Page 15 of Rebel Without a Claus
Luke, of course, looks completely in his element as he gestures toward the small wooden stool beside a goat. "The day starts by milking Daisy."
I gape at him. "Youcannotbe serious."
"You want to prove you can handle farm work?” He leans against the stall door, arms crossed, looking far too entertained. "Then go on, city girl. Let’s see what you’ve got."
I hesitate, eyeing Daisy. She seems… indifferent. Which, in this case, is better than aggressive. I take a deep breath, kneel beside her, and reach for her udder, squeezing it in my fist with what Ithinkis the correct technique.
Nothing happens.
I squeeze again and once more, zero milk comes out. Daisy gives me a look over her shoulder and bleats.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, girl.”
Luke snorts. "You’re gonna be here all day."
I grit my teeth. "Thenshow mehow to do this, farm boy."
His smirk deepens as he kneels beside me, his muscled arms enveloping me as he wraps his hands around mine, guiding them into the correct position. My breath catches at the sudden proximity.
His hands are rough, warm, and firm as they adjust mine into place. "Like this," he murmurs, his voice lower now, more focused. His grip is steady, confident—like he’s done this a thousand times before. Which, of course, hehas.
With his hands around mine, he—we—start to milk Daisy. The milk fills the pail quickly as our hands move together.
The barn is cold, but suddenly, I feelverywarm. The scent of hay and leather fills my lungs, mingling with something distinctlyLuke. The usual sharp banter between us fades, replaced by something quieter. Something heavier. I turn my head to glance at him, my heart stumbling when I realize how close his face is to mine.
Our eyes lock and the rest of the world ceases to exist. Just like in high school—except back then, it had always been missed chances, stolen glances, moments interrupted before they couldturn into something more. I remember how much I had wanted him to kiss me back then. How much I haddreamedabout it. And now… now, the moment stretches between us, thick with the weight of something unfinished. Something inevitable.
His gaze flickers down to my lips, lingering just long enough to make my stomach tighten. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Neither does he. The barn is silent, save for the faint creak of wood and the sound of my pulse thudding in my ears. If he kisses me, I know it won’t be some high school crush coming to fruition. It’ll bereal. It’ll change everything.
His fingers tighten around mine ever so slightly. He leans in just a fraction?—
Just as his mouth is about to brush mine, Daisy kicks the pail,sending milk flying all over me.
I shriek, scrambling back as semi-warm liquid soaks my jeans and coat. Luke howls with laughter, actually doubling over while I glare daggers at both him and his demon goat.
"Oh,perfect," I grumble, holding out my dripping sleeves.
Luke wipes at his eyes, still grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had in years. "Welcome to farm life, princess."
I cross my arms, shivering. "I hate everything."
"You sure you want to keep going? Quit now and we can call the whole thing off," he teases as he stands up and grabs another empty pail, setting it beneath Daisy.
I’m freezing, damp with raw goat milk, exhausted, and thoroughly humiliated. But just as I’m about to say stick a candy cane in me, I’m done, something in how Luke effortlessly moves in the barn, so at home in this world, catches in my throat. Maybe—just maybe—there’s somethingworthwaking up for at five in the morning. Maybe I’m meant to be here to learn something bigger than I can even imagine.
I lift my chin. "Not a chance."
Luke shakes his head, but there’s something different in his expression now. Less amusement, more… something else. Like he’s surprised. Like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t expect me to actually stick it out.
I don’t back down. Not from him, not from this challenge. Even if Idosmell like goat milk for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER 7
Luke
By the time noon rolls around, Eve looks like she’s been through an actual war.
She slumps into the chair at Aunt May’s kitchen table, hair a mess, clothes stained with various unidentifiable substances—some of which are definitelynotmud. She glares at me like this is somehowmyfault, even though she was the one who insisted on proving she could handle farm work. I should be enjoying her misery, should begloating, but I can’t stop thinking about what almost happened in the barn.
