“We’ll set up here,” I announce, setting down the basket.
Finn looks around.
“This is very exposed.”
“That’s the point.”
I spread the plaid across the grass with dramatic flourishes like I’m setting the stage for a romantic movie.
Finn remains standing beside me with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking like a man who’s just been sentenced to prison.
“Sit down,” I tell him. “You look like a bodyguard.”
He sits.
Stiffly.
Entirely unromantic.
“Relax,” I sigh while unpacking the basket.
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re expecting an attack from the Loch Ness Monster.”
The second the words leave my mouth, a loud bleat echoes behind us.
I turn around.
Ragnar is standing at the top of the hill.
Majestic. Menacing. His horns tilted slightly forward as he stares at us with unsettling intensity.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Finn follows my gaze and somehow gets even tenser.
“It’s just a sheep.”
“It’s notjusta sheep. It’syoursheep.”
“He’s not my sheep.”
Ragnar starts walking toward us.
Slowly.
Like a predator stalking prey.
“What does he want?” Finn asks.
“I don’t know, but probably nothing good.”
The sheep stops a few feet away.
He studies the blanket.
The basket.
