Taylen’s gaze sweeps over our booth again as he turns to leave, but this time, his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes the air between us crackle. The look he gives me is arctic, his light-blue eyes holding mine a beat too long. Probably cursing my presence in this world.
When I look away, Stone’s eyes are on me.
“Well,” Stone drawls once the door swings shut. “That was interesting.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but Nikko’s already leaning forward with a gleam in his eye that means trouble.
“Want to tell us what that was about?” he asks, his instincts clearly sensing a story.
“Nothing to tell.” I drain my ginger ale, wishing it were something stronger. “Just neighbor stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” Stone smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
Their teasing is familiar, comfortable, but it can’t quite ease the tension Taylen left behind.
Maybe that conversation needs to happen sooner rather than later.
When I get home to another one of Taylen’s “well-intended” gifts, I’m of two minds about barging into his place and giving him a piece of my mind.
The only problem is that first I need to figure out where to keep the two heritage chickens in the fancy coop in the middle of my kitchen.
The label on the roof reads:These ladies will teach you about responsibility.
I turn to Gouta, who’s staring at me like she’s innocent in all this and slightly scared of our new roommates.
“This is your fault. You let him in, didn’t you?”
8
TAYLEN
The crow slicesthrough my dreams, dragging me into consciousness.
“What the fuck is that noise?”
The clock on my bedside table reads three-seventeen a.m. The sound comes again, more insistent.
I fumble for the flashlight I keep by my bed, nearly knocking over my water glass in the process. The room is cool without the central heat running. I rely on residual warmth from the living room fireplace filtering through the old vents, but it’s not enough to chase away November’s chill completely. I pull on sweatpants but don’t bother with a shirt, grabbing the heavy winter coat that hangs by the door and zipping it over my bare skin as another crow pierces through the pre-dawn silence.
The November air bites at my face as I stumble across the yard toward the barn.
When I see the door unlocked, my heart rate spikes. We don’t get many break-ins out here, but it’s not unheard of. Thieves looking for equipment, tools, and anything they can fence. I curse myself for not grabbing something, a baseball bat or a wrench, before rushing out here half-dressed and defenseless.
But the crowing continues, louder now, more insistent, and burglars don’t usually leave livestock behind. Unless…
My suspicions are proven correct when I spot the note attached to the door of the closed-off section inside the barn where I keep my chickens during the winter months.
I snatch the note from the door, my relief at avoiding an actual break-in quickly replaced by irritation.
Meet Elvis. He’s got strong opinions about everything. You should get along like a hen house on fire.
Inside the enclosed area, my hens huddle together on their roosts, looking thoroughly unimpressed with their new roommate. And there, strutting across the floor like he owns the place, is the source of my rude awakening, a magnificent Barred Rock rooster.
Elvis tilts his head to study me with one beady eye before letting loose another ear-splitting crow. My jaw clenches automatically.
“You might want to fix your internal clock to this time zone, my friend. I need another couple of hours of sleep, and you might want to make friends with the girls because they outnumber you.”
Elvis raises his head in defiance, as though he couldn’t give two shits about what I’m saying.
