Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Callum
“You have got to be kidding me.”
I stood at the gate of the goat pen the next morning, watching Rosie wrestle with what appeared to be a very uncooperative Snickers. The goat had all four hooves planted, refusing to budge toward the milking stand while Rosie tugged on her collar.
“Come on.” Rosie pleaded. “We do this all the time. Why are you being so difficult today?”
Snickers bleated. Loud and indignant.
“Don't give me that.” Rosie planted her feet and pulled harder. “You like being milked. It's uncomfortable when you're full. I'm doing you a favor.”
The goat didn't move.
I bit back a laugh.
Rosie's head snapped toward me, eyes widening. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” I stepped closer to the fence, taking in the sight of her—dirt-smudged cheek, loose strands of hair escaping her braid, jean shorts and a tank top that showed off her freckled shoulders.
“Fantastic.” She released Snickers and walked over, brushing her hands on her shorts. “Enjoy the show?”
“It's entertaining.”
“Glad I could provide your morning comedy.” She unlatched the gate. “Since you're here, maybe you can help.”
I stepped into the pen, and Snickers immediately trotted over, headbutting my thigh with enough force to make me take a step back.
“Traitor,” Rosie muttered.
I crouched down, scratching behind Snickers' ears. The goat pressed harder against my hand, tail flicking. “What's the issue this morning?”
“She won't go to the milking stand. Just plants herself and refuses to move.” Rosie crossed her arms. “Yesterday she was fine. Today she's decided I'm the enemy.”
“Did you change anything? Routine, feed, time of day?”
“No. Same everything.” Rosie frowned. “I fed them at seven, same as always. Checked the hay, made sure they had fresh water. Snickers ate her breakfast just fine, and then when I tried to milk her, this happened.”
Snickers butted her head against my hand, demanding more attention.
“She likes you,” Rosie observed. “Which is annoying, considering I'm the one who feeds her every day.”
I gave Snickers a quick once-over—checking her belly for bloating, feeling her udder for heat or swelling, watching how she moved. Everything seemed normal.
“She looks fine,” I said, straightening. “Probably just being stubborn.”
“Great. That's so helpful.”
I walked toward the milking stand, and Snickers immediately trotted after me, hopping onto the platform without hesitation.
Rosie's jaw dropped. “You're joking.”
I stepped aside, gesturing to the goat now standing perfectly still on the platform. “All yours.”
“What are you, the goat whisperer?” She walked over slowly, like she expected Snickers to bolt any second.
“Just have a way with stubborn creatures.”
Her eyes cut to mine. “Are you calling me stubborn?”
“I was talking about the goat.” I leaned against the fence post, watching her settle onto the stool beside Snickers. “But if the shoe fits...”
“I am not stubborn.” She grabbed the bucket. “I prefer handling things on my own. There's a difference.”
“Right. My mistake.”
“You're enjoying this way too much.” She positioned the bucket under Snickers, who stayed perfectly still.
“Maybe a little.”
“I can't decide if I want to thank you or kick you out of my goat pen.” Her hands started the familiar rhythm of milking, and Snickers let out a satisfied bleat.
“You could do both.”
“Don't tempt me.” But she was smiling now, that sunshine grin that made my chest feel too tight. “Next time I'm calling you at six in the morning when she pulls this stunt.”
“I don't mind.”
“You say that now. Wait until you're driving out here in the dark while I'm having a breakdown because Snickers won't cooperate and I have to get ready for the market.”
“I'd still come.”
Her hands stilled for just a moment. She glanced up at me, something soft and vulnerable in her expression before she looked back down. “I know you would.”
I'd do anything for you. The thought came unbidden, settling deep in my chest. Six in the morning.
Middle of the night. Drive through a blizzard.
Whatever she needed, whenever she needed it.
I'd been running on fumes for years, saying yes to everyone because saying no felt impossible.
But this? This was different. This wasn't obligation or guilt or the weight of expectations I could never quite meet. This was a choice.
I'd choose her. Again, and again.
I watched Rosie's hands move in a steady rhythm, the milk streaming into the bucket in soft pulses. Her shoulders had relaxed, that tight set of anxiety easing as Snickers cooperated.
“There we go,” she murmured to the goat. “See? That wasn't so bad.”
Snickers bleated, sounding almost smug.
Rosie gave the goat one final pat before standing, bucket in hand. “All done, you menace.”
I opened the gate, and Snickers trotted out, immediately heading for Sugar and Chip, who were lounging in the shade.
Rosie stepped through, and I took the bucket from her hands without thinking.
“I can carry it.”
“I know.”
She gave me a look but let go. I set the bucket down by the fence post, then turned back to her.
“Hold still.”
She blinked. “What?”
I reached out and wiped the smear of dirt from her cheek with my thumb. Her expression softened, caught off guard by the small gesture.
“All better.” I kissed the tip of her nose.
Her smile broke wide open. The kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
I picked the bucket back up, and we walked toward the farmhouse together. She slipped her hand around my arm, tucking herself close to my side. Her shoulder pressed warm against my arm with every step.
“So, what's on your agenda today?” She tilted her head to look up at me. “Besides rescuing me from stubborn goats.”
“Paperwork, mostly. But it can wait.”
“Just boring stuff?” Her fingers traced absent patterns on my forearm. “No emergencies? No little puppy that needs rescuing?”
“Not today.” I stopped at the top of the porch, setting the bucket down.
“Well.” She turned to face me, backing up until she was leaning against the railing.
Her hands found my waist, pulling me closer.
“I thought maybe you could stick around.
If you want to. I've got to strain this milk, make some cheese, work on the garden...” She wrinkled her nose. “I know it's not exactly thrilling.”
I stepped between her legs, hands settling on either side of her hips against the railing. “Sounds perfect.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “You want to spend your day off making cheese with me?”
“I want to spend the day with you.” I brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Whatever you're doing.”
Her smile turned soft. “You're really good at saying the right thing, you know that?”
“It's the truth.” I traced my thumb along her jaw. “Besides, this week's going to be busy. Farm calls stacked up, appointments every day, couple surgeries scheduled. I might not have time to—”
“Then stay.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads touched. “I want all the time I can get with you.”
My chest tightened in that way that was becoming familiar. That feeling of wanting something so badly it scared me.
She kissed me, soft and sweet.
“Plus, I need someone to tell me if my cheese tastes weird,” Rosie added.
“That's the real reason you want me around.”
“Absolutely. Free labor and quality control.” Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of my neck. “It's all very strategic.”
“Using me for my taste buds.”
“And your goat-wrangling skills. Can't forget those.”
I kissed her again, slower this time. Her hands tightened in my hair, and I felt her smile against my mouth.
“We should probably—” she murmured between kisses, “—make the cheese.”
“We should.”
Neither of us moved.
Her phone rang, shrill and insistent from her back pocket. She groaned, breaking away to fish it out. Her expression shifted when she saw the screen.
“Walt.” She bit her lip. “I should probably—”
“Take it.” I grabbed the milk bucket. “I'll get this inside.”
She answered as we pushed through the screen door together, the hinges creaking behind us.
“Hey, Walt!”
I carried the bucket to the stove, ran water over my hands in the sink before finding the strainer and cheesecloth already laid out on the counter.
“No, everything's great. The goats are good, the chickens are—” She paused, watching me set up the straining station. “Yes, I'm keeping up with everything.”
I poured the milk into a pot slowly, careful not to splash.
“The market? Yeah, it's been going well. Sales are up from last week, and—” Another pause. “What gossip?”
I glanced over. Her cheeks had gone pink.
“I don't know what Agnes Clarke thinks she saw.” Rosie turned away, lowering her voice like that would somehow keep me from hearing. “We're just... I've been helping with the dogs and—”
The empty bucket slipped from my hands and clattered into the sink.
Rosie spun around, eyes wide, one hand clamped over the phone.
“Sorry,” I mouthed.
She held up a finger. The universal sign for do not make another sound.
“That? No, that's just—” She turned back toward the window. “The, uh. The chickens.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Walt, chickens are loud sometimes. You know that.” A pause. “No, I'm not flustered. This is just how I sound in the morning.”
I set the bucket down again with exaggerated care and reached for the cheesecloth, moving as quietly as possible.
“Agnes Clarke needs to mind her own—” Her voice pitched higher. “Barbara, hi. Yes, everything's fine. The farm is—”
I glanced over. Rosie had squeezed her eyes shut, one hand pressed to her forehead.
“I'm not being evasive. There's just nothing to—” She pulled the phone away from her ear for a second, and I caught the faint sound of Barbara's enthusiastic voice. “Yes, he's very nice. No, I don't think—Barbara, we're just friends.”
I raised both eyebrows.
She pointed at me. The look said don't you dare.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but—” Rosie turned to face the window again. “Walt, can you please tell Barbara that—what do you mean you agree with her?”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“I am not being defensive.” She paced to the other side of the kitchen. “This is just my normal—” Another pause. “No, I'm not blushing. You can't even see me.”
I cleared my throat, shoulders shaking.
Rosie whipped around, shooting me a murderous look that would've been more effective if her face wasn't bright red.
“He's the town vet. He helps everyone. This isn't—” She stopped. “What do you mean he doesn't look at everyone like that? You've never even met him.”
My smile broke through.
“Agnes Clarke is seventy and spends her entire day watching people through binoculars. She's hardly a reliable—” Rosie groaned. “Fine. Yes. Okay. He's here. We're making cheese. Together. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
I watched her deflate against the counter.
“I love you both, too. Yes, I'm taking care of myself. No, I don't need relationship advice from—” She pulled the phone away again as Barbara's voice grew louder. “Barbara, I really appreciate your input, but—”
Walt must have taken the phone back.
“I promise I'll call you later.” Rosie's shoulders sagged. “Yes, when he's not here. Goodbye, Walt. Love you. Bye.”
She ended the call and set the phone down with exaggerated care.
Then she buried her face in her hands.
I waited, biting back a smile.
“I forgot how fast gossip spreads in small towns.” Her voice came out muffled. “Agnes Clarke saw us at the market yesterday, and by this morning, Walt already knew every detail. Including, apparently, how you looked at me.”
I crossed my arms, leaning against the counter. “How did I look at you?”
“Like—” Rosie dropped her hands. “I don't know. Mrs. Clarke used the word 'smitten.' Barbara got very excited.”
“Smitten's pretty accurate.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I'm smitten.” I pushed off the counter, closing the distance between us. “Agnes Clarke nailed it.”
“You're—” She blinked. “You can't just say that.”
“Why not? It's true.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I look at you like that because I can't help it.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper. “Cal.”
“If the whole town wants to call me smitten, I'll take it.” I traced my thumb along her jaw.
“You're impossible.” But she was smiling, hands sliding up my chest. “What am I supposed to tell Walt now?”
“The truth.” I rested my forehead against hers. “That we're together. That I'm here making cheese with you. That Agnes Clarke should mind her own business but she's not wrong.”
“Barbara's going to want so many details.”
“So give her some.”
Rosie pulled back enough to meet my eyes. “You're really okay with the whole town knowing?”
“I don't care what the town knows.” I brushed my thumb across her bottom lip. “I care about you.”
She kissed me, soft and quick. “You're good at this.”
“Just being honest.”
“Right.” She patted my chest, stepping around me toward the stove. “Come on. This milk isn't going to turn itself into cheese, and I can't afford to mess up this batch.”
I bit back a smile as I moved to the stove. She handed me the thermometer, and I clipped it to the side of the pot while she turned on the heat.
“Slow and steady,” she murmured, more to herself than me. “Can't rush it or the curds get weird.”
I watched her lean over the pot, checking the temperature with that little crease between her eyebrows that appeared whenever she concentrated. Her hair kept falling forward, and she kept tucking it behind her ear only to have it slip free again.
This. I wanted this. The morning chaos with stubborn goats and nosy chickens.
Making cheese in a kitchen that smelled like fresh milk and lavender soap.
Rosie's hand on my arm as she pointed to the thermometer, telling me we needed to stir clockwise, not counterclockwise, because Walt swore it made a difference.
I'd spent years coming home to an empty house. Heating up whatever was left in the fridge. Falling asleep on the couch with my phone in hand, waiting for the next emergency call. Convincing myself that was enough. That work was enough. That I didn't need anything else.
But this? Standing in Rosie's kitchen, watching her fuss over cheese while she told me about how General Cluckington had chased Chip around the yard last week—this was better than every quiet night I'd ever spent alone.
“Cal?” Her voice pulled me back. “You're stirring too fast.”
“Sorry.” I slowed the wooden spoon.
She pressed closer, her hand covering mine to guide the rhythm. “Like this. Nice and easy.”
I could feel her warmth along my side, her shoulder tucked under my arm.
“Perfect,” she said softly.
Yeah. I thought. It really is.