I am salivating over Staci Hart's teases of BET THE FARM. Gimme this enemies to lovers, small town romance like yesterday, please.
“You said you’d stay out of my way.”
He took a step closer. “And I have. But I said no goats.”
“What’s your problem with them?”
“You gonna clip their hooves? How about mend all the fences when they bust out, because they’re a pack of brainless Houdinis. How about deworming? And you’ve gotta breed. You ever smelled a goat buck? Tell me, smartass—have you ever seen goats mate?”
I shook my head.
“Let’s just say there’s a reason the devil has goat horns, and you’re gonna have a front row seat to the horror show. If you knew anything about anything, you’d never have started all this.”
Another step, his arms folding across his expansive chest, which was covered. And thank God. I couldn’t think when he was shirtless.
Part of me thought he knew it too.
“Lemme tell you something, Olivia. It’s gonna be me who deals with the fucking goats, not you. And I told you no.”
“Fine. I hereby take all responsibility for the goats. All hoof clipping, fence mending, and deworming will be done by me.”
He stared me down for a second, and whatever he was thinking tugged at one corner of his lips for that whisper of a smile. He stuck his hand out for a shake.
I took it, aware of every nerve touching his skin. The rough of his calluses. The warmth in his palms. The odd sensation of my hand being almost completely enveloped by his.
I squeezed and pumped our hands once.
“Just promise me one thing,” he said, still holding my hand.
“What?”
“Let me know when you’re clipping their hooves so I can make popcorn.”
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