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“Why?”
“Why do I, a woman, have issues about carrying more weight than I should? Are you sure you’re ready for that dissection of modern-day society and the pressures it puts on women to look a certain way this early in the morning?”
He slid his gaze over to me. “Do you think you’d be happier if you lost weight?”
I tilted my head to the side as we walked. “Probably not.”
“Then why does it matter?” he asked quietly. “If you’re happy, then sod everyone else. The way society views people it deems imperfect is society’s problem, not yours.”
Who was this Max? Where had the real one gone?
“For what it’s worth, I think you look great the way you are.”
Confirmation of aliens, Your Majesty.
I met his gaze for a second and blushed when I looked away. “Um, thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” He looked around. “I don’t think we’re finding him here. Let’s check the barns. Wait—he’s been neutered, hasn’t he?”
“I’m not an idiot,” I drawled, glad to return to our usual back-and-forth banter. “Why? Aren’t your cats?”
“Rosie’s too young. I prefer to wait until they’ve had their first heat, and Asia is pregnant.”
Great. Not only did he wait unnecessarily long, he was reproducing.
“Any reason for that or just a stupid decision? It’s perfectly safe to get them done younger.”
“Personal preference. She doesn’t go outside her barn yet, and our boys are neutered. At least they are now, after getting to Asia.”
“That’s awfully young for kittens.”
He shook his head. “We took her in from another farm. She’s about two, and Grandma couldn’t bring herself to do the whole spay and abort thing, so she’s having them. The kittens will be done before they’re rehomed to other farms in the area.”
At least he was somewhat responsible.
“So why ask about Winston?”
“Because if he can get out of Greygarth Lodge, he can certainly get in a barn.”
Ah.
Excellent point.
“Fair point,” I acquiesced after a moment. “Don’t worry. I’m a responsible cat owner.”
“A responsible cat owner who can’t keep her cat inside.”
“Look here, you judgemental little—”
“Goatzart!” Max charged forwards, leaving me in the dust. “Get off the feed bag, you little sod!”
Goatzart?
I paused in the doorway of the bar. There were eight goats in here—Vincent van Goat was in a pen with two females, one of whom I assumed was Selena Goatmez. The others were all decidedly male, but I didn’t know their names, either.
How many goats did Esme have here?
And more to the point, why did all the males have pool noodles on their horns?
