4. Emma #2
The deep voice startles me, and I straighten quickly to find Liam standing a few yards away. His flannel shirt today is a faded blue that matches his eyes. There’s a smudge of dirt on his jaw, and his dark hair is mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it.
“Yes, although she still hasn’t apologized for yesterday,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He nods, studying the goat with a thoughtful expression. “She usually isn’t friendly with outsiders.” His eyes shift to me, that same curious look from yesterday returning. “But she seems to have decided you’re worth knowing.”
Something about the way he says it makes my pulse quicken.
I break eye contact, focusing on Maple instead. “Is she supposed to be out? I don’t want to keep her from where she should be.”
“She has opinions about where she should be,” Liam says, hinting at something almost like humor in his voice. “Technically, she should be in the pen with the other goats, but she’s special.”
He doesn’t move to take her, just watches as she continues to press against my leg like a cat seeking attention.
“She can stay with me if it’s not a problem,” I offer. “I’m just taking photos for the socials.”
Liam seems surprised by my suggestion. “You sure? She can be a nuisance.”
I blush slightly. “Well, it can’t be worse than yesterday. And I don’t mind. I’d love the company.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods. “Don’t let her near the vines, she’ll eat the flowers.”
“I’ll keep her away from them,” I promise.
He hesitates, as if wanting to say something else, then nods again and leaves. I watch him go as he heads back toward the barn.
“Well,” I say to Maple, who looks up at me with what I swear is a self-satisfied expression, “looks like you’re my photography assistant today.”
True to her new role, Maple follows me around the farm as I shoot photos, occasionally wandering into the frame. She’s well-behaved, staying close without getting in the way, only occasionally nudging me for attention.
I’m so focused on my task that I don’t notice the time passing until my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the scone at breakfast. Looking at my phone, I’m surprised it’s past one o’clock.
“I should get back,” I tell Maple, who bleats mournfully as if understanding I’m about to drag her to the pen. “I’m sure you have goat things to do, too.”
As I turn toward the farmhouse, focused on trying to nudge the stubborn goat back to her pen, I nearly collide with Liam, who’s approaching with a sandwich in one hand.
“Sorry,” I stammer, taking a quick step back. “I didn’t see you.”
He holds out the sandwich at arm’s length. “Theo thought you might be hungry.”
The thoughtfulness catches me off guard. “Oh. Thank you.”
Our fingers brush as I take the sandwich, and I feel a jolt like static electricity. His hand twitches, hovering over mine, and for a heartbeat, his fingertips return to the spot where our skin connected, gently smoothing over my knuckles with a light touch.
“Sorry,” he whispers, as he finally withdraws his hand.
I clutch the sandwich, suddenly forgetting why I wanted it in the first place. My skin tingles where he touched me, and I struggle to remember how to form words.
Definitely not a normal beta reaction to casual touch.
My body can’t decide if it wants to purr or run.
“The goat giving you any trouble?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.
“No, she’s been perfect. A great model, actually.” I carefully show him my phone screen, where I’ve captured Maple posing majestically atop a hay bale.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the first real smile I’ve seen from him. It transforms his face completely, making him look devastatingly handsome.
“She is photogenic,” he agrees. “Knows her angles.”
The moment stretches between us, unexpectedly comfortable, until Maple butts her head against Liam’s leg, demanding attention. He reaches down automatically to scratch behind her ears.
“I should get her back,” he says. “And you should eat.”
I nod, oddly reluctant to end the interaction. “Thanks for the sandwich.”
He gives me a final nod, then clicks his tongue at Maple, who follows him obediently as he walks away. I watch them go —the tall, flannel-clad man and the small white goat—and feel something tug in my chest.
Even the goat has someone to follow home. When did I become someone who envies a farm animal’s sense of belonging?
Back in the sunroom, I eat the sandwich—turkey and avocado on homemade bread—and try not to moan; it’s freaking delicious. I sort through the photos I’ve taken, and many of them are better than I expected, capturing the idyllic farm setting in an authentic and aspirational way.
I’m so absorbed in editing the best shots for Instagram that I don’t notice Rowan until he clears his throat from the doorway.
I jump.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. Making progress?” he asks, nodding toward my laptop.
“Yes,” I say, turning the screen so he can see. “I’ve drafted a content calendar and taken photos for immediate use. If you approve, I’d like to start posting today to build momentum before your opening weekend.”
He moves closer to look at the screen, and I catch his scent—that burnt sugar I noticed yesterday. It’s not as strong because of my double patch, but it’s enticing. I find myself inhaling deeper before I can catch myself.
What the fuck are you doing, Emma?
Focus on literally anything else!
That weird stain on my cottage ceiling.
Colonoscopies.
Root canals.
“These are good,” he says as he scrolls through the photos. “You’ve got an eye for composition.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, ignoring the warmth spreading through me—focusing on breathing through my mouth.
Colonoscopies.
Root canals.
Expired milk.
He straightens, putting a careful distance between us. “Post whatever you think is best. We trust your judgment; that’s why we hired you.”
The vote of confidence tugs a smile from me. “I’ll have the first posts up this afternoon, then. And I’ll show Theo how to approve the captions I’ve drafted for future content so he can check for accuracy.”
Rowan nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. And Emma—” he pauses, his expression softening. “Is the cottage working out all right for you? Is there anything you need?”
“It’s perfect,” I assure him. “I have everything I need.”
He nods again. “Dinner’s at six if you want to join us. I know you didn’t have time to do any errands. Nothing formal, just food in the kitchen. Or you can take something back to your cottage if you prefer.”
The thought of a meal with all three men makes my stomach tighten with anxiety.
“I might just take something back, if that’s alright,” I say. “I still have a lot of work to get through.”
“Whatever works for you. The kitchen’s always open.”
After he leaves, I turn back to my laptop, but my concentration has gone out the window. These brief interactions have left me feeling off-balance.
They’re just being kind. Just professional kindness to a new employee.
I spend the rest of the afternoon scheduling posts, creating a hashtag strategy, and drafting captions.
By the time the sun begins to set a golden light through the windows, I’ve accomplished more than I expected.
Harvest Home Farm now has an Instagram aesthetic, a content plan, and its first properly hashtaged post—a beautiful shot of morning light on the pumpkin field that’s already garnered more engagement than any of their previous attempts.
At six, I slip into the kitchen just long enough to assemble a sandwich from the ingredients Theo left out on the counter, along with a note that says, ‘Help yourself! –T’ with a smiley face.
There’s also some pasta casserole, but I don’t want to overstep.
I avoid the dining room, where I hear male voices and laughter, and hurry back to my cottage with my dinner.
Inside, I eat at the small table by the window, watching as twilight settles over the farm. Feeling full and satisfied, I realize this is the first time I have had three meals in five months.
As I chew, I trace my finger along a knot in the wooden table. Outside, the pumpkin fields are all dark, creating shadows that stretch across the soil. A few workers head toward their cars, their day finished.
I stay glued to my window well after my sandwich is eaten.
In the distance, I can see Liam leading animals into the barn for the night, his imposing figure unmistakable even from here.
My phone pings with a notification. The Instagram post I created has already gained new followers.
Small progress, but progress nonetheless.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The cottage is quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood. No sirens like in the city. No neighbors fighting through thin walls. No need to check the locks three times before I can relax.
Well, I will still check the locks.
Some habits die hard.
But something feels different tonight. My shoulders aren’t quite as tense as they’ve been for the last few months, and my breathing is easier.
I feel something close to contentment.
Not safe, not yet, maybe never that, but useful.
Productive.
The social media work lets me slip back into a version of my old self—the one who confidently presented campaign strategies in boardrooms, who had colleagues and a future and plans extending beyond the immediate future.
I press my forehead against the cool window glass.
Don’t get comfortable . This is temporary .
Still, I can’t help but feel a tiny spark of something I thought I’d lost forever.
Pride, maybe. Or hope.