“Well?” he asks after a beat.
I glance over. “Well, what?”
“How old are you?”
“Definitely not that old,” I say with a mock sniff of superiority. “Just turned twenty-eight.”
He groans like he’s physically in pain. “The same age as my sister.”
“Afraid so.” I scoop a pile of manure into the wheelbarrow, entirely too pleased with myself. “Feeling the midlife crisis yet?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Not until just now.”
I flash him a grin. “Don’t worry. You wear it well.”
He mutters something under his breath, but he’s smiling again. And despite the cold, the snow, and the smell, we keep moving, side by side, step by step. Something about it feels easy. Natural. Like I was meant to be here with him.
“Okay, here’s one.” I glance over at him as I lift the rake. “Favorite animal. Other than horses.”
Sam wipes a hand across his brow and leans on his shovel, pretending to think, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eye. “Hmm. Cats.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says with a little shrug. “We’ve got a ton of them in the barns to keep the mice in check. Had one as a pet once. A real mean bastard named Potter. Used to sleep on my chest when I’d get home.” His voice softens. “Died while I was on my first tour.”
“Oh,” I murmur, caught off guard by the sudden twist of grief in his tone. “I’m sorry.”
He nods, brushing it off like it’s a story he’s told a hundred times. “It happens. What about you?”
“Cats too, actually.” My smile fades a little. “Never had one until a few months ago. She kind of found me.”
I pause, rake in hand.
“She was mine. Completely. And then when my ex moved out, he took her with him.”
Sam stops mid-motion, shovel held loosely at his side. “He took your cat?”
I nod. “I was at work. Didn’t even know he was packing up to leave. Came home and everything was gone. Including Fluffy.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. I still check shelters sometimes. Just in case she ends up somewhere.”
He watches me for a moment, eyes darker now. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
There’s a quiet beat between us that’s weighty, but not uncomfortable.
Then he asks, casual on the surface but with an unmistakable thread of intensity beneath it, “Recent ex?”
I smirk. “Basically a memory now.”
That makes him smile, a little slower, a little deeper.
“Good,” he says, and his voice is low, sure. “Would hate to think I’m competing with someone.”
I raise an eyebrow, playful. “Oh, so you’re competing now?”
