Page 19 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“Oh my God,” I breathe, doing my best to pet each and every one of them. “You look like little goat bunnies.”

“They’re Nubians,” Jackson says from behind me. He walks around to where I can see him before adding, “The breed is lop-eared, like rabbits.”

“They’re adorable,” I say, petting one of the goat’s long, dangling ears. “You’re the cutest, aren’t you?”

Jackson hums. “You’re one of those, huh?”

“One of what?” I ask, scratching a goat on his or her haunches.

“The talking-to-animals-like-they’re-babies type.”

I look up at Jackson’s loosely crossed arms and flat expression. “Why yes, I am,” I coo, petting the goat in front of me but staring at Jackson. “Because he’s a good boy who deserves it, isn’t that right?”

Jackson clears his throat, gaze skipping away, and I smirk to myself. When there’s a tug on my hair, I turn my head to the side, only to come face to face with a long nose and hair-covered eyes.

“Snickerdoodle,” Jackson says, passing in front of me to reach the pony. “We don’t eat the guests.”

Snickerdoodle backs up a step, her body and mane, as one might expect from her name, a golden tan. She whinnies, sounding as if she’s arguing.

“Nuh-uh,” Jackson says. “Doesn’t matter if he looks good enough to eat. He’s off limits.”

Was…was that a joke? Did Jackson Darling just make a joke?

“Now who’s talking to the animals?” I tease.

Jackson simply scoffs, leading the pony back a couple more steps. “At least I don’t baby ’em.”

“Sure, you don’t,” I say, turning to the goat who’s nibbling my sleeve. “He’s a meanie, isn’t he?”

“Jesus,” Jackson grumbles. “Day two, and he’s already got lip.”

I huff a laugh, fairly certain my boss isn’t upset about that fact.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter, “these lips have gotten me out of plenty of trouble, so I think I’ll keep them.”

Jackson looks sharply my way, his nostrils flaring. It reminds me, momentarily, of a bull, and I can’t help but wonder if he sees the green flag I’m waving.

Jackson clears his throat before looking away. “My, uh, brothers want to throw you a welcome party,” he says, hand running down Snickerdoodle’s long neck.

“That so?”

He grunt-hums. “I’ve got a bonfire out behind my place. Tonight if you’re free, since it’s Friday. There’ll be whiskey,” he adds, like he’s not sure whether or not that’s a good thing.

“And you?” I ask. “Will you be there?”

He makes that short, rough sound again. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“All right,” I say with a smile. “Sounds good to me.”

“Good,” he says, and then, “You wanna feed ’em?”

“The goats or your brothers?” I joke.

He doesn’t bother answering me, just walks off toward the attendant as I chuckle to myself.

When Jackson returns, he has a small pile of baby carrots cupped in his palms. He holds them out my way. “Here.”

The goats crowd me as I take the carrots from Jackson’s work-roughened hands. Their tiny hooves step all over my legs, leaving little dusty prints.

---