“Just like the one you built that was supposed to keep him in?”
“You make solid points.”
A flurry of papers rustles, and a chair scrapes against the well-worn floor a few rooms away. Tom shuffles his way into the kitchen. He’s the local farm veterinarian, and since he’s handy and incapable of saying no to people, he is also the resident odd-job man.
“Hey, Jack,” he greets me with a wide, toothy smile. “Welcome. Welcome. How was the drive up?” He stuffs his feet into a pair of mud-caked boots.
“Long but fine.”
Simone’s eyes sparkle. “That happens when you detour to the Seacoast for pizza.”
I blush. “You may have already guessed, but the box in the fridge is for you guys. I put a few cannolis in there too.”
“Yes!” Tom triumphantly shoots his fist in the air before hanging it out for me to bump. He plops a hat over his head and ears. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an overly adventurous goat to attend to, a bee to milk, and a cow hive I should extract honey from, anyway.”
Simone walks over and kisses Tom on the cheek. “Please don’t milk the bees, dear.”
“You know what I meant…” Tom pinches his pointer and thumb together, pretending like he’s milking some tiny-ass nipple. “Can you imagine?”
“Go save my flowers from Gio, love.”
“Right! The wether!”
My brow furrows. “What the hell is a wether?” Maybe it’s the name for a goat who’s joined the occult.
“It’s the proper terminology for a castrated goat.”
“Ah.”
“We should catch up later, though, half-pint.” Tom winks, using Simone’s nickname for me. Even though I’m almost a foot taller than her now, our ten-year age difference meant I was half her size well into her twenties.
“Sure. Looking forward to sharing a beer or something.”
“Yes. That is something we will do.” Tom shoots weird finger guns at me, slowly backing out of the kitchen.
Simone’s laughter follows his departure. “He’s surrounded by so many women, and all the farmers he works with are sixty-plus. I don’t think he knows how to interact with a guy your age.”
“I can take him out with Gus while I’m up here—show him a stripper or something.” I flash a big teasing grin, running a hand through my bedhead. Getting Simone riled up is still my favorite pastime, no matter how old we get. She hates whatever I’m doing with my “tattoos, fist fights on the ice, drunken nights, and rotating list of women,” and she never lets me hear the end of it.
My sister scoffs, pulling a tray of scones out of the oven. Oh, are those blueberries?
Damn, maybe she needs two kidneys.
“Drop the act while you’re home. I’ve seen you pee yourself because I tickled you too hard. We all know you’re a softie.”
“It’s not an act.” It’s totally an act.“But to be fair, you were the cruelest fucking tickler.”
“There are little ears here!” Simone slaps my hand away with her dishrag as I reach for a scone. “Little ears that look up to their uncle and could use a better example than someone who trips guys into the boards and breaks their nose.”
“It was an accident.”
“Oh, that’s complete horse poop,” she says, dipping into the fridge and grabbing a milk pitcher. She pours a glass and hands me a plate piled high with scones.
When is she going to get to whatever she wants to ask?
Heat from the oven clouds the space between the narrow walls, and I push up my sleeves, suddenly wishing I had a t-shirt on under here.
Simone sighs, focusing on the new tattoos I’ve recently had inked below my elbow. “Dad would hate those.”
