“Hey, can I have an extra bar of soap?” Jake asks, surprising me with a welcome change of subject. “I’d like to send it to my mom.”
Huh. More surprises. He has a mother and he’s thoughtful enough to think of her?
“Yeah, of course,” I agree. “What kind of scents is she into?”
“Did you have something citrus-y going the other day? I could’ve sworn I smelled it all the way by the barn.”
“Yep,” I say. “That’s one of my top sellers. But if she’s interested in citrus, I was just about to do my spin on a limoncello soap. You want to help?”
I expect him to say no, but he shoots me one of those sexy smirks of his and says yes. I walk him through the entire process, Linus and Martha watching with more interest than you’d think goats are capable of. I show him how to add the lye and the frozen goats’ milk together, how to blend the lather mix in until it’s completely clear, and how to stir, stir, stir. I enjoy this last part the most because, even though it’s just stirring a crockpot, I get to guide his hands with mine as he presses close to me. He smells like pine and earth and man, and it’s taking everything in me not to turn soap-making into seduction.
“And now,” I tell him, finding it hard to breathe with him so close, “we wait about ten minutes.”
“Hmm,” he says, leaning down so that he’s whispering into my ear. “What could we do for ten minutes?”
“Oh, I could think of something,” I offer, my tone heavy with innuendo.
“Me too,” he says, leaning in close, the words a soft whisper against my neck.
“Ten minutes is just enough time”—I pause here for effect—“to grab a fresh bale of hay from—”
I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence before Jake has called my bluff and covered my mouth with his own. We’re both grinning as we kiss and undress each other, tearing at each other’s clothes like teenagers who’ve, well… snuck into this very barn to do this very thing.
By the time we’ve finished, I’m out of breath. I turn to him, finding his eyes firmly fixed on me. It’s like they’re examining me, but not in a scientific way. Not in the judge-y way of Tom the Surveyor. Jake’s way is softer.
“You’re insanely beautiful, Sutton,” he says, reaching over to tuck a blonde strand of hair behind my ear.
I prop myself up on my elbow so that we’re looking at each other, face to face. “I thought you were going to stop at ‘You’re insane,’” I tease.
He smirks. “You might be that, too.”
I smack his shoulder.
“I’m kidding,” he says.
“Admit it. You thought I was crazy when you first met me.”
“I thought you were stubborn. And highly eccentric. There’s a difference.”
“‘Eccentric’ is just the fancy way to say ‘crazy.’”
“I think you’re incredible,” he responds. “I don’t know how someone gets the balls to do what you’ve done. Squatting and all. You’ve got a hell of a lot of gumption, and that’s impressive as hell.”
I shrug, but I’m smiling at the compliment. “It all started as a bit of an adventure. I knew that I had to save Linus, and so I won Ariel—the Airstream—in a drunken game of poker and from there, all the pieces just seemed to fall into place.”
“Again,” he says, “as a lawyer I’d advise you not to put any of that in writing.”
I laugh.
“Tell me more about Linus,” he says. “How’d that happen?”
I tell him about the side-of-the-road rescue, about sneaking Linus into my parents’ house. About knowing that, if I chose Linus, I essentially had to figure out a new life. I tell him about spotting the Airstream on the side of the road and challenging the owner to a poker game to get me a price I could actually afford.
“And then I found this place,” I say, waving a hand around the barn. “At first, it was just a place to park and let Linus wander. But weeks went by, and no one told me to move. And I thought, Hey, maybe I’ve found my home. Plus, once I had Linus, I knew I had to get him a friend. And when I started researching about how to care for goats, I was always finding sad goat stories on the internet. One by one, I found these goats that no one wanted. And I knew they belonged here.”
Jake’s a great listener. He never tries to talk over me. He just nods along, watching with those intense eyes.
“Anyway,” I add. “You can… you can see why it’s going to be hard to leave.”
I’m fishing with that statement, hoping he’ll say that he’s realized that goats rule and golf drools, or something to that effect. I look away from him, not wanting to see if his eyes show me anything else.