He pinches the bridge of his nose—the same one still bearing a mark from his bathroom door—like he’s utterly exhausted by me. “Just go inside, Odie.”
“Be nice. She’s doing us a favor. A favorweappreciate, Odette,” he says pointedly to Noah.
Ezra’s kindness shocks me. Not that he’s ever been outright mean before, but he’s even grumpier than his business partner most days. I’m not used to this side of him.
“Of course. Besides, it’s not like I’m doing much just sitting here, anyway.”
Carefully I lift Pork, loving the beautiful green as he peers up at me with tired eyes. “I’m sorry, little buddy,” I say to him. “Hang out in this box while I go to work, okay? I’ll check on you later, but it’s work time now.”
I drop him into a giant cardboard box—something left over from an earlier delivery—that I’ve turned into his room for the day. Inside is a towel for him to curl up on and some food I had in my car. I’ve been meaning to take it inside for Beans, but thank gosh for my chaotic brain, huh?
“You know where to find me if you need anything,” I say, then head for the cidery.
From behind me, I hear the guys still talking.
“Where the hell did that cat come from?” Ezra gasps. “Oh shit. You’ve been Peached, haven’t you?”
“Shut the fuck up, Ezra,” Noah grumbles.
I laugh the rest of the way to the taproom.
The taproom is dead.
And bydead, I mean we’ve had all of two customers the entire time I’ve been in here. While this place is usually hopping unless something big is happening in the harbor, I’m not surprised with the incoming storm.
I’ve tried distracting myself with rearranging the taproom—moving a few tables here and fussing with some decor there—but I’m still bored. Which means I’ve been spending far too much time paying attention to Noah as he moves around the farm, trying to get everything ready for the storm that’s about to hit at any time.
When the clock strikes five, and I haven’t seen a single soul for forty-five minutes, I decide to call it a day and venture outside in search of him.
I find him at the pond, hands on his hips and looking entirely too damn good from behind.
His strong shoulders stretch his plain black shirt impossibly tight, and the wind whips his hair around like a model on a book cover.
“Listen here, Larry, you will get your little ass out of the pond, or I’m going in after you. Those are your choices. Either way, you’re coming inside.”
What the . . .
I walk closer and am surprised to find he’s not talking to himself—he’s talking to a duck.
Quack.
“I am being serious, Larry.” Noah grabs the hem of his shirt as if to pull it over his head.
Quack.
“I mean it.” He drags it up, exposing tanned skin that looks soft and hard all at the same time.
All I can do is stand there and think,Don’t listen to him, Larry. Make him go after you.
Quack.
“I swear, I’ll come in after you.”
Do it, do it, do it,I chant in my head.
Quack.
But a dip in the pond isn’t necessary, because Larry comes waddling out and goes straight to Noah.
