Chapter 1 #6
In any case, what he meant was, I want to be part of your routine. You should ask me. People thought routine wasn’t romantic, but people had no goddamn imagination. You know what was romantic? Not getting migraines, because you slept and ate on a regular schedule.
He thought Devon might get it, the way he was smiling right now, soft and happy and hopeful. “You got a bedtime too, Noah?”
And—God, he really fucking did, but he didn’t get the chance to say so, because Nelson made the world’s most dramatic dog noise, uncurled from his ball, and bodily threw himself sideways on the bed until his head rested on Noah’s leg.
Noah bit his lip to suppress a laugh. “I think Nelson does, for sure.”
“Yeah, he’s real subtle.” But Devon was still smiling, even as he gave Noah’s pinky one last squeeze and then sat up to crawl under the blankets. “He’s got a point, though. You should get some sleep before the headache can start.”
Noah could really feel it now—the throbbing at the back of his head—and his body was even more tired than his brain. He wormed his way under five pounds of soft, thick quilts and snuggled into the pillow. It smelled a little dusty. Somehow that made it feel homey, relaxing.
The lights clicked out. Devon must have an app on his phone.
“Night, Devon.”
“Good night, Noah.”
THE FIRE had burned down to embers by the time Devon awoke early the next morning. But while the room—and the skin of Devon’s face—was uncomfortably chilly, the rest of him was downright cozy. It was amazing what a half-dozen blankets and a dog’s body heat could do.
And then his eyes focused on the tangle in front of him—a messy riot of browns and golds that smelled like Devon’s shampoo, instead of a white-and-black coat that smelled like dog and sheep and hay—and he registered that he’d curled up around Noah, not Nelson.
Awkward, but on the other hand, definitely less worrisome than waking up with a boner while spooning his dog. Besides, they each had multiple blanket layers. He was safe from mortification, apart from the snuggling.
He didn’t get the feeling Noah would mind the snuggling.
To be honest, he probably wouldn’t be upset about the boner either.
That and the frigid temperature outside the little cocoon prompted Devon to ignore the fact that he was awake and bury his face against the back of Noah’s neck again, where it was warm. Noah was still asleep anyway.
Or so Devon thought until the blanket burrito in front of him mumbled with an audible smile, “Well good morning to you too.”
At least Devon didn’t have his arm around him. For one thing, it would’ve frozen off. For another, even Devon, at six two, would’ve had a tough time getting his arm around Noah and that many blankets.
“I can’t hear you,” he said. “I’m still sleeping. Shhh.”
“Not all of you.”
God damn it! “There’s no way you can feel that through twelve blankets. What is this, the Princess and the Penis?”
The Noah burrito shook with laughter and wiggled until they were nose to nose.
He looked even more Muppetlike in the morning, with pillow creases on his face and sleepy brown eyes under those caterpillar eyebrows.
“Aww, don’t sell yourself short.” The eyebrows gave a wiggle.
“Anyway, I’m very sensitive to these things. ”
He was so fucking cute he was going to give Devon an existential crisis. “I bet you are.”
At the foot of the bed, Nelson snorted, then nosed Devon pointedly in the shin.
“Don’t you fucking start,” Devon said to him.
Nelson flicked an ear. He was sitting sphynxlike, head up, eyes intent on Devon, ready to go as soon as Devon gave the word.
“Cockblock and alarm clock in one,” Noah said with a wry little smile. Devon wanted to yell into his pillow about it, or kiss it off, or both. Both? But maybe in reverse order. “Impressive.”
He pulled the blankets over his face and let out a noise of frustration.
“Nelson loves routine the most.” Then he popped his head out again.
“Okay. I’m going to put another log on and see if we can’t get it a bit warmer in here.
Looks like the power’s back, so I’ll turn the furnace on too. Don’t feel like you have to get up.”
Under the blanket mountain, Noah wiggled again. After a second, his hands emerged at the top; he pulled the covers up to his chin. “I’ll keep your spot warm for you.”
Oh God, Devon liked him so much already it was stupid. He dragged himself out of bed before he could do something about it, and got dressed to go handle the morning chores.
The sheep were in high spirits. Gritty nipped at a few of the others who tried to get to the feeding trough in front of him, then shoved his whole face in the bucket as Devon was trying to fill it, resulting in the feed spilling onto the ground. Par for the course.
“Whatever,” Devon said, huffing, “I know you don’t care about the five-second rule. Merry Christmas Eve, dickhead.”
When everyone had fed, Nelson herded them into the paddock, and Devon made a few disgusting passes through the barn to remove the accumulated sheep shit into its pile, where it would stay until the spring, when nutty gardeners paid Devon big bucks to haul it away by the truckload.
Devon was just glad he didn’t have to deal with it all himself.
He was in the barn washing up when he heard the snowmobile.
Fuck. He’d figured with all the snow, Amber would wait until the roads had been cleared to come out for her weekly gossip session, but it looked like she just picked a method of transportation that didn’t require roads. And there was no way Devon was going to get inside before she did.
It was fifty-fifty on whether she came into the barn before she went into the house, probably depending on how much coffee she’d had this morning and how long ago.
He knew how it was going to go when, twenty seconds after the snowmobile’s engine cut out, he heard a short shriek and then a door slamming.
Ten seconds after that, Amber barreled into the barn, still in her full riding gear minus the helmet. She’d braided her hair into two short, fraying pigtails, and her eyes had narrowed into beady suspicion. “Devon. There’s a Muppet in your kitchen.”
Devon finished drying his hands and turned around, affecting innocence. “Hi, Amber. Good morning. Merry Christmas Eve. Nice to see you. Is the power back on at your place? How was the ride over?”
Amber ignored his attempts to derail her. “A Muppet, Devon.”
Oh well. He’d have to play her game. “Santa came early.”
It was worth it when she shrieked. “Augh!” She swatted at his elbow. “Why is there a Muppet in your kitchen?”
Devon hadn’t had this much fun since it had been his job to annoy people into drawing penalties. “His name is Noah.”
On the other hand, none of the guys he’d played against could make threats like Amber.
“You have, like, seven pitchforks, and I’m not afraid to use them.
There’s no other car here. No other tracks in the snow.
Which means you picked that man up somewhere and brought him back to your house in the middle of nowhere like someone who wants to be murdered in his sleep! ”
He loved her so much. He should tell his sister he was stealing her best friend. “By a Muppet?” What was it with everyone and the preoccupation with murder, anyway? Maybe they should cut back on those Netflix true-crime documentaries.
“Devon.” Amber shoved him playfully. “Come on. I just about shat myself, seeing someone in your kitchen. Did you pick up a man for sex or not?”
Okay, no, he wouldn’t let her think that.
Amber had more reason to be nosy about his sex life than most, since if Devon fell off the wagon, he could take their business with him.
“I picked up a stranded motorist,” he corrected.
“No sexual favors were exchanged. We did trade traumatic hockey stories, though.”
Her eyes widened. “Wow. I’m a little rusty on my sports metaphors. What is that, a grand slam?”
Surely a grand slam involved some kind of nudity. “Maybe a shootout goal?”
She tilted her head from side to side as if considering. “Is it a grand slam if he gets up in the morning and makes you breakfast? Like, Denny’s style? Because that’s what’s happening.”
Devon stared at her. He glanced in the direction of the house. The entire barn was in the way; he couldn’t see shit. But he could imagine it. “I will give you a hundred dollars to leave right now.”
“Hell no. I smelled his pancakes. I will fight you in the street, Hughes. Now chop chop. We can’t keep the man waiting. Breakfast will get cold.”
Devon might not be a professional hockey player anymore, but the idea of food going cold still offended him. “You’re right, we’re being so rude.”
Nelson was disinclined to come back inside just yet, preferring to patrol the perimeter for anything dumb enough to try to eat a three-hundred-pound sheep covered in protective wool, so Devon and Amber went inside without him.
The second he opened the side door, Devon understood why Amber hadn’t been persuaded. His kitchen had never smelled so good.
Not only did Noah have pancakes and eggs sizzling away on the stove, he had a tray of bacon in the oven too. Devon’s trusty coffee maker, which was incapable of brewing less than twelve cups in one go, was full with farm fuel.
And in the middle of it all was Noah, still wearing Devon’s clothes, hair flat on one side. He saw Devon before he saw Amber. “What, the sheep don’t get a good-morning song?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil them.”
Amber poked her head around him in the doorway. “What did he play last night? They’re pretty into the Beatles.”
Devon resisted the urge to facepalm. “Noah, this is my nosy business partner, Amber. Amber, Noah Bell, former damsel in distress.”
Noah waved the spatula in acknowledgment. “It was ‘Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other.’ Are you hungry?”
Amber looked up at Devon. “We like this one.”
He shoved her into the kitchen. “Find us some damn plates, woman.”