by Helm, Nicole
All Charlie could think about for one blinding second was that he was going to have a kid. He was going to be a father. Either he could stand here arguing old hurts and stupid pride—or he could help the family he loved. Which one did he want for his future? His child’s future?
He cleared his throat, because he felt off-kilter again. Off course, off center, off. But he also knew what his answer had to be, and hey, at least this would be something like a job.
“All right. Consider me hired.”
Both Mia and Dell grinned, and Charlie had to smile back, because it was kind of exciting, really. Sure, farming had never been his passion, but ever since Dell had started his own farm, Charlie had had opinions about it.
Now his opinions were being solicited. His opinions might actually matter. His family, who usually rolled their eyes at him, typical Charlie, actually wanted his help. Wanted him. Yeah, that was something to smile about.
* * *
MEG WAS DRAGGING. She wanted to blame the lack of energy on pregnancy, she would have loved to blame it on the goats, but the bottom line was she hadn’t slept.
Again, there were a whole host of things she’d love to blame that on, but really it was Charlie. Or rather, her body’s reaction to Charlie.
Which irritated her and confused her because she wasn’t even certain she liked Charlie. Oh, he was hot. No doubt. Sometimes he’d let an inch of his guard down, and that man...she thought maybe she could like that man.
But it was tiny glimpses of a man who otherwise didn’t show much more than the mask he wore. The facade. And the problem was, she knew plenty of people who had become the mask they put on every day. They weren’t carefree twentysomethings anymore—whatever had made him put protective walls up was deeply rooted in his past.
That was disconcerting on every level.
But she was still attracted to him, and that was annoying on every level because acting on it now would be messy in just about every possible way.
The goat she was milking bleated and kicked at the enclosure. She’d zoned out or dozed off or something and it was not pleased.
“Sorry, Starstruck,” Meg murmured, refilling her feed and finishing up the milking. She forced herself to focus on Calliope, grateful she was the last one for the morning.
Trying to absorb some strength from the soothing routine, Meg went through all the sterilization and milk storage steps. She hummed an upbeat song to herself, trying to infuse energy into her movements.
Someone cleared his throat and she jumped, whirling around with every intention of using her three-legged stool as a weapon.
“Charlie,” she said in a whoosh of breath.
“Sorry. I tried to knock.” He gestured at the barn door. “I called your name. You were just kind of...”
She rolled her eyes. At herself. At this weirdness between them. “I was out of it.”
“Appeared to be.”
“Sorry, I...” She almost let it slip she hadn’t slept, but after all his flirting stuff that wasn’t flirting but wasn’t not flirting, she didn’t want to give him the idea she’d been up thinking about him. He was cocky enough. So she gestured toward her stomach, because as long as Seedling was growing in there, she could blame it for stuff if she needed to.
Seedling would never know the difference.
He smiled gently. The smile that she didn’t like because there wasn’t any light in the expression, no sweetness, no joy. It was practiced. It was a businessman’s smile.
She held the stool in front of her stomach, feeling oddly protective of her little Seedling in the face of Charlie’s polish.
“I brought you lunch. I tried to call, but you didn’t answer.”
She swallowed and patted her pockets, realizing she’d done what she almost never did—forgotten her cell inside. “Sorry. I was reading my pregnancy book and it talked about pregnancy brain and I think I got immediately infected. I left my phone inside.”
He opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again. Probably biting back a scolding, if she had to guess.
Well, at least he had the sense to bite it back, even if she wished he could have the sense not to scold her, period.
“Have you thought about hiring some help?” he asked instead.
She was too tired to be irritated by the question. “Well, sure. But I’d have to find someone I trusted with the goats. Then figure out how much I could afford to pay them, and look into employee tax stuff, and it seems a bit much when I’m getting by all right.”
“But you could expand, if you wanted to.”
Meg shrugged. “I guess. I kind of like the way things are. I mean, if I found the right person, it’d be nice to have help. But it’s a lot to trust someone with my life, my heart, my soul. That’s what this place is to me, Charlie. So, unless you’re offering yourself for help, it’s not in the cards.”
“Um.”
She saw him look around the barn. Most of the goats had gone out the little door and were outside, but a few pranced inside, butting each other, hopping into the haystacks. His face remained carefully blank, but she knew he was recoiling inwardly. She just knew it.
Then those dark eyes met hers and he nodded, as if that was that. “Actually yes. I’d like to help out.”
She laughed. When his eyes narrowed, she knew she should stop, but she couldn’t help herself. “I’m sorry,” she said between giggles. “I can’t picture it. I just...can’t.”
“I told you I grew up on a farm.”
“Yes, and that you didn’t like it. Look at you.” She pointed to his dark-wash jeans, the preppy tennis shoes that wouldn’t last a day in goat poop and mud. He wore a T-shirt today, and based on how crisp it was, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ironed it.
He looked down at his outfit. “I’ll admit, I’m not dressed for working. But I didn’t come here intending to work. It doesn’t mean I’m incapable.”
As Meg saw it, she had two options. Continue to laugh at him, or let him do it. Let him see what helping out at a goat farm, making goat milk soap, would be like. Let him try and get it out of his system.
She’d be shocked if he lasted a day.
“So you want me to hire you,” she said, being very careful to say the words in a way that didn’t hint at the fact that she was eagerly awaiting the first time he shoveled poop out of the stall.
Poor Charlie might have grown up on a farm, but that didn’t mean he had any idea what he was getting himself into.
“Well, I was thinking more volunteer work.”
“Oh no, if you’re going to work for me, you’re going to be my employee.” She smiled at him. “I’d love the chance to order you around.”
“That can probably be arranged without payments or goats.”
Oh, crap, flirting alert. Her heart was getting all jittery at that sly smile of his, the way it slowly curved on one side of his mouth and then the other. Damn him.
“Well,” he continued, that amused smile suddenly focused, “I’ve already taken on what basically amounts to three consulting jobs for my brother and sister-in-law, and her sister and sister’s husband, so why not a little part-time goat farmwork? You can pay me minimum wage, and I’ll work until I get a real job.”
“A part-time job with me would be a real job, Charlie.”
He waved it away. “You know what I mean.”
“So, when you go on an interview for some big-shot corner office sales job of the century, and they ask what you’ve been doing while unemployed, you’ll say you worked at a goat farm?”
“No, I’ll say I spent some time consulting small businesses on expanding their sales reach, goat farming and farming of any kind not mentioned unless applicable. Who knows, maybe my future boss will have a goat obsession like you do.”
She wrinkled he
r nose at him. “It’s not an obsession.”
He crossed to her then, and it was only pride that kept her from stepping back. Because the closer he got, the more the air seemed to electrify. Those self-preservation instincts she’d carefully honed over the past few years were telling her to run.
But she wouldn’t run from the father of her child, or from the challenge of that surety he exuded having some effect on her lady parts. So she stood where she was, ignoring the way his eyes held hers so confidently, the way his body moved like it knew exactly what it was about.
Mostly she ignored that she wanted to touch him, or smell him, or figure out how he affected her so deeply, with just a look. Just proximity.
He stopped in front of her and took the stool she was still holding like a shield. He pried it from her fingers, which she held clutched for no reason that made any kind of sense.
Once he’d loosed it from her grasp and set it down, he took her tattooed arm in his hands, trailing a finger over the space just above her wrist, where the goat was tattooed.
“This,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding hushed, intimate, “is an obsession.”
She wished she had the wherewithal to argue, but she was afraid if she tried to speak it would just come out a sigh, because his finger kept tracing her goat, and there was something so ridiculously sensual about it she kind of wanted to die.
Or jump him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHARLIE DIDN’T KNOW what had changed, or what he’d planned on doing when he’d taken her arm. He probably could have pointed out the goat tattoo without touching it.
But here he was, tracing his fingers over the lines. Mesmerized by the way her skin goose-bumped and how there could be all this blue and white ink on her, but she felt smooth and soft.
She would feel like that everywhere. He should know that, not imagine it. He’d impregnated her; he should be able to know more than just the few snatches of memory his brain decided to hold on to.
Not the plan, Wainwright. And yet he couldn’t seem to listen to that voice that had ruled him for...well, for a long-ass time. All those plans, all those rules, all that focus, and he couldn’t remember anyone who had ever made that voice sound like an annoying gnat rather than a life-guiding deity.
“Charlie.” Her voice sounded strangled and he was probably supposed to stop touching her, stop looking at the goat, stop wondering what the rest of her felt like. Under the loose T-shirt she was wearing, under those tight stretchy pants he wasn’t sure qualified as pants.
“I think we need to make a decision.”
Funny, she kept talking and he wasn’t at all sure she was saying words that made sense.
“A decision?” He’d been making a lot of decisions today. Well, taking offers, really. But still, moving forward, making progress.
Wait. What kind of decision was she talking about?
“To or not to. Like, if we’re putting that on the table, but I think it needs to be clear.”
“To...?” Or not to. Finally he forced his gaze to leave her tattoo, her arm under his finger, and meet those wide blue eyes. There had been a reason he’d come here. He couldn’t for the life of him remember it.
Because she was most assuredly talking about sex. Doing it or not doing it, which had been a debate in his head. Repeatedly. But he hadn’t planned on broaching it quite so...head-on.
He must have loosened his grip, because her arm slid away, and he felt that break in physical connection like something akin to a blow.
So he hedged, because of course he wanted it to be on the table, but even though she short-circuited his entire being, he still wasn’t used to doing what he wanted. There were responsibilities to weigh, plans to think of. “Do you want it to be on the table?”
She blinked at him, that beautiful shade of pink flushing up her neck and cheeks. It was only years of denying his more impulsive...impulses that kept him from stepping forward, cupping those cheeks, touching...
God, he wanted to touch her again.
What was she doing to him?
She whirled away, which didn’t help, because her ass in those ridiculous legging nonpants was something of a very major distraction.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, shoving her fingers through her unruly blond hair. “I don’t know.”
She whirled back to face him, poking an index finger in his direction. “You’re obviously Mr. Responsible. You tell me what the right thing to do here is.”
“Well...” Responsible. She wanted him to tell her the right thing to do. That was very much his usual wheelhouse. He knew, of course, the responsible thing to do was to say no. Sex should not be on the table. Not yet. But...
“You’ve probably never made a decision with your dick,” she muttered in disgust.
“Um, well, we’re in a situation that might claim otherwise.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. He found it odd he wanted to.
“Okay, your drunk penis is irresponsible, but your sober one is not. Sober Charlie’s penis is one of the most responsible penises I’ve ever met.”
“Please tell me what the hell we’re talking about, because I’ve completely lost track.”
She blew out a breath in a mix between humor and frustration. “Look, I think we’re attracted to each other or, even wasted, we probably wouldn’t have ended up doing the horizontal polka.”
“You didn’t just say polka—horizontal or otherwise. Please tell me you didn’t.”
This time she did laugh, and he laughed too, because he liked the way it infiltrated the air. Even with the smell of hay and animal poop—the hallmark of his childhood—her laugh made him feel like he was somewhere bright and fresh.
“Maybe we should have a no-touching, no-innuendo, no-flirting rule.”
“We could do that...”
“Why do you not sound convinced? You’re supposed to be a stick-in-the-mud who agrees with all stick-in-the-mud plans!”
He raised an eyebrow. “Responsible does not necessarily equal stick-in-the-mud. It certainly doesn’t mean no sex.”
“Charlie, that is not the point.”
“Well, it’s my point.”
“We can’t have sex. That’s the important thing. It would complicate...everything.”
“True, but—”
“How is there a but?”
“As you said, we’re attracted to each other, all polkaing aside. Just setting a sex moratorium might lead to what got us here in the first place.”
“Uh, no. No more the Shack for me. No more drinking.” She gestured at her flat stomach. “No more bad decisions. All my decisions are for the good of Seedling.”
“Yes, mine too. But I’m not sure what sex has to do with Seedling.”
“Charlie!” She stomped her foot and he had to work very hard not to smile with how exasperated she was with him. “You are being far too difficult about this. You’re being... You’re being...”
“A guy?”
She narrowed her eyes and he couldn’t seem to keep his mouth in a straight line. He liked the way energy and emotion sparked off her, in her expression, in her movements. She was so...open. He’d always dated contained, careful women. Always thought that was his type, that was what he wanted.
But he liked her spark, her flash. A lot.
“Hear me out here. It’s like...” He struggled for an analogy that would make sense considering their very unique situation. “Like when you work with someone you’re attracted to. Every day you walk into the office and they’re there. You have to walk by them, and see them, and it makes the air heavy. It makes your skin feel too tight. Day after day, they’re there, in your space, being that thing you’re trying to resist.” He wasn’t quite sure when his voice had gone low, kind of raspy, or when they’d t
aken steps toward each other.
Close. They were close. They shouldn’t be close, but he couldn’t resist. He’d never not been able to resist and it was fascinating, all in all, free-falling the way he did around her.
Which led to getting her pregnant and you not even remembering it.
But reason’s voice was just a whisper when she was near, the sharp intake of her breath and the faint blush on her cheeks serving only to spur him on. “So, every day you pretend. And you pretend. And you probably get a little more desperate every day until...”
He snapped his fingers and she jumped. He got no small amount of satisfaction from that. This wasn’t just him. It wasn’t some break with reality caused by upheaval. Whatever existed between them echoed in both of them. Maybe attraction was all it was, but it was mutual.
It was potent.
And, once again, he’d forgotten the point of being here.
* * *
MEG FELT LIKE she was vibrating. All those things he’d described—the heavier air, the skin being tight—added an unnatural heat and unabashed longing that should most definitely abash her. She felt like she was vibrating from the inside out.
She knew what it was to want, to long, to be desperate for something. She’d beaten that need. Time and time again, she’d crushed the desire to have something she knew was bad for her, despite the appealing sense of freedom and goodness it would briefly give her.
Charlie wasn’t a drug, or a drink, but he surely would be bad for her. Well, potentially. It would complicate things, no matter how yummy that complication might be...
It wasn’t just them. It wasn’t just her. She had to consider Seedling and the fact that Charlie wanted to be a part of that. So she had to stop being a hormonal, desperate mess ready to jump him at the slightest touch—and the smoothest, hottest explanation of attraction she’d ever heard.
She cleared her throat, waving a hand in the air. “You slept with people you worked with? That’s kinda sleazy.”
“No,” he said evenly. “It was just an example.”
“It sounded real,” she said, realizing too late her voice wasn’t infused with disbelief. It sounded a heck of a lot closer to jealousy. Oh, ew. No.
