CHAPTER 10
Two mornings later, Willa found herself pulling up the pitted dirt driveway of Marigold Farm. It had a cheerful wood sign, so she knew she was in the right place. She could see a dark log cabin off at the edge of the lawn area, a cute farm stand that was currently closed, and the yellow main house beyond. The barn was off to one side, weathered red with peeling paint, by the areas that she had to assume were the paddocks or whatever, where the goats ate grass and maybe some blackberry brambles ... she could see a large cluster of the fruit choking a corner of the property. What she assumed were vegetable gardens were closed in with chain-link fencing, probably to fend off deer. It looked like it held the produce she’d received in her basket, in a cheerful, somewhat haphazard layout.
The chaos of it would’ve driven Steven nuts, she thought with a bittersweet smile. He was into aesthetics as well as actual product. The memory caused her only a small pang at this point, as so many memories of him did. It was like smacking your shin on the same coffee table you’ve hit a million times but you’ve never moved the table, because you were used to the pain.
She was nervous, and she wasn’t sure why. Hudson had told her to stop by, after all. Besides, she was here for a specific reason: to return the basket and to pay him back for fixing the oven. He’d refused to take any money, since he’d insisted it wasn’t actually “fixing” anything, just turning a knob. Still, she’d felt indebted by both the action and the food, and the thought that the scales were imbalanced made her skin itch.
She carefully pulled up to the farm stand, which was shuttered. It looked like it would open in an hour or so, although the posted hours said “more or less” next to them in an amusing hand-painted font. She parked, unsure of where they usually had customers or even guests park. Finally, taking a deep breath, she took the basket out of the passenger seat and then, straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders, headed for the farmhouse.
She hoped he was home. Or at least, she thought with a grimace, she hoped someone was home. This wasn’t the kind of gift that she could leave on a doorstep, and she suddenly realized with irritation that that was poor planning on her part.
She admitted that the majority of her decision to return the favor was out of sheer procrastination because she was having a really hard time getting into the cookbook. She had stayed up way too late the previous two nights, trying to figure out what to do to start. She’d watched almost all the videos that “Sexy Chef Sam” had put up. There was simply no rhyme or reason to them. The only unifying factors were him and a lack of clothing. She’d even considered calling the cookbook Things to Cook Practically Naked but felt it was maybe too on the nose.
She rubbed at the inner corners of her eyes. Who was she kidding? Marketing would cross out the “practically” and slap it on the cover. With a glossy photo of his olive oil–greased torso, photoshopped Hawaiian-roll abs rippling under veiny crossed arms. Maybe a strategically placed chef’s toque covering his no-no parts, somehow miraculously staying up without help. Sam, the Human Hat Rack.
Okay, maybe you’re a little punchy there, Willa.
She had gotten a grand total of four hours of sleep the previous two nights. She’d also messed up a bunch of ingredients, which didn’t help. At least they were small experiments. Finally, she’d decided to make her payback gift at around three in the morning. Now she was wielding several small restaurant to-go boxes (cardboard containers that she’d saved from Steven’s restaurant, part of a plethora of things that she really ought to toss) filled with cherry-and-rhubarb cobbler, and a plastic container of goat-cheese-and-honey ice cream. She was pretty happy with how it had come out—which is more than she could say for the cherries jubilee recipe she tried for the cookbook, which was too painfully derivative ... a cursory Google search could provide the same thing. While originality might not matter, this was the only way she could get back into ghostwriting cookbooks, and just phoning it in, tight deadline or not, probably wasn’t going to help her cause. While the guy didn’t seem to do anything particularly taxing, neither of them could rely on such painfully basic material accompanied by some cheeky hot-guy calendar shots.
Although maybe they could . Photos were the lifeblood of cookbooks nowadays, as far as she could tell, and some cheesecake shots of a sexy guy couldn’t hurt.
She frowned. Also, she ought to consider including cheesecake, now that she thought about it.
She felt the beginnings of a headache starting, and she sighed. She’d take some ibuprofen and then get back to work.
She heard the barking and felt her heart lighten as Noodle came barreling out of the house, running straight at her and jumping.
“Hello, beautiful boyyyyy—” she started, but he was too excited. He rammed into her, sending her ass-over-teakettle onto the grass. She grunted, but he started licking her face. “Oof! No licking! Noodle!”
He seemed momentarily chastened, but his tail was still waggling, shaking his entire butt with excitement, so she couldn’t feel that angry about it. Still, he’d spread everything everywhere, so she quickly picked the boxes up to put back in the basket. They’d be a mess, but at least they were cobblers ...
As she started picking up the ice cream and tried to maneuver herself back onto her feet, she looked up.
There, right in front of her face, was a bearded, narrow visage with prominent teeth and eyes with vertical pupils, studying her.
With a yelp, she dropped the ice cream. It hit just right, the lid popping off and ice cream spilling onto the dry grass.
The thing screamed at her, and she jumped back with a scream of her own, almost tripping over her own feet.
“Goat,” she muttered to herself, finally registering what she was seeing. It was about as tall as her waist, maybe her chest, with a thick barrel stomach and gray-beige fur going darker around its face and legs. It had a stub tail that wagged. Noodle seemed to give it a wide berth, hiding behind her, and frankly, she couldn’t blame him.
The goat stared at her, completely unfazed. Then screamed at her again ... and promptly bent down to start digging into the carton.
“Oh, no!” she protested, reaching down to try to stop it. At which point it glared at her, chin pointed aggressively, as if to say I wish a bitch would try .
Willa, absolutely that particular bitch, would not try, because she had a sense of self-preservation. Instead, she backed away slowly.
The goat screams had apparently been a combination warning and invitation, as two other goats came trotting up, bouncing like basketballs. They were smaller and black, and in a different frame of mind, she’d probably think they were cute. But by now Noodle had abandoned her and was bolting for the house.
“Now, now ... nice goats ...,” she tried, holding the basket up as the original goat unrepentantly dug into the ice cream. “Nice goats ... nice goooooats !”
One of them, that actually looked like it was smiling , headbutted her immediately, knocking her on her ass again. Some of the boxes she’d just rescued slipped out.
NOPE. Nope nope nope nope nope ...
They were between her and the farmhouse, and the cabin seemed miles away at this point. So she made a break for some hay bales she saw by the barn.
She didn’t think that goats had a prey response, so she suspected that they thought she was playing with them. Which was probably why they then sprinted at her heels.
She was squealing very loudly, she realized on some psychological level, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The basket swung around as she made it to the hay bales and started to climb.
Of course, her brain immediately, if somewhat belatedly, provided her with a fact she’d gleaned from some long-forgotten documentary. Or possibly Heidi or The Sound of Music .
Goats are really good at jumping and climbing.
They immediately bounced by her side, intent on mugging her.
“Oh, come on !” she wailed as they tried to stick their heads in the basket to retrieve the remaining two boxes. “No, no, no!”
“Beelzebub! Satan! Knock it off!” a deep voice shouted.
She looked over to see Hudson walking over, a fierce look on his face. Behind him was a young woman wearing jeans and a tank top, her hair dyed blue. She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Midnight! Shadow!” she called, glaring at Hudson. “You need to call them by their actual names if they’re going to respond, Dad.” Then she held out something.
The agile thieves obediently made little goat noises, skipping off to the new offering. Obviously this woman was their favorite. She scratched them, and they nudged her with encouragement.
“You okay?” Hudson asked Willa, holding a hand out to her.
Her heart was racing. “I ... yes. Sorry.”
“For what?”
She took his hand, and he tugged her to an unsteady standing position on the hay bale. Then she squeaked when he let go and put his hands on her waist, lifting her easily before placing her on the ground like she weighed nothing.
“Oh. Sorry,” he quickly echoed her, yanking his hands away like he’d just grabbed a cast-iron pan straight from the oven. “You okay?” he repeated.
She nodded, then looked at her basket. Only one small box remained. “Oh! Crap!” She looked up to see the young woman—his daughter?—grabbing what remained of the boxes, but the food was done for, and her heart sank. “Damn it,” she muttered.
“I’m glad you came by,” he said, and his voice was warm, but his expression was embarrassed. “Should’ve warned you about the goats, though.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she automatically responded. “I should’ve called, given you a heads-up.” Or just given you the food from my car, a quick handoff. But it was all a bit late for that.
The goats had made short work of her thank-you-payback present. “Whatever it was, it looked good?” Hudson said, with an edge of teasing in his voice.
“It was cobbler,” she said, now feeling bad again. “Cherry rhubarb. With, erm, goat-cheese-and-honey ice cream.”
His eyes widened. “Wow. Sounds fancy.”
Was it? Oh, God. She probably seemed like a snob. “Um ... well, I had both fresh ...”
“It sounded good,” he reassured her, with a slow grin that made her insides warm.
“Um ... well.” She shoved the basket at him, then closed her eyes at her own clumsiness. “I figured you’d need the basket, and you’d given me the fruit and stuff ...”
“It was nice. Thoughtful.”
Gah. This was way more awkward than it needed to be. “Well, I hope you enjoy what’s left!” she quickly rushed out, then started walking to her car.
“If you’ve got a minute,” he said, making her slow in her tracks, “I’d like to introduce you to my family.”
She winced again. What was wrong with her? She’d managed to charm restaurant investors, schmooze with reviewers and influencers, once upon a time. Was she really that out of practice?
“Of course,” she said, and followed him.
“This is my daughter, Kimber. She raises and milks the goats and makes the related products. Also, she’s our beekeeper.”
Kimber smiled from where she had grabbed the (now empty) boxes and ice cream container, giving her a nod.
“I’m so sorry,” Willa said again. “It won’t hurt them, will it?”
“Did it have garlic or onions? Meat? Chocolate? Alcohol?”
“No,” she said, describing the contents. Kimber shrugged.
“Should be fine. I’m sorry I’m missing out on the ice cream, though.”
“I’ll make some more,” Willa promised.
“Grandpa’s at the shop, and Gram’s grocery shopping,” Kimber said, “but I’m glad we got to meet.”
Willa shifted uneasily from foot to foot but smiled back. “I, er, ought to get going. Thank you for the welcome basket.” She looked at the remains of the food that the goats were gleefully lapping up. “I feel like I still owe you, though.”
“I told you, we don’t keep track on the island.” Hudson’s eyes gleamed, and the corner of his mouth kicked up.
That dimple’s lethal.
It was weird, how she could see Sexy Chef Sam practically bare assed but one little divot peeking out near the corner of Hudson’s upturned lips made her heart stutter and her breathing go shallow. She tucked her hair behind her ear, then frowned. She knew that was a nervous habit.
Why was she so nervous around this man?
“But if you’re feeling bad, I’m sure we can come up with something,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
“Kidding! I’m sorry, that was terrible,” he said as his eyes widened in response. Kimber, on the other hand, burst out laughing. “I genuinely was ... I am so ... that wasn’t what I meant!”
“He meant please feel free to stop by anytime,” Kimber said, amusement still plain on her face. “And if you’ve got ice cream, hey, I’m not saying no.”
Willa felt herself relax a fraction. Then she nodded and fled while she still could.