Page 2 of Jingle Bell Flock
Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the goat was faster, prancing away with his prize in his mouth. This sent the kids,and a woman filming with what looked like a professional camera rig, into fresh peals of laughter.
I spun around, looking for something, anything I could use to corral three escaped goats who clearly had no intention of being corralled, and that’s when I saw him.
Even pissed off and exhausted, I couldn’t help but watch the way he moved with that athlete’s grace, like his body hadn’t forgotten years of hockey training. He’d always been leaner than me—a winger to my defenseman—but at six feet tall with shoulders that filled out his red and black buffalo-checked flannel perfectly, there was nothing slight about Harrison Prescott.
His shirt flew open behind him as he ran, revealing a white t-shirt tight enough that I could see every muscle underneath. The man clearly hit the gym, and it showed.
His jeans were splattered with something white—that cheese he made, the one I pretended not to like but would devour after everyone had gone to bed—and his work boots kicked up snow and mud as he ran. His blond hair was a mess, sticking up like he’d been running his hands through it, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold and exertion.
He looked panicked. He looked … fuck, he looked good.
Damn it.
Our eyes met, and for a split second, something passed between us—recognition, tension, a pull I’d been fighting for six long months.
Then he skidded to a stop a few feet away from me, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
Several of the nearby women who’d been photographing the goats were now definitely photographing him.
He’s not for you, I wanted to tell them, something hot and possessive flaring in my chest.
He’s not for you either, I reminded myself, forcing my face back into its usual scowl.
“Jeremy!” His voice was rough, breathless. “I am so sorry. I was in the kitchen making cheese, and I didn’t realize they’d gotten out until I saw the Instagram post?—”
“The what?”
He pulled out his phone and turned it toward me. Sure enough, there was someone’s Instagram account, where they’d tagged Winterberry Farm with a photo of Sugarplum surrounded by smiling children, the wreath around her neck like she was posing for a holiday card. The caption read: “Love the new petting zoo at Winterberry Farm” and included a whole bunch of emojis.
My eye started to twitch.
“This is the third time this month, Harrison.” I kept my voice low, aware of all the families watching us with great interest. “Do you have any idea how much damage—is Kringle climbing on top of my truck?!”
Harrison winced, following my gaze to where Kringle had indeed climbed onto the hood of my Chevy, another long swag of garland hanging from his teeth.
“I fixed the fence. I swear!” Harrison declared, rubbing his forehead and looking around like he might somehow figure out how they were getting loose. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Sugarplum was picking the locks?—”
“There are no locks!” I said hotly from between clenched teeth. “It’s a goddamn fence!"
“Exactly! Which makes it even more impressive that she keeps?—”
He cut himself off when I let loose a warning growl of frustration.
“Okay, that’s not the point.” He ran a hand through his beautiful fucking hair, making it stick up in about five differentdirections. “The point is, I’m sorry. Let me just get them rounded up, and I’ll get out of your way.”
He started toward Sugarplum, making soft clicking noises with his tongue. The goat looked at him, took in the children currently surrounding her, and decided the kids were more interesting.
“Sugarplum, come on. Don’t be difficult. Come to Daddy.”
I might have found it funny—watching Harrison Prescott try to negotiate with a goat while calling himself ‘Daddy’ (that man was no more a daddy than I was a twink)—if I wasn’t so busy being furious.
And if I wasn’t acutely, painfully aware of exactly how his jeans clung to his ass as he bent down to try and grab Sugarplum’s collar. Damn it, but he still had that same hockey bubble butt that used to distract me when we were teenagers.
Stop it, I told myself.Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at any of him.
I’d been telling myself that for months, but I still hadn’t gotten it through my thick skull.
“I’ll get Comet,” I said, because standing here watching Harrison wrestle a goat was doing nothing for my blood pressure or my ability to stay angry at him.
