Her skin was warm, softer than I'd expected. She'd gone completely still, her eyes wide as she looked up at me.
“There,” I whispered, but I didn't step back.
Neither did she.
I should have pulled my hand away. Should have put distance between us. Instead I found myself tracing the line of her cheek with my thumb, watching the way her lips parted slightly.
“Cal,” she whispered, and the sound of my name in her voice did something dangerous to my chest.
She was leaning into my hand—or maybe I was imagining it. Maybe the way she was looking at me, like she was waiting for something, was all in my head. But she felt so real, so warm, and she smelled like honey and lavender and something uniquely her.
I was close enough to count her freckles. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Close enough to?—
A sharp bark split the air.
We jumped apart like we'd been electrocuted. Rosie's hand flew to her cheek where mine had been, her face flushed pink.
Another bark, high and frantic, came from the other room.
“Pudding,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “I'll— I'll check on him.”
I turned and walked quickly toward the living room, my heart still hammering from whatever had just happened in that kitchen. The feel of Rosie's skin lingered on my thumb, and I flexed my hand, trying to shake off the memory.
Pudding stood on his hind legs against the window, front paws pressed to the glass, barking at something outside. His little body vibrated with each sharp yip.
“Hey, easy.” I crouched beside him, running my hand along his back. “What's got you worked up?”
Through the window, a white blur moved across the yard in the moonlight. One of the chickens, pecking at something near the porch steps.
“It's just a chicken,” I murmured, scooping Pudding up. He settled against my chest but kept his eyes fixed on the window, a low whine rumbling in his throat.
I carried him back to the kitchen, where Rosie was aggressively wiping down the already clean counter, her movements sharp and jerky.
“Everything okay?” she asked without looking up.
“He was barking at a chicken outside your window.” I set Pudding down, watching as he immediately trotted back toward the living room. “Is that... normal? For them to be wandering around this late?”
Rosie's hand stilled on the counter. “What? No, they should all be in the coop.” She dropped the rag, concern creasing her forehead. “They go in at dusk. Always.”
She was already moving toward the door, grabbing a flashlight from a drawer. I followed her outside, Pudding trailing behind us with cautious curiosity.
The beam of her flashlight swept across the yard, illuminating scattered white shapes. Not just one chicken—at least six of them, pecking and wandering freely across the grass.
“This isn't right.” Rosie's voice was tight. “Something must have?—”
A familiar bleat echoed from the direction of the chicken coop.
“Snickers,” she groaned.
We hurried toward the coop, and sure enough, the flashlight revealed the cream-and-brown goat standing inside the wooden structure, happily munching on scattered feed. The door hung open, latch dangling uselessly.
“Snickers, you little—” Rosie started.
“I've got her.” I stepped into the coop, careful not to spook the goat. “Come on, troublemaker.”
Snickers looked up at me with innocent brown eyes, a piece of straw hanging from her mouth. She didn't resist when I slipped my fingers under her collar, just bleated softly as I led her out of the coop.
“Sorry about your midnight snack,” I murmured, guiding her across the yard toward the goat pen.
