One Night with a Nutcracker (Reindeer Falls)

I throw on a winning smile and exit the barn, stopping just outside. “Come to apologize?” I ask merrily.

He sighs as he walks closer, still keeping his distance from the goats. “Hardly,” he replies dryly. He’s eyeing me, his gaze calculating. And it’s not a calculating I’m used to. It’s not a seductive calculation, as if he’s imagining how good my ass looks out of these jeans or determining how much trouble it would be to get me into bed. No. It’s a challenging calculation. Like he’s decided I’m an actual problem.

Like this is war.

“I’ve decided to stay here,” he says when he finally speaks again. “My brother’s place is a bit… crowded… at the moment and the Busy Bee Inn is sold out.”

I stare at him. Is he out of his mind? And where is he suggesting he stay? The barn?

“You’re kidding, right?” I laugh. “You might own the land, but this is my Airstream. Bought it fair and square. And besides, I’m not leaving.”

I can see the frustration growing on his face. He’s not used to anyone challenging his power. Well, get used to it, lawyer boy.

“I don’t think you’re understanding me. Your Airstream is parked on my land and therefore I have a right—”

“No way.” I cut him off, arms crossed.

He eyes me again. Crosses his arms to match mine.

It seems we’re at a standoff.

“There used to be a room in the barn—”

“Oh, that!” I cut him off again, delighted. The grin on my face should be enough to warn him, but clearly he’s a glutton for punishment. “Please, be my guest.”

This is delightful. Finally, Mr. I’m-Too-Good-Now-For-Reindeer-Falls is at my mercy. I try to temper my glee as his eyes narrow.

“That room actually needs to be mucked out,” I tell him. Because he’s referring to a room I converted into a goat suite for Farmer John. The idea of the two of them cuddling later is almost too much for me, but I manage to continue. “There’s a pitchfork and a rake in the barn. You can Google if you need directions, and try to watch out for your shoes. I’ve decided against lending you my Crocs.”

And then I stomp up all three of the steps to my Airstream and slam the door in his face.

Take that, Jake Sheppard.

Chapter Four

I’m giddy. I admit it. The idea of that asshole having to muck out Farmer John’s private room? It’s like a Christmas miracle.

Not that I think he’ll actually do it. He could leave at any time and go stay with his brothers. In fact, I’m sure he will. Only a stubborn idiot would stay here just to prove a point.

Turns out, though, that Jake Sheppard is a stubborn idiot. Or really skilled at standoffs. Probably on account of being a lawyer, but too bad for him because anyone who’s ever herded goats knows a thing or two about strategy.

When I find him in the barn hours later, I’m shocked both that he’s still here and that he’s working. He’s tossed the dirty hay and replaced it with fresh stuff. There’s not a goat “present” in sight, either. There are goats, however. They’re all curiously watching him as he moves stuff around. Or I think they’re watching him. I can only assume that’s what they’re doing since I can’t see him myself. He’s making a lot of noise, though, so I edge around the goats to get a view of him in the back room.

And oh, my, do I get a view.

Jake’s back is turned to me as he bangs a hammer into the wall. He’s removed his coat, leaving him in some kind of thermal shirt that is clinging to his back in all the right ways. His biceps are of particular interest to me as he hammers away. I’m mesmerized, watching each fluid motion. My eyes drop lower, to the jeans slung low on his hips.

Look, I know objectifying men for their bodies is outdated but I’m entitled to my thoughts. And I’m having a lot of thoughts.

Next to me, Linus nudges my leg and lets out a loud “Bah!”

Which causes Jake to turn and find me staring. Not that I was really staring. I was observing, and it’s not like there’s a law against that or anything. But when his head whips around to me, eyes wide in surprise, he clearly thinks I was staring.

Defense is the best offense, so I cross my arms and shrug. “Nice work,” I offer, surveying the space like a crew boss.

“I’m not really the handy one in my family,” Jake says. “But I’m doing my best.”

His best isn’t half bad. And his body definitely isn’t half bad. I try not to let my eyes run wild as he straightens up, crossing his unfairly strong arms over his chest.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “This is my barn, and you’ve let it go to shit.”