by Score, Lucy
“Oh. Oh! Right. The chicken.” She took a big step back and almost went ass up over a tractor tire in the yard, but he caught her by the shoulders.
He felt just the tiniest bit better. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem distracted.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Help me get the bird.”
They caught the damn chicken and returned her to the pasture. On the walk back to the house, Sammy lectured him on how to get the birds and the sheep into the barn before dark and what to feed them.
“I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” he said. “I’ll be on a plane tonight.”
“On the off-chance that you’re still here, you’ll save me a trip tonight,” she said, humoring him. “This must not be a big emergency if you can resolve it that fast,” she noted.
“I’m confident it’s a misunderstanding that can be easily straightened out.” No small-town bank stood a chance against his expertise. At least, not as long as his blood flow returned to his head.
She looked skeptical. “Yeah, well, do me a favor and text me if you do get on a plane so I can make arrangements for our farm friends here.”
“Fine.”
They made it back to the house without any further farm animal attacks or erections. While Sammy scrawled her phone number on one of his uncle’s many sticky notes, Ryan unwedged his feet from the too-small boots and put on his other pair of non-ruined loafers.
“Good luck with your hangover and finding Rainbow,” Sammy said.
“Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing today,” Ryan said, holding the front door open for her. It felt oddly domestic, seeing her off to work in the morning. He found that weird and unsettling.
She stopped on the front porch and offered him a hand. “It was truly an experience meeting you, Ryan.”
He accepted her hand and shook it slowly. “On that, we agree. I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention… any of this to my uncle when he gets back.”
“So you don’t want me to tell Carson about the sheep abandonment and the drunken nudity and the erec—”
“Goodbye, Sparkle,” he interrupted, giving her a nudge toward the steps. She laughed all the way to her SUV.
He climbed behind the wheel of his clown car trying not to analyze the vague feeling of dissatisfaction settling in his gut. Maybe it was his spleen? He’d get it checked in Seattle, he decided.
He didn’t have time to be hungover or worry about vague feelings of uneasiness or pretty, overly thoughtful veterinarians. Ryan had a bank president to intimidate, a farm to save, and a plane ticket to book. With a renewed sense of energy, he stabbed the vehicle’s start button.
Nothing happened. The tiny, useless engine didn’t even attempt to turn over.
He stabbed it again. “Oh, come the fuck on,” he growled.
He heard the toot of a horn and looked up. Sammy waved as she started to pull away.
“Wait!” The window wouldn’t lower and the interior of the car was so small when he tried to wave his arms to stop her, he cracked his elbow on the glass. “Ow! Dammit!”
He wrestled the seatbelt off, threw open the door, and sprinted after her arms waving over his head. “Come back!”
His right foot went through the thin crust of snow and found the icy, mud puddle beneath. He sank in up to his ankle.
“Oh, come the fuck on!” he snarled, kicking snow and mud into the air. “I really liked these shoes.”
“Problem?”
He whirled around and found Sammy staring at him from the window of her SUV.
Blue Moon Community Facebook Gossip Group
Lavender Fullmer: Veterinarian Sammy Ames was spotted pulling into Old Man Carson’s farm very early this morning to pay a visit to his very single, very good-looking great-nephew!
10
Ryan let out a low growl from the seat next to her and shoved his phone back into his pocket.
“I told you the bank wouldn’t be open yet,” Sammy reminded him, turning Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” back up on the radio.
He rubbed his temples. “It’s not that. The message said the bank president isn’t taking meetings until after the holidays.”
“I believe I also told you that.”
“You don’t have to be so smug about it,” he said.
“It’s a small town. We don’t get a lot of banking emergencies here,” she reminded him. “Besides, you can run into her downtown easier than setting up a meeting.”
He grunted, then punched up the heat on the seat warmer. “What would it take for you to turn off the Christmas carols?” he asked.
“More than you have,” she said cheerfully. “Are you always this grumpy or is it circumstances?”
“Just because I don’t run around with a stupid grin on my face all day every day doesn’t mean I’m grumpy.”
“So always this grumpy,” she deduced. “Sure you’re up for riding shotgun? I’ve got a lot of stops to make.” She’d already had a full day scheduled down to the minute before adding a crabby passenger into the mix.
“Whatever. Just get me in the vicinity of Rainbow Berkowicz today. I can find a way back to the farm,” Ryan insisted.
“What exactly do you need with Rainbow?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. Whatever it was, it was enough to get the man to fly across the country during a personal crisis, but the situation was one he felt could be wrapped up in a single meeting.
Ryan fiddled with the air vents on the dashboard, pointing the warm air at his face. “It’s a family matter.”
She glanced over at him. “What kind of family matter involves your uncle and Rainbow Berkowicz? As far as I know, they settled their Bingo Night dispute.”
“Look, Sparkle. Just because you’re used to your backwoods neighbors talking about every ridiculous detail of their days doesn’t mean I have to gossip about my family’s problems.”
“Message received,” Sammy said. “Unrelated. Just because some backwoods neighbor generously offered to drive you into town doesn’t mean you get to be a dick no matter how hungover, or annoyed, or used to being an ass you are. So you will be polite and respectful to me and anyone else we come in contact with today. Got it?”
His sigh was weary. “Got it. I’m sorry. I’m not usually this much of an asshole.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I guess I can’t blame you,” he admitted.
“You can tell a lot about a person by how they handle the rough patches in life. It’s easy to pretend to be a good human when things are going well. But if you start kicking kittens when things go south, odds are you’ve always been a kitten-kicker underneath it all.”
“I’ve never once kicked a kitten,” he said dryly. “I did punch a parakeet once. But he was asking for it.”
She shot him a look. “I’m sorry. Did you just make a joke?”
“I’m one of those funny grouches,” he insisted.
And just like that, Ryan labeled himself her own personal catnip. Broody hot guys were attractive for obvious reasons. But throw in a sense of humor, and that upped the probability of getting into Sammy’s pants by a thousand points or so.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, past winter white fields and farmhouses with Christmas stars on silos. The early morning skies were already turning that wide-open blue. The beauty of Blue Moon sometimes snuck up and sucker-punched her.
“Thank you for the ride, Sparkle,” Ryan said as if the words pained him. “Despite my assholery, I do appreciate it. You’re nicer than I deserve.”
Nope. No. No. No. She didn’t need him to be hot, grumpy, funny, and sincere.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “You can buy me a coffee.”
“I suppose it’s the least I can do.”
“It actually is,” she said with a smirk.
The opening bars of Dolly Parton’s “Hard Candy Christmas” were abruptly cut off by a text alert. Sammy’s SUV came with the handy option to read text messages aloud when she was behind t
he wheel.
“Text message from Summer Pierce,” the robotic voice enunciated. “Hey, girl. Any chance I can get four wreaths with buffalo plaid bows? I need them for a photo shoot. Praying hands. Praying hands. Smiley face.”
“Well, that’s not annoying,” Ryan announced.
“Here’s a fun fact,” Sammy said with forced brightness, as a bead of sweat worked its way down her back at the very distinct possibility that she wasn’t going to finish all the wreathes. “Those electric cars only work when you remember to plug them in.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh, which cheered her up. “Thanks for the tip,” he said dryly.
“Huh. That’s funny. I could almost say the same,” she mused, recalling his excellent erection.
“No one likes a funny veterinarian,” he said dryly.
She grinned.
The smoldery glare he sent in her direction had her insides doing funny things. Maybe it had been a little too long since her last roll in the hay. Long enough that it had been a literal roll in the hay in much warmer weather.
Dammit. That’s why this hungover grouch was playing her hormones like a world-class pianist. It had been too long. It was irresponsible to overlook good old-fashioned sex as self-care.
She wondered how long it had been for Ryan. Her gaze slid across the console to his lap.
“Eyes on the road, doc.” He sounded a little too smug for a guy wearing hand-knit rainbow mittens and matching hat.
Entering the town limits, she pushed aside thoughts of Ryan’s penis. The winter holidays had indeed exploded everywhere in Blue Moon. The Horowitz family’s inflatable Jewish star perched directly across the seat from the Ravenwoods’ Yule tree. On the corner was the Methodist Church’s nativity scene.
In a matter of minutes, Sammy maneuvered into a parking spot in front of McCafferty’s Farm Supply. “First stop,” she told him, shutting off the engine.
“I can’t believe businesses are even open this early,” he complained, eyeing the three-story white clapboard building. The big glass windows were painted with a pastoral winter scene beneath the words Happy Holidays.
“Come on,” she said, releasing her seatbelt. “We’ve only got a couple of minutes.”
“To do what?”
“To get you outfitted.”
“I don’t need new clothes,” Ryan complained as Sammy shoved a heavy work coat on top of the mound of clothing he already held. “I’m not going to be here long enough—”
“Long enough to what? Get frostbite? Because I’m not going to be responsible for your favorite calculator fingers freezing and falling off.”
“I realize you’ve had more medical training than I have but I still don’t think that’s how frostbite works.”
“Go try this stuff on,” she said, shoving him toward the dressing rooms. Her tight schedule was getting tighter by the minute. But she couldn’t in good conscience let him go stomping around farms in damp jeans and nice loafers.
While he changed, she ran upstairs to check out the new thermal layers. A snarky donkey had taken a bite out of the sleeve of her favorite top last week. She grabbed two new tops, one in serviceable white and one dotted with mistletoe—because why not?—and headed back downstairs with her finds.
It wasn’t her fault that Ryan chose the dressing room with the saggiest curtain. Or that she just happened to have an excellent view from the stairs. At least, that’s what she told herself when she was stopped in her tracks to take in the view of the hungover accountant’s naked torso.
If she added up last night and this morning, she’d seen almost every square inch of the man without clothing. She’d also managed to feel several rigid inches of him.
“See anything you like, dear?”
Sammy jumped and nearly lost her footing on the stairs. The thermal shirts and their clothes hangers flew over the railing down to the first floor.
Mrs. McCafferty was a short, round woman with no-nonsense gray hair, a wardrobe of flannel shirts in every color, and shrewd green eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. She ate gossip for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
She peered down at Sammy from a few steps above.
“Morning, Mrs. McCafferty,” Sammy said, avoiding the woman’s question. She didn’t need it spread all over town that she’d been caught slobbering over a half-dressed stranger in the middle of the store. “Are you ready for the Solstice—” The small talk died on her lips with the whoosh of the curtain being drawn back.
“Well? How god-awful do I look?” Ryan stood in front of the dressing room in insulated work boots, fleece-lined jeans, and a thick thermal shirt under a heavy work jacket. His hair was disheveled from the rainbow vomit hat, and that rugged stubble that had sprouted on his jaw overnight made him look… good.
Better than good. Downright sexy.
She swallowed. “You look… warm,” she decided.
Mrs. McCafferty gave a pointed throat clearing. “Ahem!”
Sammy descended with the shop owner on her heels. “Ryan, this is Mrs. McCafferty. She owns the store. Mrs. McCafferty, this is Carson’s great-nephew,” Sammy said, making the introductions and trying not to stare too hard at Ryan’s chest or crotch or jawline.
“Your uncle is a pain in my ass,” Mrs. McCafferty announced.
“That sounds about right,” Ryan agreed.
“But I love him like a brother. Well, maybe like a distant third cousin.”
“He’s a lovable pain in the ass,” he said.
Sammy checked her watch. “Can you put these on my account?” she asked, holding up the thermals. “And could you ring up the clothes while Ryan wears them? We’ve got to be at Hershel’s by eight.”
“Not a problem,” Mrs. McCafferty said, ushering them to the pine counter. “I’ll get you out of here in just a jiffy.”
“How long exactly is a jiffy?” Ryan whispered in her ear.
Sammy jumped at the heat of his breath on her neck. Fortunately the helpful storekeeper chose that moment to drag him into position to get at the price tag on his coat.
While the woman was pulling Ryan this way and that to scan tags, Sammy grabbed a cap with fleece-lined ear flaps. It was only slightly lower on the ridiculous scale than his rainbow puffball hat, but it would perform the dual jobs of keeping his ears warm and distracting her from his overall yumminess.
“Do you happen to know where Rainbow Berkowicz is this morning?” Sammy asked the woman, plucking a pair of gloves from the display and producing her credit card.
Ryan elbowed her out of the way and dug through his old jeans for his wallet.
“It’s my treat,” she insisted, wedging herself between him and the counter.
“No.” He manhandled her like a sack of feed and moved her aside. That wasn’t supposed to be hot. But her libido didn’t seem to mind.
“I can write this off as a business expense,” she tried again, appealing to his practical side.
“Nice try. Still no. You already made me breakfast.”
Across the counter, Mrs. McCafferty’s eyes flicked to Sammy’s face. Shit.
The gossip radar had been activated. Ryan had no idea he’d just bashed open a hornet’s nest.
“I stopped by this morning to show him how to pasture the sheep and chickens,” she explained quickly. She felt beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. The front door opened, and Ernest Washington walked in, rubbing his hands together to ward of the chill.
Great. Another witness.
The entire town was going to be gossiping about Sammy’s one-night stand with Old Man Carson’s nephew by lunchtime.
“She’s too nice,” Ryan complained to Mrs. McCafferty, completely unaware that his audience was taking actual notes on a yellow legal pad as he spoke. “If a man was rude to you and so drunk he took his pants off in front of you not once but twice, would you make him breakfast?”
Mrs. McCafferty wrote down “No Pants” and underlined it twice.
Sammy stepped between him and the c
ounter once again and shot him her best death stare. “Stop. Talking. Now,” she hissed.
Mrs. McCafferty leaned around her to give Ryan a once-over and an answer. “That depends. Does he look like you?”
Ryan gave an amused snort.
The store phone rang, and Mrs. McCafferty reached for it. “McCafferty Farm Supply,” she said, accepting Ryan’s credit card. She didn’t look like she was in any hurry to finish the transaction. The longer they stayed in the store, the later they’d be for her first appointment, and the more fodder the Blue Moon gossip group would compile.
Sammy took matters into her own hands and started stuffing Ryan’s old clothes into a bag.
“IRS Collections Department?” Mrs. McCafferty said shrilly. “What do you mean… Hang on… You’re saying I owe the IRS how much?” The woman’s face turned an unhealthy shade of tomato.
Thinking quickly, Sammy grabbed the legal pad off the counter and fanned Mrs. McCafferty with it.
“I didn’t get any notices in the mail!” She was yelling now, and Ernest Washington wasn’t even bothering to pretend to browse. “You’ll accept a credit card?” Mrs. McCafferty looked wildly about.
Ryan reached across the counter and gestured for her to hand over the phone. “I’m an accountant,” he said with authority.
She dropped the receiver in his hand like it was a hot potato.
“This is Mr. McCafferty,” Ryan said gruffly into the phone. Both Sammy and Mrs. McCafferty shared a look. “What’s all this about the IRS Collections Department?”
As he listened, a hard gleam lit his eyes. It was a good look on him.
“I see. And to whom am I speaking? Detective Smith. Uh-huh.” He listened for a few moments longer. “Let me stop you there, Detective Smith. Here’s the thing. The IRS doesn’t call people. It doesn’t try to collect delinquent taxes over the phone. And it most definitely doesn’t call and demand a credit card number. Judging from the background noise on your end, you’re in a scammer call center.”
Sammy and Mrs. McCafferty shared twin gasps. Ernest inched his way closer presumably to eavesdrop more efficiently.