Chapter 14 #2
His eyes shift back to me, something warm flickering there for a second before it disappears behind that calm, steady look he usually keeps locked in place.
“…you live like this every day,” he says again, quieter this time.
I grin.
“Yep.”
I finally wiggle free of Cole’s arm and roll out of bed before Sheriff can scream himself hoarse outside.
The floor is cold under my feet, and I stretch my arms over my head with a long yawn as I cross the room, grabbing a pair of leggings from the chair by the dresser.
I tug them on, then pull one of my oversized hoodies over my head, the familiar softness settling around me like armor for the morning chaos that’s about to begin.
Behind me the mattress creaks.
“Where’re you going?” Cole’s voice is still thick with sleep.
I shove my hair into a messy ponytail and glance back over my shoulder at him. He’s propped up on one elbow now, watching me with that half-awake, half-alert look like his brain is still deciding if the day has actually started yet.
“Barn chores,” I say around another yawn. “Animals don’t care if I stayed up late.”
He squints toward the window when Sheriff crows again.
“Clearly.”
I grin and head for the door.
By the time I make it downstairs the house is quiet except for the faint scratching of paws moving around the kitchen and the rooster continuing his personal vendetta against sleep outside.
I start the coffee maker first, because priorities, then lean against the counter for a second while it begins its slow gurgling process.
The smell hits almost immediately.
Bless.
I’m halfway through pulling on my rubber boots by the back door when I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me.
I glance up.
And there’s Cole.
He’s standing at the bottom of the staircase in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, his hair still sleep-rumpled, the fabric stretched across his shoulders in a way that makes it very difficult to remember how words work for a second.
Jesus.
This man looks good standing in my kitchen.
Like… unfairly good.
Like he belongs in some rugged workwear commercial where they hand him a truck and a chainsaw and call it a day.
I shove my foot the rest of the way into my boot and lean back against the wall, crossing my arms as I look him over with absolutely no shame.
“Whatcha doing there, hoss?”
Cole raises one eyebrow at me.
“You said farm chores.”
The way he says it is so calm and matter-of-fact that it takes me a second to realize what he means.
Then I blink.
Slowly.
“…you’re not serious.”
He just looks at me.
Arms loose at his sides, completely unfazed by the fact that he’s currently standing in a farmhouse kitchen at six in the morning after sleeping in a bed with four animals.
“You’ve got animals to feed,” he says. “I’ve got hands.”
I stare at him for a second.
“You ride motorcycles and beat people up for a living.”
“Occasionally.”
“You’re an Iron Reaper.”
He shrugs slightly.
“Still got hands.”
My mouth twitches despite myself.
“Well,” I say, grabbing the second pair of spare boots by the door and sliding them across the floor toward him, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Cole glances down at the boots.
Then back at me.
“What am I walking into out there?”
I grin and shove open the back door.
Cold morning air rushes into the kitchen along with the smell of damp earth and hay.
“Chaos.”
About an hour later the back door swings open again and I stumble into the kitchen laughing so hard my stomach actually hurts.
I barely make it two steps inside before I have to grab the edge of the counter to steady myself, the laughter bubbling up all over again when I look behind me.
Cole follows a second later.
He fills the doorway like he always does, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, jeans dusted with dirt and hay, black T-shirt stretched across his chest. His boots are muddy, there’s a streak of something suspiciously green on his forearm, and his hair looks even more wrecked than it did when he came downstairs.
And he is not amused.
Which only makes it worse.
I laugh harder.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, pressing my palm to my stomach. “Your face when the goat jumped on the hay bale.”
Cole shuts the door behind him with his shoulder and gives me a long look.
“That goat is an asshole.”
That just about finishes me.
I bend forward, laughing again while Moose trots into the kitchen behind us like he personally supervised the entire operation. Daisy circles my legs hopefully, and Cricket zips across the floor like a tiny rocket before skidding into the cabinet.
Cole pulls his boots off by the door, shaking a little hay loose as he steps inside.
“I’ve fought men bigger than that thing,” he mutters.
“Kevin?”
He points a finger at me.
“Kevin tried to square up.”
I lean against the counter, grinning at him. “Kevin squares up with everybody.”
“He lowered his head at me.”
“That’s because you looked suspicious.”
Cole stares at me for a second like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious.
“You introduced me to him,” he says slowly. “You said, ‘This is Kevin, he’s mostly nice.’”
I shrug.
“He is mostly nice.”
“Then why did he try to headbutt me?”
I wipe at my eyes, still laughing.
“You were standing in front of his bucket.”
Cole blinks once.
“…that was his bucket?”
“Very much his bucket.”
Cole runs a hand down his face and exhales slowly like he’s trying to recalibrate his entire understanding of the morning.
Behind him Moose plops down in the middle of the kitchen floor with a satisfied grunt.
I push away from the counter and move toward the coffee pot, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet. The smell of fresh coffee fills the kitchen again as I pour.
When I turn around, Cole is leaning back against the counter watching me, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
His expression has softened a little.
There’s still a trace of disbelief there, but something else too.
Something warmer.
I hand him one of the mugs.
“Congratulations,” I say brightly. “You survived farm chores.”
Cole takes the coffee, his fingers brushing mine briefly.
“That was chores?”
“That was the easy part.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“There’s an easier part?”
“Oh sure,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “Sometimes Sheriff tries to fight the mailman.”
Cole stares at me.
Then slowly looks toward the back door like he’s considering whether the rooster might actually come inside and prove my point.
“…your farm is violent.”
I grin into my coffee.
“You fit right in.”