“How do you know?”
“Because you’re stalling. Making conversation. You’re just chatting me up. You don’t actually care about Rita’s eating habits.”
Jesse grins, not even trying to deny it, and God help me, that smile does things to my insides. “Maybe I care about Rita. She’s got personality. And she’s cute. A little smelly, but cute. The beard, though…”
“She’s got problems.”
“So do I. We’d get along.” He shifts closer, and I catch his scent—something woodsy and male that makes my mouth water.
Despite myself, I find my mouth twitching toward a smile. My body betrays me further by leaning slightly toward him. “Rita eats hay, grain, and whatever she can steal. She’s not picky.”
“What kind of grain?” Jesse asks, like he’s actually taking notes, but his eyes are on my lips, not my words. “Corn? Oats? Something fancy?”
“You’re really committing to this bit, aren’t you?”
“I’m a dedicated man.” The way he says “dedicated” with that low voice makes me wonder what else he’s dedicated about.
I roll my eyes but find myself explaining anyway, needing something to focus on besides the heat poolinglow in my belly. “Sweet feed, mostly. Some alfalfa pellets. Goats are pretty easy to please.”
“Unlike their owners?”
“Rita’s the easy one in this relationship.”
Jesse laughs, and the sound vibrates through me, making my nipples tighten beneath my thin T-shirt. I cross my arms, hoping he doesn’t notice. “What about treats? I bet she likes treats.”
“She likes everything. That’s the problem. Yesterday, she ate my dad’s newspaper.”
“Oh no. Did she get the sports section?”
“Does it matter?” My voice comes out breathier than intended because he’s moved even closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m building a comprehensive goat-care profile here. Details matter.”
I’m about to tell him exactly what I think of his goat-care profile when Wyatt appears, looking like sin wrapped in worn denim. My stomach does a completely different kind of flip, darker, more dangerous.
“Goats eat tin cans,” he says in that flat, dismissive voice that shouldn’t make my thighs clench. “Who cares.”
The words hit me wrong, really wrong, but so does the way his gray eyes burn into mine. I straighten up and turn to face him fully, noting how his T-shirt stretches across his chest.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Goats are simple. Throw them some hay, they’ll figure it out.”
“That’s like saying dogs eat garbage, so just feed themany old shit,” I snap, even as my traitorous body responds to his commanding presence.
Wyatt’s eyes narrow, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch. “I didn’t say anything about dogs.”
“You didn’t have to. The attitude was crystal clear.”
“What attitude?”
“The attitude that says Rita doesn’t matter because she’s not your pet.”
“She’s a goat. They’re practically weeds with legs.”
The insult lands like a slap, but underneath my anger, there’s something else. The way he’s looking at me, like he wants to either shake me or kiss me, makes heat coil in my belly.
“Rita is not a weed,” I say, my voice rising enough to attract attention from other customers. “She’s smart and loyal and?—”
