There’s being stage fit and farm fit. I’ve managed both most of my life, but damn, I’m starting to feel every single one of my forty-five years.
Gouta’s bleats drift through the bathroom window, a sound that pierces what I’d hoped would be my first moment of solitude today. I left her in the barn with the cows just an hour ago, even made her a special bed of fresh hay, but apparently, she has other plans. Now she’s out there calling for me like some sort of four-legged conscience. I can’t decide if she’s a gift or a taunt from Taylen—probably both, knowing him.
Taylen.
Huh, that man.
My mind is stuck on the way he looked this morning, leaning against the fence in just that Henley, like the cold couldn’t touch him. Even with his hair sticking up everywhere when he cameinto the farmhouse kitchen with his apples, he couldn’t have looked more like someone I’d happily have in my bed.
Twelve years younger and somehow, he makes me feel like the rookie, like I’m the one who needs to prove himself. This stupid attraction is inconvenient at best, inappropriate at worst. He’s Jackson’s little brother, for Christ’s sake.
I turn off the water with more force than necessary. Water drips from my hair onto my bare shoulders as I step into my bedroom, towel secure around my waist.
The sight that greets me almost makes me jump. Gouta, whom I thought was outside, is currently curled like a white cloud on my pillow, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“This is not a petting zoo,” I tell her, trying to sound stern. She responds by stretching luxuriously across my pillow, her red ribbon—which she’s refusing to let me take off—slightly askew. “The barn has perfectly good hay. Fresh, even.”
She blinks at me with those oddly intelligent eyes, then settles deeper into my pillow. The moonlight catches her white coat, making her look almost angelic. That is, if angels were small, stubborn goats with boundary issues.
I sigh and cross to the bed, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. Her fur is soft under my fingers, and she leans into the touch with a contented sound that’s almost a purr. “You’re as bad as your dad,” I murmur, then catch myself. Dad? If Taylen is her dad, what does that make me?
The last thing I need is to start thinking about Taylen while standing here in just a towel, so I move with purpose toward my dresser.
I pull out jeans and a flannel shirt, aware of Gouta’s watchful gaze.
What I need right now is noise, conversation, something to drown out the thoughts that keep circling back to this morning and Taylen’s challenging smirk.
“Come on,” I tell Gouta as I finish dressing. “You’re going outside because I need some human company.”
She bleats what sounds suspiciously like an argument and refuses to hop off the bed.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing the pillow from under her. She follows me to the living room, where I place the pillow on my couch, prancing like this was her plan all along. “Please don’t eat my stuff while I’m gone,” I plead as I grab my coat and head to the door.
Joe’s looks exactly the same as it did when I was finally allowed inside for my first alcoholic drink. Same neon beer signs, same scarred wooden bar, same people sitting on the same stools. The familiar scent of stale beer and wood polish wraps around me as I push through the door.
A chorus of greetings rises from the usual crowd. Not the screaming of fans, but the quiet acknowledgment of neighbors. Old Jim raises his glass from his perpetual spot at the end of the bar, while the Peterson sisters pause their eternal argument about fence lines to wave. I love this as much as I love the cheering of the fans.
“The usual?” Joe asks, already reaching for a glass.
“The usual,” I reply, settling onto a barstool that feels like it’s been waiting for me.
Ellie from the feed store leans over, her gray hair escaping its practical bun. “How’re those Holstein heifers settling in? And I heard you switched to that new mineral supplement for the milking herd.”
The conversation flows easily into talk of milk production and feed costs. Nobody here cares about platinum records or stadium tours. Here, I’m just another farmer trying to keep my herd healthy and productive.
Joe slides a bowl of peanuts my way, his movement practiced and smooth. “Good to have you back properly,” he says, voicegruff with sincerity. “Place needs more young blood taking up the old ways.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
He waves me off. “Anyway, don’t want to keep you. You’re probably here for Finn.”
The sound of familiar laughter draws my attention to a corner booth, where Finn and Taylen huddle over what looks like far too many empty glasses. Taylen’s head is thrown back, his throat exposed in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His usual sharp edges have been softened by alcohol, making him look younger, more like the kid I remember.
Finn leans close, his hand on Taylen’s arm. Are they…together?
It’s none of my business, but I don’t recall my brother ever mentioning that he’s seeing someone, or even the last time he mentioned a guy. My mom would have spilled the beans by now. Right?Especiallyif Finn and Taylen were together.
I chew the salty peanuts, trying to ignore them, but my eyes keep going back to the same corner. So much for coming out to find some inner peace and good conversation.
