We head toward the barn, and I’m keenly aware of her beside me. The way she moves, the scent of her shampoo mixed with fresh air. When she pushes open the barn door, her sleeve brushes against my arm, and I feel the contact all the way down to my boots.
“Fair warning,” she says, glancing up at me. “This gets more interesting.”
The barn is warm and clean, smelling of hay and animals. But what I notice most is how the space feels when she’s in it—like it comes alive under her attention. She’s clearly put thought into the setup, creating comfortable spaces for different needs.
The dogs immediately jump to their feet, and a cacophony of barking makes talking impossible.
“So here’s the situation,” she says, turning to face me. Suddenly we’re standing closer than necessary in the barn’s warm dimness. “I’ve got all these dogs and cats, a senior golden retriever who needs medication twice a day, two stubborn goats skilled in escaping their pen, a territorial rooster and three senior hens who no longer lay eggs. Not to mention a pregnant cat who could deliver any day, a pot-bellied pig who needs constant attention, a six-foot boa constrictor who requires regular handling, and a very opinionated parrot.”
The way she says it—straightforward, no drama, just laying out the challenges—makes me want to step closer. She’s not trying to downplay the complications or oversell her abilities. She’s just telling me what she needs.
“Sounds manageable,” I say, and watch surprise flicker across her face.
“Most people hear ‘six-foot snake’ and suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.”
“I’m not most people.” I just told that lie with a straight face. Truth is, the image of that much muscle and instinct coiled nearby makes my pulse jump. But fear’s familiar—I’ve learned to breathe through it, to keep it from showing. Laney doesn’t need to see my hesitation, only that I’ve got this.
“No, I can see that,” she says slowly, and something in her voice tightens the space between us, turns it heavy with awareness.
We stand here for a moment, and I can feel the pull between us—something that has nothing to do with animals or job interviewsand everything to do with the way she’s looking at me like I’m an unexpected present under her tree.
Her lips part slightly. When her tongue darts out to wet them nervously, heat shoots straight through me. The air hums—alive, electric, and I have to remind myself this is supposed to be professional.
Then she steps back, breaking the moment, and I see her walls sliding back into place.
“The pig is in my cabin,” she says, her voice carefully professional now. “Along with the expecting feline mom, the suspiciously strong reptile, and a very opinionated parrot. Want to meet them?”
Once through the door to her cabin, the heat from the woodstove wraps around us, carrying the smell of smoke and cinnamon. The place isn’t modern—it doesn’t need to be. Rough beams, a stone hearth, shelves stacked with well-used books, and mugs that don’t match. It’s not about style. It’s about belonging. Someone made a home here, and it shows.
An enormous pig sprawled near the fireplace looks up as we enter and immediately begins making dramatic sounds.
“That’s Hamlet,” Laney says, and I can hear the affection in her voice despite her exasperation. “He’s an emotional support pig, and he’s been sulking since his owner left.”
Without thinking, I kneel next to him and scratch behind his ears. The dramatic sounds immediately taper off into contented grunts.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Laney says, and when I look up at her, she’s watching me with an expression that’s entirely different from before. Softer. Like she’s realizing that spark in the barn wasn’t a fluke.
“Animals know when you respect them,” I say, and the way she’s looking at me makes my voice come out huskier than usual.
For a heartbeat, the warmth in her eyes is unguarded, almost tender. Then it fades, her expression tightening as if she suddenly remembered she’s my boss.
“We should probably discuss terms,” she says, her tone smoothing back into businesslike control.
She heads toward the living room, wringing her hands nervously. “But first, I should show you where you’ll be staying. I’m really sorry, but there’s only one bedroom in the cabin, and, well…” She gestures apologetically toward the great room.
“I’ve got a decent couch, and I’ll set you up with some extra blankets and pillows. I know it’s not ideal for someone your size, and I feel terrible about it, but…”
“Laney.” I interrupt her rambling apology gently. “It’s fine. Really. I’ve slept on firehouse floors, in the back of trucks, wherever the job required. A couch in a warm cabin sounds like luxury.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you’re so…” She glances up at my height, clearly calculating how my large orc frame will fit on her furniture.
“The couch is more than fine,” I say, meaning it. The way she’s fussing over my comfort, genuinely distressed that she can’t offer me better accommodations, says everything about her character. “I appreciate you making room for me.”
Her relief is visible, but she still looks guilty. “I just wish I had better to offer.”
“This is more than enough,” I assure her, and the grateful smile that crosses her face makes something warm settle in my chest.
Her relief is visible. “Good. Now, about terms…”
