Knox falls into step beside me. “You hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
His gaze flicks over me once, like he’s taking inventory. “You’re not fine. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.”
I should be offended.
I’m too tired to be offended.
He drags me into the kitchen and gets two sandwiches together, hands moving like muscle memory. He presses one into my palm before I can argue. I eat mine slowly. He demolishes his in two bites like food is just another task.
When we’re done, he tips his head toward the barns.
“Come on, college girl. I’m gonna show you something useful.”
“Useful,” I repeat.
His mouth quirks. “Yeah. So you don’t fall apart the first time you’re without your fancy coffee shops and hotdog stands.”
“My coffee shops are not fancy,” I mutter, walking anyway.
He hums like he doesn’t believe me.
We end up in a barn that smells like hay and warm animal and something honest. The kind of smell that makes me think of childhood road trips and stopping at petting zoos, except this isn’t cute. This is work.
A couple of cows stand in their stalls, calm and huge, chewing like they have all the time in the world.
I stop short. “Those are… big.”
Knox looks amused. “That’s generally how cows work.”
He grabs a metal stool and a bucket like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Knox,” I say slowly. “Are you about to make me milk a cow?”
His grin is lazy. “I’m about to teach you to milk a cow.”
I stare at him. “I have a marketing degree.”
“That’s adorable,” he says. “Cows don’t care.”
He steps behind me and positions me near the stall. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, close enough that my brain briefly forgets we’re in a barn with a cow staring at my soul.
He points. “You see that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you grip here.”
I do, awkward as hell.
“Not like you’re trying to strangle it,” he says.
“I’m not trying to strangle anything.”
He makes a sound like a laugh swallowed down. “Sure.”
He demonstrates, hands steady and competent. I hate how attractive competence is.
