Chapter Five
Laney
It’s two days after Ryder brought his duffle, and I’m starting to understand what efficiency actually looks like.
I stumble out of my bedroom at six-thirty, hair doing its best impression of a bird’s nest, expecting to face the usual morning chaos.
Instead, I discover all the outdoor animals have already been fed, watered, and checked on.
The scent of coffee drifts from the kitchen, and I find a full pot waiting along with a note scrawled in careful handwriting: Didn’t want to wake you. Coffee’s fresh. - R
It’s thoughtful, and after three years of handling everything alone—from spider removal to truck maintenance to that one memorable incident involving a raccoon family in my attic—having someone think ahead feels…
nice. Though I’m careful not to read too much into it.
He’s doing his job, being considerate of his employer. That’s all.
Through the kitchen window, I can see him in the yard, apparently in the middle of some sort of standoff with Napoleon.
The rooster has his chest puffed out, head cocked in challenge, while Ryder stands perfectly still, hands on his hips, staring back with the same expression I imagine he uses on difficult firefighters.
I pour myself coffee, add cream and sugar, and settle in to watch the show.
The stare-down goes on for a full minute before Napoleon lets out a single, grudging crow and stalks away with as much dignity as an annoyed rooster can muster.
The side door opens a few minutes later, and Ryder steps inside, bringing the scent of crisp morning air.
Underneath it lingers something distinctly him—woodsmoke, soap, and that faint warmth that seems to cling to his skin no matter how cold it is outside.
It’s the kind of scent that makes my pulse stumble before I can remind myself he’s just an employee who is being polite.
“Morning,” he says, wiping his boots carefully on the mat. “Hope the coffee’s okay.”
“It’s perfect, thanks.” I gesture toward the window. “Looked like you and Napoleon were having a moment.”
“Final negotiations. He’s decided I’m acceptable flock material.” Ryder moves to the sink to wash his hands. “Not a threat to his authority, but not entirely beneath his notice either.”
“High praise from Napoleon. From what his owner told me, he usually barely tolerates new people.”
“Animals test boundaries until they understand the hierarchy. Once that’s settled, everyone’s more comfortable.”
I’m struck by how he talks about animals—not like problems to be managed, but like individuals with their own logic and motivations. It’s the kind of understanding that comes from experience, not just textbook knowledge.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks, drying his hands.
“Better since you’ve been here. Having a backup means I’m not lying awake wondering if I forgot something important.”
“Good.” He leans against the counter, maintaining a respectful distance. “Duchess was restless around five. I checked on her—just looked, didn’t disturb her setup. She’s showing some nesting behavior.”
I set down my mug, immediately alert. “What kind of nesting behavior?”
“Rearranging her blankets more than usual, circling her space, getting particular about where things are positioned. In my experience, it can mean labor’s approaching.”
Experience. Right. He’s worked with rescue animals and seen births before. “First-time mothers can be unpredictable with timing,” I say, though he probably knows this, “but I should monitor her more closely today.”
I move toward the living room to check on her. Duchess looks up when I approach, green eyes alert but calm. She has definitely rearranged her blanket nest, and there’s a subtle restlessness to her movements that confirms Ryder’s assessment.
“Soon, Mama?” I ask softly, running a gentle hand along her side. She purrs and bumps her head against my palm, but I can feel the tension building in her body.
“Need me to set up anything?” Ryder asks from behind me.
“Clean towels, heating pad on low in case kittens need extra warmth. Other than that, we wait and let her handle what she’s designed to do.”
Before we can discuss it further, a sharp crow echoes from outside, followed by what sounds like triumphant clucking.
“That’s definitely new,” I say, moving to the window. Napoleon is strutting around the yard like he’s just successfully negotiated a peace treaty.
“He’s announcing his victory to the hens,” Ryder explains, joining me at the window. “Letting them know he’s handled the territorial situation.”
We stand here watching the chickens’ morning routine, and I notice how Ryder’s careful to maintain a distance between us. Professional space. It should be reassuring, but I focus on how easy it would be to step closer.
“What about Bonnie and Clyde?” I ask, refocusing on practical matters.
“Clever goats! Yesterday, they figured out how to work together to lift the pen latch. This morning I reinforced it with a carabiner.”
I spot them in their pen, both staring intently at the new addition to their gate. “Think that’ll hold them?”
“For today. Tomorrow they’ll probably have a new strategy.” There’s amusement in his voice. “They’re smarter than most people give goats credit for.”
“I underestimated a lot of things about this situation.” That’s the understatement of the century. I don’t mention that if he weren’t here, I might have already thrown in the towel and called the pet parents back from their vacations.
Something passes across his face—understanding, maybe. Like he gets what it’s like to be in over his head but too stubborn to admit it.
A demanding snort from the kitchen doorway announces Hamlet’s arrival. The pig positions himself strategically between Ryder and me, then looks back and forth expectantly.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” I say, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Feeling neglected?”
Hamlet grunts his approval but doesn’t move from his post between us. His message is clear: attention must be distributed equally, and personal space must be maintained.
“He’s very dedicated to his supervisory duties,” Ryder observes, kneeling to attend to important belly rub duties.
“Mrs. Foster warned me he has no concept of boundaries and likes to be involved in everything.” I watch Ryder’s hands move, gentle and sure, and quickly look away before my thoughts wander. “He’s appointed himself house manager.”
“Smart pig.”
We spend a few minutes giving Hamlet the attention he demands, and I’m struck by how natural this feels. The easy coordination of two people who both understand animal behavior.
“I should get dressed properly,” I say, standing up and brushing invisible dust off my pajamas. “Real clothes.”
“Take your time. I’ll keep an eye on everyone.”
I escape to my bedroom, needing a moment to collect my thoughts. Two days, and we’ve found a rhythm that works. He respects my space and expertise, and I appreciate his experience and work ethic. It’s professional, efficient, and absolutely not worth overthinking.
By the time I’ve showered and dressed, I can hear Ryder moving around in the kitchen. I find him at the stove, scrambling eggs.
“You don’t have to cook,” I say as I join him.
“Don’t mind it. Figured I should pull my weight beyond just animal care.”
The consideration in that statement strikes me. He’s not taking over my kitchen or assuming I need to be fed—he’s contributing to the household in a way that makes sense.
“The eggs look perfect, thanks.”
We eat breakfast while reviewing the day’s schedule. I appreciate that he listens to my plans instead of trying to reorganize them, offers practical suggestions when asked, but doesn’t try to take charge of my operation.
“Need to handle Jasper today,” I mention, checking my mental list. “He’s due for his thirty-minute session.”
Something flickers across Ryder’s expression—so brief I almost miss it.
“The snake,” he says carefully.
“If you prefer, I can handle it myself. I know serpents aren’t everyone’s favorite.” I take a sip of coffee. “Though if you want to learn, I’m happy to teach you. I got pretty comfortable with snakes back when I was taking care of my neighbor’s collection in high school.”
“I should probably learn. Part of the job, right?”
There’s something in his tone that suggests this isn’t as casual as he’s making it sound, but I don’t push. If he wants to work up to handling Jasper, that’s his choice.
The rest of breakfast passes comfortably, and we’re just finishing when Alexa cuts through the silence with a weather update.
“—winter storm warning in effect for the San Gabriel Mountains beginning late tomorrow. Heavy snow accumulations are expected, with winds gusting to forty miles per hour. Residents should prepare for possible power outages and road closures—”
We both stop eating, the implications sinking in.
“That’s a big storm.” The comment is unnecessary, but I need to fill the sudden silence.
“Could be stuck here for days once it hits.” Ryder’s expression grows serious. “We should make sure we’re prepared. Extra supplies, backup heating, secure anything that could blow around.”
He leans his forearms on the table, focused on the plan like it’s another emergency callout. Composed. Capable. And I can’t help but notice the way that calm sits on him—broad shoulders, steady hands—details I don’t need to be noticing.
Storm preparations. Right. Because getting snowed in with an attractive male I’ve known for two days is exactly the kind of complication my overthinking brain definitely doesn’t need. But hey, worst-case scenario, I’ll trend on TikTok for all the wrong reasons.
The silence stretches for a long moment, and I can feel my stomach tightening with something I don’t want to name. Fear? Not of the storm, exactly, but of what it means. Being completely cut off. Just the two of us.
It’s only when I look at him that I think of what he might need. We’ve only discussed pleasantries, though we’ve lived together for a few days. I don’t know what his responsibilities are back in the Zone. What if he has other obligations? Commitments?
“If you wanted to get back to town before the roads get bad, I’d understand. I can handle the animals alone if I need to.”
It’s only as the words leave my mouth that I realize how much I want him to stay, and not just to help with the animals.
I like his… presence. But that was the right thing to say.
The responsible thing. He has his own life, his own plans, and getting trapped on a mountain with a virtual stranger wasn’t part of our arrangement.
Ryder’s expression shifts, something flickering in his intelligent eyes that I can’t read. For a heartbeat, I think he might actually consider it. Then, something in his posture changes, becomes more solid, more certain.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and there’s a quiet finality to his voice that makes my chest tight for entirely different reasons.
“These animals need both of us, especially if the weather gets as bad as they’re predicting.
Besides,” he adds with a hint of a smile, “I make a mean hot chocolate when the power goes out.”
The joke falls flat because we both know what he really just said. That he’s choosing to stay. Choosing to face whatever’s coming with me instead of taking the easy way out.
I should feel relieved. Professional gratitude that my employee is committed to the job.
Instead, I feel something much more dangerous.