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Running back to their mom, they beg for more quarters, appealing to her sympathy by telling the tale of the poor starving animal that didn’t get their lunch.
“Spoiler alert,” I murmur to Ellister behind my hand. “Our animals don’t miss any meals. They’re just really good at acting like it.”
“I can tell,” he remarks, studying one of our largest goats. “That one is very fat.”
I snicker. “She’s pregnant.”
“Oh.”
Tugging him across the lane, I come to a similar set of dispensers next to the chicken yard. “These guys don’t get as much action because they can’t be hand-fed.” I fiddle with the chicken wire keeping little hands out. “But it’s fun to toss the food over and watch them peck at it.”
Some of their feed has been scattered on the ground below—just a few stray pieces that got missed.
Since picking them up myself might result in an unattractive face-plant, I instruct Ellister to collect the food. Once he does, he sprinkles it on the other side of the fence, and the chickens come running.
“Entertaining.” Ellister smiles a little as he watches the animals. It’s just a tiny upturn of his lips, but I find any glimmer of happiness from him fascinating. He turns his gaze to me. “So how does this make you so much money?”
“It’s not the amount of money, per se, but the profit margin. All those quarters add up, and it covers the cost of the food, the annual vet bills, and then some. It pays for itself.”
Ellister nods. “People payyouto feedthem, and then you earn even more by selling the product the animal makes back to the people. That’s genius, Hannah.”
“Thank Great Grandpa Waylon. It was his idea. He wanted to offer an interactive experience.”
“He accomplished it. The little tyke did it.” Ellister’s comment is quiet, almost like he’s talking to himself. “He really did it.”
Little tyke?
I’m about to ask for clarification when he offers me his arm. “What’s next on the agenda, Hannah Wildwood?”
“Anotherinteractiveexperience.” I have trouble hiding my grin when I emphasize the word. “Very hands on. Are you ready for it?”
Waggling my eyebrows in a flirtatious way, I let the suggestive context lead his mind in a different direction than what I’m really asking him to agree to.
Intrigued, Ellister tilts his head. “Absolutely.”
With my legs dangling over the second story of the barn, I smile down at Ellister as he shovels horse crap out of the stall below.
Since he’s working up a sweat, he had to take off his button-up, and the white T-shirt underneath fits him well.
From this angle, I can see the muscles of his back flexing, his shoulders bulging inside the cotton. I’m also enjoying the way his waist tapers and how his jeans hug his nicely shaped backside.
“You’re doing a great job,” I comment, rubbing my neck to ease the tension at the base of my skull.
I’m slightly regretting asking him to do this task, because this is just time I have to spend not touching him. But somebody has to do it, and he’s obviously very good at it.
Without looking up, he huffs. “Uh huh.”
“I’m serious. Cleaning out the horse barn two nights in a row? Let me tell you, if you want to score brownie points with my mom, this is the way to do it.”
Ellister grunts. “I don’t think anything I do will get her to like me. I don’t blame her.”
“If I can get over it, so can she.”
“Hannah.” He stops what he’s doing, leaning on the shovel as he glances up at me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t want it. In fact, I reject it. Keep it.”
