“Your coffee,” he says slowly. “How do you take it?”
“Oh, uh. Cream and sugar.”
“Lots of both?”
I hesitate. Matt used to say I didn’t drink coffee, I drank flavored milk. I just met Gibson, but I feel like he won’t care, he’ll just make it, and it will be perfect.
I nod. “How did you guess?”
“That’s how I take mine too. I might live on a mountain, but I like my small, indulgent pleasures.”
Gah. I’m just about to melt into a puddle over here watching the flex of tendons in his forearms stir my coffee with unhurried efficiency.
He passes me my coffee, pulling a little table over to the edge for the plate before sitting at the end of the couch. My toes tingle at the proximity to his thigh and I take a sip to cover up my nervousness. It’s very good. Strong and smooth with a deep rich flavor, the way coffee tastes when it's made by someone who takes it seriously. I take another sip to try to figure out what he uses and come up empty, which means it's probably something expensive and single-origin and all the buzzwords my local café talks about.
"The storm broke," he says.
"I noticed." I look toward the large bank of windows that still have a haze of frost. The world outside is white and still. "It's beautiful here."
He looks right at me. “It really is.”
I nearly choke on my third sip. Does he have any idea how potent he is? Then I remember. Of course he does. “So,” I chirp. “With the storm being over, does that mean I can leave today?”
Gibson frowns. “Reports have a lot of trees down and electricity is spotty on the mountain the best of times. Crews will be in clearing debris and restoring the infrastructure. The road will likely be closed until tomorrow afternoon.”
“You didn’t lose power,” I say.
“I have a wired generator. It switches over automatically.”
“Oh.”
"How's the ankle?" he asks.
"Better. The crutch helps." I lean back against the cushions and wrap both hands around my mug. "Thank you, for all of that. The clothes, and the crutch, and the whole saving my life part."
"It wasn't anything."
"It was and I should repay you," I say. "Please just let me say thank you."
He looks at me over the rim of his mug. Something in his face shifts slightly and settles into a serious expression. "You're welcome," he says. “Poppy?—"
There's a sound from the back of the house, a strange banging followed by a series of rapid, reproachful bleats. I smile. “Someone has been waiting for breakfast for far too long.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “Oh, they’ve already had breakfast. They just want attention and probably a few treats.” He stands. “Would you like to come?”
I really, really would. “Is it a problem? I don’t want you to have to carry me and handle them at the same time.”
“I’ll grab your crutches, I cleared the path earlier, so it won’t be too bad.”
Just like the cabin,I’m surprised by Gibb’s concept of a barn. Granted, I’ve not been around many, but the barn looks more like a luxury condo for very spoiled goats than a true barn. It’s also located not very far from the main house, a short gravel path lined with fencing, which explains how the goats were able to find the back door. I carefully navigate on the crutches while Gibson walks beside me with a loose, easy stride. He doesn'toffer to carry me. He just stays at my left shoulder, at exactly the right distance. He’s close enough that if I started to fall, I know he'd have me before I hit the ground, but far enough that it doesn’t feel like he thinks I’m incapable of managing.
The barn is colorful and warm, smelling of sweet hay and loud. The goats are varying sizes, although none look very big and all of them appear to be alert and opinionated at our entrance. None more so than Stevie, who flings herself at the gate the second Gibson opens it and then bypasses him entirely and comes directly for me.
"Oh!"I laugh, nearly losing my balance. Gibb is immediately next to me while Stevie stands up on her little hind legs and paws at my knees. I lean on the crutches and Gibb, bending to let her sniff my hands. "Hello. Hello, I'm glad you're okay."
"She likes you," Gibson says, from behind me, the heat of his body distracting me from the abundance of cuteness in goat form.
"I like her." I scratch Stevie's ears, and she leans into it with her whole body. "I've never had a pet. My landlord doesn't allow them. But if he did, and if a goat counted—" I break off, laughing as the goats start to converge around us, crowding in and bouncing around.
