"That's more than enough for today," Luna declares, surveying our work with satisfaction. "You're a fast learner."
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you. Now go on, head back to the house. I’ll get eggs from the chickens and then meet you there.”
“I want to see the chickens,” Bellamy whines.
And I hear that little note in her voice, the one that says she’s been good all day, better than I can expect a three-year-old to be, and now she’s suddenly on the edge of an inexplicable tantrum.
I take a breath and hold it, suddenly afraid that this could crumble like everything else has.
“Of course,” Luna says, showing no irritation at the turn from endearing to demanding.
There’s a heavy duty door at the far end of the room we’re in, and I expect it to lead outside, but when Luna pulls it open, I realize the building continues—and we’re not alone in the new space.
Zane is unloading big bags from the back of his truck.
He stops abruptly when he sees us, one of the heavy sacks perched on his shoulder. His grey t-shirt is damp from exertion, clinging to his muscles. And despite the tension I felt earlier, the look on his face now is nothing but welcoming. As if he really doesn’t mind us tromping through his work space, interrupting him mid-task.
“We’re going to the chickens.” The words wobble out of Bellamy because of irrational fatigue-driven grumpiness.
“Yeah?” He gives her a soft smile, his moustache twitching, and pats the bag he’s carrying. “This is their food.”
Bella looks up at me, confused. Tired. And then cross, her little eyebrows pulling together. Inexplicable toddler fury in three, two, one?—
“Do you want to feed the chickens?” Zane kneels and brings the sac to the concrete floor with a thud. He rips the top of the bag open, then scoops a handful of pellets out.
“Feed the chickens?” Uncertain, she takes a step toward him, then stops.
Luna finds a faded plastic yogurt container on a shelf and hands that to her. “Here you go.”
Bellamy takes it and carefully approaches Zane.
He pours the pellets from his hand into the tub.
“More,” she demands.
He gives her more. And then an extra handful, until her lip recedes and she gives him a solemn little nod.
As if she knows best for these chickens she hasn’t even met yet.
When Luna leads her to the next door, I hang back and thank Zane under my breath.
He straightens up, rising to his significant height, and gives me a slow nod. “Any time.”
“Don’t say that,” I mutter. “She has a lot of tantrums.”
“Was that a tantrum?” His eyebrows lift in surprise. His expression is warm, amused, and it’s hard to look away.
“You couldn’t sense the impending storm cloud?”
“There was a little pressure in the air, sure.” He winks at me, and my breath catches in my throat. A wink should not be that devastating to a girl’s resolve. “Nothing I can’t handle, don’t worry.”
I don’t want to think about what Zane Kincaid can and can’t handle.
Tongue-tied, I trip over my feet as I try to turn to flee out the door Luna’s holding open.
Thankfully, there’s a flurry of fluttering feathers and mad clucking to distract me from whateverthatjust was. Bellamy freezes as we approach the outdoor chicken run and the chickens sense she has food for them.
