"They're not always like this," he says. "And Stevie is just shameless," he adds as Stevie butts a brown and white goat away from my hand.
"She's perfect."
Gibb helps me over to a bench so I can sit, propping my ankle up on a bale. “Don’t let all of them climb on you at once.”
Stevie jumps in my lap and settles down as I smooth her velvety ears between my fingers. “Are they all babies?” I ask.
“Nope, Tay, Billy and Donna are full-grown.” He points out ones that are larger, kind of the size of a golden retriever.
“I thought goats were bigger.” Not that I’ve ever seen a goat except maybe on television.
“They’re Nigerian Dwarf Goats. Definitely smaller, but excellent dairy producers.”
I hear the scrape of a feed bucket, the sound distracting the goats and they all move towards Gibb. Stevie stays in my lap, content in my arms. “You milk them?”
“Yes, my sister runs her own skincare line, and she’s only ever used milk from the farm. My grandfather was a doctor and always kept a few goats up here, along with growing medicinal herbs and stuff he learned from his grandmother. Harts have been on this land for a long time.”
When I look over my shoulder he's watching me with Stevie, and his expression is a little unguarded, almost soft, and my breath hitches a little. I don’t really know what to make of these feelings.
He holds my gaze, and something stretches between us, an awareness that has heat dancing through my body. Earlier when I spoke with Nevaeh she asked if my rescuer was cute and when I laughingly told her he was the most gorgeous goat farmer I’d ever seen, she told me to make the most of my time in the mountain.
But Gibb isn’t really a goat farmer. He’s a rock star and Matt isn’t the only person interested in finding out where he went and when he’s going to return to his former life.
Imagining he might be interested in me is just a silly fantasy, but one that’s very fun to indulge in as I sit here and watch him strip off his jacket, muscles bulging under his slim-fitting henley, while he attends to chores in the barn.
Back inside,he makes eggs while I sit at the kitchen table, and I’m astounded by how easy he is to talk to. It feels like we’re old friends instead of strangers who met yesterday under extreme circumstances. I find myself telling him how I moved to Colorado from Chicago a few years ago, and how I ended up working for a start-up production company that’s been pretty successful.
“I wanted something new, and my best friend Neveah was here because she is an amazing snowboarder and works at one of the resorts near Colorado Springs.”
“Do you snowboard too?” he asks.
“Uh, no. I much prefer to look at the mountains than slide down them. Although apparently, I don’t have any business walking in them either.”
"I don’t know about that," he says, sliding eggs onto a plate and setting it in front of me. "You just need better company."
I look up at him. He doesn't elaborate, just goes back to the stove to fix his own plate.
I scoop up the eggs. They're very good, which seems unfair. How can someone be so self-contained and competent across so many things?
I find myself wanting to ask questions I know I shouldn't ask yet. How long have you been here? Do you miss it? Were you happy before? Are you happy now?
I ask more questions about the goats instead, and he talks about them, the way people talk about the things they love, with an expert knowledge and enthusiasm I find particularly appealing. The breeds, the breeding season, the particular challenges of keeping goats in mountain elevation. He tells meabout Stevie's mother, a named Madonna, with opinions about personal space, and about one of the older males who figured out how to unlatch the feed room door, only to be caught red-handed in the grain stores at two in the morning by Gibson in his boxer shorts, armed with a mop and a flashlight because he thought someone was breaking in.
He tells the story straight, no embellishment, and it's absolutely one of the funniest things I've heard in months.
"I’m glad you find the situation entertaining," he says, when I've recovered.
"I'm sorry, the image of you in the dark, having knocked over a grain barrel with the mop so it rained down into your boxers and goat showing zero remorse as he tries to munch his way through the cotton…" I giggle again.
“Are you picturing me in my underwear, Poppy?”
Heat floods my belly. I mean, I was picturing it, but now I’m picturing something completely different. I open my mouth, close it, feeling completely off-balance by this man.
The easy grin slips off his face and his jaw tightens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “And I was.” Ohmygoodness, did I say that last part out loud?
His eyebrows shoot up. “Were you, now?” His voice is soft, questioning.
