Chapter 6 #2
The barn is colorful and warm, smelling of sweet hay and loud.
The goats are varying sizes, although none look very big and all of them appear to be alert and opinionated at our entrance.
None more so than Stevie, who flings herself at the gate the second Gibson opens it and then bypasses him entirely and comes directly for me.
"Oh!" I laugh, nearly losing my balance. Gibb is immediately next to me while Stevie stands up on her little hind legs and paws at my knees. I lean on the crutches and Gibb, bending to let her sniff my hands. "Hello. Hello, I'm glad you're okay."
"She likes you," Gibson says, from behind me, the heat of his body distracting me from the abundance of cuteness in goat form.
"I like her." I scratch Stevie's ears, and she leans into it with her whole body. "I've never had a pet. My landlord doesn't allow them. But if he did, and if a goat counted—" I break off, laughing as the goats start to converge around us, crowding in and bouncing around.
"They're not always like this," he says. "And Stevie is just shameless," he adds as Stevie butts a brown and white goat away from my hand.
"She's perfect."
Gibb helps me over to a bench so I can sit, propping my ankle up on a bale. “Don’t let all of them climb on you at once.”
Stevie jumps in my lap and settles down as I smooth her velvety ears between my fingers. “Are they all babies?” I ask.
“Nope, Tay, Billy and Donna are full-grown.” He points out ones that are larger, kind of the size of a golden retriever.
“I thought goats were bigger.” Not that I’ve ever seen a goat except maybe on television.
“They’re Nigerian Dwarf Goats. Definitely smaller, but excellent dairy producers.”
I hear the scrape of a feed bucket, the sound distracting the goats and they all move towards Gibb. Stevie stays in my lap, content in my arms. “You milk them?”
“Yes, my sister runs her own skincare line, and she’s only ever used milk from the farm. My grandfather was a doctor and always kept a few goats up here, along with growing medicinal herbs and stuff he learned from his grandmother. Harts have been on this land for a long time.”
When I look over my shoulder he's watching me with Stevie, and his expression is a little unguarded, almost soft, and my breath hitches a little. I don’t really know what to make of these feelings.
He holds my gaze, and something stretches between us, an awareness that has heat dancing through my body.
Earlier when I spoke with Nevaeh she asked if my rescuer was cute and when I laughingly told her he was the most gorgeous goat farmer I’d ever seen, she told me to make the most of my time in the mountain.
But Gibb isn’t really a goat farmer. He’s a rock star and Matt isn’t the only person interested in finding out where he went and when he’s going to return to his former life.
Imagining he might be interested in me is just a silly fantasy, but one that’s very fun to indulge in as I sit here and watch him strip off his jacket, muscles bulging under his slim-fitting henley, while he attends to chores in the barn.
Back inside, he makes eggs while I sit at the kitchen table, and I’m astounded by how easy he is to talk to.
It feels like we’re old friends instead of strangers who met yesterday under extreme circumstances.
I find myself telling him how I moved to Colorado from Chicago a few years ago, and how I ended up working for a start-up production company that’s been pretty successful.
“I wanted something new, and my best friend Neveah was here because she is an amazing snowboarder and works at one of the resorts near Colorado Springs.”
“Do you snowboard too?” he asks.
“Uh, no. I much prefer to look at the mountains than slide down them. Although apparently, I don’t have any business walking in them either.”
"I don’t know about that," he says, sliding eggs onto a plate and setting it in front of me. "You just need better company."
I look up at him. He doesn't elaborate, just goes back to the stove to fix his own plate.
I scoop up the eggs. They're very good, which seems unfair. How can someone be so self-contained and competent across so many things?
I find myself wanting to ask questions I know I shouldn't ask yet. How long have you been here? Do you miss it? Were you happy before? Are you happy now?
I ask more questions about the goats instead, and he talks about them, the way people talk about the things they love, with an expert knowledge and enthusiasm I find particularly appealing.
The breeds, the breeding season, the particular challenges of keeping goats in mountain elevation.
He tells me about Stevie's mother, a named Madonna, with opinions about personal space, and about one of the older males who figured out how to unlatch the feed room door, only to be caught red-handed in the grain stores at two in the morning by Gibson in his boxer shorts, armed with a mop and a flashlight because he thought someone was breaking in.
He tells the story straight, no embellishment, and it's absolutely one of the funniest things I've heard in months.
"I’m glad you find the situation entertaining," he says, when I've recovered.
"I'm sorry, the image of you in the dark, having knocked over a grain barrel with the mop so it rained down into your boxers and goat showing zero remorse as he tries to munch his way through the cotton…" I giggle again.
“Are you picturing me in my underwear, Poppy?”
Heat floods my belly. I mean, I was picturing it, but now I’m picturing something completely different. I open my mouth, close it, feeling completely off-balance by this man.
The easy grin slips off his face and his jaw tightens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “And I was.” Ohmygoodness, did I say that last part out loud?
His eyebrows shoot up. “Were you, now?” His voice is soft, questioning.
I nod, putting my fork down as he gets up from his chair and rounds the island until he’s standing next to me.
“What else were you picturing?”
His voice is a low rumble that creates a vibration in my stomach and lower.
I shift in my seat, turning to face him.
He’s so close I can smell the fresh cedar scent of his soap and I’m not sure what’s happening here, or what I want to happen, but I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and when he takes a step even closer, I’m lost.
I tip my chin up and time seems to stop as my eyes drift shut and I feel his mouth brush mine, his lips firm and soft, and I lean into the kiss, moaning when he takes it deeper, his hands coming up my ribcage, thumbs brushing my nipples.
Suddenly, he breaks away and my eyes fly open. He steps back, shaking his head. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
My body is humming, my blood pulsing slow and thick as I try to make sense of what just happened. He didn’t mean it?
Of course he didn’t. I mean I just confessed that I was imagining him in his boxers. But I’m clearly not his type.
“Right.”
“That shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.
” He puts more space between us and without thinking I move off the stool, completely forgetting about my injury, the crutches, everything except wanting to save face and retreat to somewhere where I can recover from what was probably the best kiss of my life.
A mistake.
A sharp pain jolts through my ankle, and I gasp as my leg buckles. My knee strikes the floor before Gibb grabs me under the arms.
“Poppy, are you okay?” He lifts me against his chest, and I want to cry because my first instinct is to snuggle against him.
But I can’t, because this was a mistake and I imagined everything between us and it’s just me wanting something that isn’t really there at all.
I’m definitely not okay.