Page 308 of Hate Mates

This was far from over. This was just the beginning.

To be continued.

Did you enjoy Dominic and Isabella’s story? You won’t have to wait long for the rest of their story coming soon.

About the Author

Connect with Jo-Anne Joseph by visiting her Amazon page: https://us.amazon.com/stores/author/B075ZV6B83/allbooks?ccs_id=6e9723c3-1c9a-461a-b422-ea3cd8ec26c9

From Feud to Forever by Juliet McKinley

ONE

Christiane

Stepping outside to check my mail, I find my mailbox on its side again. "Merde." I stare at it for a moment, lying sadly on the ground, before grabbing my gloves from my apron pocket and setting it back up in its hole. I'll need to go to the hardware store later for some concrete, and maybe a new pole.

Once the mailbox is somewhat upright, I pause to gaze across the pasture of my new home of six months. The sun is rising, and the grass is still damp with morning dew. This was my favorite time of day on Papa Mark's farm. We'd wake up and then go outside together, gather the eggs, and milk the goats and the cow. By the time we came inside, Maman would have started breakfast, and the house would be warm with the scent of cinnamon and spices.

Sighing, I pick up my wet mail from the grass, wondering for the hundredth time if Willow Glen is the right place to start over.

The rickety screen door protests as it slams shut behind me. I walk straight through the house and head to the chicken coop.

"Bonjour, mes poules! Do you have some lovely gifts for me this morning?" I open the run door, and am greeted by squawking hens, scratching around my feet for their morningmealworms. I chuckle as I scatter their treats on the ground. Chanticlare, the rooster, struts out last and begins his patrol as a dutiful protector. I open the human-sized door and gather the eggs, calling out to the hens.

"Paisley, what a lovely blue egg you left me. Beatrice, we talked about this; no laying in the bucket anymore. Melanie, get out of the—no! You're not hatching these eggs—ow! Don't make me eat you for dinner!"

Once the eggs are gathered, I deposit them in the feed room, before heading to the goats. Scooping up their feed in a bucket, I take a deep breath before opening the door.

"Emmanuel—Emm—no! Move your arse—don't you dare! Bring that feed bucket back right now.” Emmanuel sets his hooves in the ground and shakes his head, as he tugs at the feed bucket I’m trying to keep. However, a young and stubborn goat does not tire easily, so I give up. “You're evil, I swear—ugh. Fine, keep it! Daisy, Dandie, and Debbie, let's go." When I lead the girls back to the milking station, I'm thoroughly disheveled, and more than a little mad that I lost my bucket. Grabbing a few more, I get the girls to hop up at the station, and fill their grain buckets while they're milked. My three girls are angels, standing patiently, with long, floppy brown ears and beautiful blue eyes. I give each of them a good brushing, and some pats, as I finish milking.

I'm almost done with Dandie when I spot a black-horned head peeking around the corner.

"Emmanuel," I warn, and he looks at me before walking off. Sighing, I head back up to the house. I just can't anymore. I'll milk Cookie in a little bit. She's usually not ready until later anyway. I have never met a cow who wasn't a morning person, but Cookie, well, she takes the cake.

Grabbing my cheesecloth, I strain the goat milk before placing it in the fridge. I pour myself a cup of coffee and standat the bar, staring out my back window, sipping and slowly savoring the sweet warmth. Maman always said I was a cautious child, that losing Papa so young had changed me. Maybe it had. My earliest memories were of Maman in the kitchen, baking, and selling her pastries to the local shops in our small village, or trading for things we needed, such as shoes or a new dress. I remember the day I met Papa Mark for the first time; I had never met an American. He chuckled when I told him as much, despite Maman scolding me.

I still remember how he crouched down, so we were eye to eye. "Well, I've never met a French little girl before, so I guess we are quite the pair, aren't we, Chris?" I hated the nickname at the time, my name wasChristiane, but as the years passed, the warmth and affection that came with it would become my fondest memory.

Sitting down with my coffee, I turn on my mixer. The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum. Sifting the flour, I add it to a glass bowl, then sugar, salt, and finally, I sprinkle yeast over the top, getting lost in the familiar feeling of each step. This dance is one that I have been doing for as long as I can remember, first with Maman as my partner, and now on my own.

It's second nature now, no need to think. Just mix, knead, wait. The warmth of the dough under my fingers is soothing, like the soft earth of my garden. I press and fold, my hands moving like they've done countless times. As the dough rises, I clear the counters and prepare the filling, blending butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar until it's the right consistency. The scent of cinnamon fills the air, and I breathe it in, feeling a tear slide down my cheek. I use my sleeve to wipe it away, and spread the warm, golden butter onto the dough, and the thick, sweet mixture spreads smoothly. I roll the dough up into neat spirals, and use my twine to slice the log just so. "Juste ainsii," I find myself saying aloud.

Pulling the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, I see a large, furry white body crossing my backyard.

"Are youkidding me?" I slam the pan of hot rolls on the counter, not even caring if they somehow were to deflate, and storm out of the back door.

"Duke, go home!" I shout at the large dog sniffing around my chicken coop. "Duke! Home! Now!" Seeing me approach, he runs up and rolls over at my feet, showing me his belly.

"Duke, you do not live here. You need to go home.Go home, Duke." I refuse to give in and rub his furry tummy, despite how much I want to do so. The first time Duke came over, I freaked out and called the sheriff, who called his owner; my next-door neighbor. The older, sexy, and extremely irritated Adam Williams. Ever since that day, he has been the epitome of rude, surly, and downright hostile. I have no idea what I ever did to upset him, besides almost get his dog arrested, but he has taken it to heart.

TWO

Adam

Istep out onto my back porch, stretching to ease the kinks in my back. A new body part seems to ache daily, but I wouldn't trade this life for anything. It's all I've ever known. This farm has been in my family for generations. Looking out over the herds of cattle, and neat rows of crops, I feel a contentment nothing else has ever come close to. Unfortunately, I'm a forty-five-year-old bachelor, more than a little set in my ways. Settling into the porch glider, I take a sip of coffee, ready for a quiet morning, but that plan is quickly derailed by my new neighbor, who shouldn't even be there, and my damn dog.

"Duke, go home!" I hear Chris yelling, as her screen door slams behind her. "Duke! Home! Now!"

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