“Noah!” Izzy calls. “Toots is loose!”
“Again?!” he yells from the back room.
He comes barreling out, slinging a keg up onto the counter like it weighs nothing, then marches to the double doors that lead out back.
“That fucking chicken. I swear,” he mutters as he pushes outside, waving his arms at her.
And while it’s funny to watch him chase the little escape artist off, I’m too busy focusing on how his forearms looked after he threw that keg up on the counter. He must have rolled up the sleeves of his black-and-white-checkered flannel while in the back room, because they were certainly on display. My gosh, were they defined. Not just from all his years of playing hockey—thank you, stick handling exercises—but also from his labor around the farm and cidery.
I look at the coffee table between the couches, admiring the woodwork that Noah put so much time into. It’s going to be a pity storing it away for the wedding.
“I don’t know why he even bothers. She’s just going to escape again.” Izzy shakes her head with a smile. “All right. What’s next on the list, wedding planner?”
And just like that, I’m sucked right back into the planning and most definitelynotthinking about how hot Noah looks today.
I grab my phone, turning back to Izzy. “So here’s what I was thinking ...”
Chapter Three
Noah
“I don’t understand why you can’t listen to me.”
I stare down at the little lady before me.
“Or why we must go over this again and again. Why you can’t be a good girl and follow directions.”
I set my hands on my hips and shake my head as she says nothing.
“What? Nothing to say to that?”
Finally, Tootsie clucks.
“Because I’m the boss. That’s why.”
Cluck.
“No, you’re not getting extra treats. Those are only for good chickens who follow directions.”
Cluck.
“I don’t care how cute you are, Tootsie. It’s not happening.”
Cluck.
“Stop back talking and get in the damn coop already.”
I pick her up, tucking her under my arm.
She clucks again, but I ignore her, carrying her into the coop full of all the other well-behaved chickens that don’t escape every time I turn my back. She’s always strutting off somewhere she shouldn’t be.One of these days she’s going to regret it, and it’ll be all her fault and my guilt to carry.
“There,” I say, setting her on her favorite spot in the back. “Now stay put, dammit. I do not want to chase you back in hereagaintoday. Got it?”
Cluck cluck.
I’m 99 percent sure my chicken just told me to fuck off.
I get it. She wants to be a free-range bird, but that’s impossible with all the people we have coming and going here. The last thing I need is her getting sassy and pecking someone. That sounds like a whole lot of paperwork I don’t want to deal with.
