“Sure. Tell yourself that.”
Before I could retort, a loud bray cut him off.
Esmerelda trotted up the ramp like a tiny, determined battering ram, ears perked, eyes bright. She headed straight for Powell, shoved her head into his side, then immediately veered toward me.
“Hey, girl,” I said, as she exhaled hot donkey breath all over my hand. “No treats today, sorry.”
She huffed and shoved harder, effectively leaning her whole weight against my hip. I staggered sideways, bumped into Powell, and ended up half-wedged between them.
He laughed, steadying me with one hand at the small of my back. “She missed you.”
“I’m being crushed by livestock.” The words came out on a startled laugh. It felt strange in my own ears.
His hand was still there, warm and solid through my sweater. He didn’t seem in a hurry to move it. Neither did I.
For a terrifying second, everything in the barn narrowed to a point—the weight of the donkey pinning me in place, the pressure of Powell’s palm against my spine, the awareness of his body inches from mine. The shift of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest.
Then I remembered who he was.
Or who I’d decided he was.
I cleared my throat and gently shoved Esmerelda back enough to breathe. “Okay, Your Majesty, personal space.”
The donkey snorted like I was being unreasonable but eventually flopped down in the middle of the floor with a dramatic sigh.
“You’re just enabling her,” I told Powell.
“Her emotional needs are valid,” he said solemnly.
“She’s a tiny chaos agent.”
“So are you.”
The retort died in my throat because he was smiling at me in that soft, slightly crooked way that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Like I was… fun. Not just a walking caffeine dispenser or the town’s most high-strung festival volunteer. Me.
I busied myself with my notebook, pretending my face wasn’t burning.
We worked another hour. The barn filled with the sounds of drills and the squeak of pencil on metal, the occasional bray, the constant low thrum of the playlist. Somewhere in there I pushed my sleeves up, and a smear of grease appeared on my forearm. I didn’t notice until I caught Powell’s gaze snag on it and linger.
“What?” I demanded.
He startled. “Nothing.”
I looked. “Oh. War paint.” I rubbed at it and only made it worse. “Great. I’m going to be scrubbing this off for a week.”
“It looks good on you,” he said.
I looked up sharply.
He did too, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Silence stretched.
Somewhere, Mariah hit a high note in the background.
I swallowed. “You have terrible taste.”
He smiled, but it was a little shaky around the edges. “Maybe.”
