Page 17 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
The night air carries a chill that wasn’t there during the day. It nips at my cheeks, and I pull my jacket tighter around myself, breathing in the scent of earth and damp leaves.
I hear Liam before I see him, the crunch of boots on gravel approaching at a steady pace. Then his tall figure materializes from the darkness, a flashlight beam bobbing with his movement.
“Found her, I see,” he says, his deep voice carrying easily in the quiet night.
“She found me,” I correct, still petting the goat. “I think she’s adopted me.”
Liam stops a respectful distance away, his face half-illuminated by the porch light.
“She usually avoids strangers.”
“So you’ve mentioned,” I say, fighting a smile. “Maybe I’m not strange enough.”
A huff of air escapes him, not quite a laugh, but close. “Maybe not.”
Maple bleats indignantly, as if reminding us of her presence.
“Come on, Troublemaker,” Liam says, reaching for her collar. “Time to go home.”
But Maple has other ideas. She darts behind my legs, using me as a shield.
Liam sighs. “She’s being difficult.”
“I don’t mind if she stays a bit,” I find myself saying. “Unless you need her for something?”
He hesitates. “She should be in the barn with the others, but…” He trails off, studying me with those intense eyes. “She seems determined to be here.”
An awkward silence falls between us, and I can’t seem to break away from his gaze.
I’m acutely aware of how isolated my cottage is, how dark the night has become, and how large Liam is compared to me.
Yet, strangely, I don’t feel afraid.
Every self-preservation instinct I’ve spent months honing should be screaming right now. Instead, I’m focused on how the porch light catches in his hair and whether his eyes really are that blue or if it’s just the lighting.
“You could bring her back later,” he offers, breaking the spell between us. “Or in the morning, as long as she’s not bothering you?”
“She’s not,” I assure him. “I could use the company, actually.”
The words slip out, more honest than I intended. I’ve been alone for so long that even a goat’s presence feels like a comfort.
Something shifts in Liam’s expression, a softening around his eyes, like he understands my truer meaning. “Alright then. Just don’t let her eat anything important.”
“Like my purple friend?” The words are out before my brain can stop them, and I immediately want to crawl under a rock and die.
Did I just make a joke about my sex toy? To my boss? Who retrieved said sex toy from a goat’s mouth?
My face feels like it’s been set on fire.
Again.
Liam’s eyes widen, and in the dim light, I swear I see color rise to his cheeks. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs, a deep, rich sound. It does something weird to my chest—like warmth spreading outward from my heart.
“Exactly,” he says, a half-smile still on his face.
I laugh too.
When was the last time I joked about anything, let alone something so mortifying?
