Then I blink.
Slowly.
“…you’re not serious.”
He just looks at me.
Arms loose at his sides, completely unfazed by the fact that he’s currently standing in a farmhouse kitchen at six in the morning after sleeping in a bed with four animals.
“You’ve got animals to feed,” he says. “I’ve got hands.”
I stare at him for a second.
“You ride motorcycles and beat people up for a living.”
“Occasionally.”
“You’re an Iron Reaper.”
He shrugs slightly.
“Still got hands.”
My mouth twitches despite myself.
“Well,” I say, grabbing the second pair of spare boots by the door and sliding them across the floor toward him, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Cole glances down at the boots.
Then back at me.
“What am I walking into out there?”
I grin and shove open the back door.
Cold morning air rushes into the kitchen along with the smell of damp earth and hay.
“Chaos.”
About an hourlater the back door swings open again and I stumble into the kitchen laughing so hard my stomach actually hurts.
I barely make it two steps inside before I have to grab the edge of the counter to steady myself, the laughter bubbling up all over again when I look behind me.
Cole follows a second later.
He fills the doorway like he always does, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, jeans dusted with dirt and hay, black T-shirt stretched across his chest. His boots are muddy, there’s a streak of something suspiciously green on his forearm, and his hair looks even more wrecked than it did when he came downstairs.
And he isnotamused.
Which only makes it worse.
I laugh harder.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, pressing my palm to my stomach. “Your face when the goat jumped on the hay bale.”
Cole shuts the door behind him with his shoulder and gives me a long look.
“That goat is an asshole.”
