat-ish shape bolted past the door, swiftly followed by Max running.
Oh, dear.
Goatzart was not co-operating tonight.
