by CM Foss
Dimple immediately trotted over. Ivy patted her chest, and the dog stood to gently place her paws on it. Ivy kissed her nose and scratched her cheeks while the dog gazed at her with complete adoration. I walked closer and scratched the dog’s head with my fingertips. I’d had a great dog once, and suddenly I missed him.
“Why Dimple?” I asked.
Ivy took her fingers and pointed to two spots on either side of Dimple’s cheeks and grinned at me. “Dimples.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “Got it.”
“So, what do you think?” She stepped back from the dog and waved a hand to gesture around the property.
“Well, it’s really impressive. I don’t really understand it.”
A smile lit her face, making her green eyes stand out even more than they already did. She liked explaining things. And I had to admit I liked listening to her.
“I run the bed and breakfast almost entirely off things produced here on the farm.” She pointed at animals as she listed those things off. “Milk, eggs, more milk, lamb, chicken, beef, vegetables, berries, semen.”
I started to choke on nothing except her last word. She patted me on the back.
“I know. I make a shit-ton of money off semen.”
My eyes were watering and I shook my head back and forth.
“You can’t just throw that word around.”
She laughed, the sound ringing clear and coming easy. “You’re a doctor. I thought you should be able to handle some technical terminology.”
“I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“And what kind of doctor are you?”
“Just a regular doctor. And don’t think that will distract me from having you explain about the semen.”
“Oh. Well now I am a little sorry for you.”
“For what? My job?”
She shrugged and it made me laugh like I hadn’t in a long time. She had no pretense. She seemed to honestly pity my career choice. I got it because… because I kind of did too.
“It’s not the easiest gig out there. I just couldn’t really decide on a different specialty, so I stuck with internal medicine because I figured it was a good background to have anyway.”
“And you haven’t decided on anything else yet?”
“Nope,” I responded, then fell into silence, hoping she’d get the hint to move on from the subject.
We’d started walking again and she stopped, propping a foot on a lower board of the fence. My eyes traveled the length of her leg, lingering on her perfectly shaped ass, accentuated by her position. I could have stared all day, but her voice brought me back to reality.
“Bulls. Wagyu bulls. Have you heard of Wagyu beef?” Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, are you a vegetarian?”
My head flung back like she’d slapped me. “What? No. Why would you say that?”
She waved a hand at me. “Just… you know.”
“No, I don’t. What?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to offend you. You just look like… like maybe… like maybe you could be a vegetarian. That’s all.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. A vegetarian? Not that there was anything wrong with that, but… “I honestly don’t know how to respond to that. But yes, I’ve heard of Wagyu. And I’ve eaten it. So… that answers both your questions.”
“Ah. Okay. Anyway, I sell genetics. I have five full-blood bulls.” As she spoke, one actually ambled up to us. He was huge. “This is Mr. Moto.”
I snorted, and she winked at me.
“He’s my most seasoned bull and very docile.” She scratched his forehead.
I gingerly reached out to do the same. I’d never pet a cow before, let alone a bull.
“Sometimes they go out on lease or we collect them and sell straws of semen to ship it all over the country. People go nuts for it, plus my boys are known for being good producers. Aren’t you, Moto?”
Mr. Moto lifted his enormous nose in the air and stuck his long black tongue out. She laughed when it wrapped around her finger.
“All right, I have to touch it,” I said, bolstering myself.
“His tongue?” She smiled knowingly. What she knew was mildly alarming.
“Yeah. I’ve never seen a cow’s tongue before. Outside a taco.”
She let out a bark of laughter and tickled Moto’s nose so he stuck his tongue out again. I reached out a finger to feel it.
“Wow,” I wondered aloud. “Like sandpaper.”
“Weird, huh? Like a giraffe.”
“Well, I’ve never touched a giraffe’s tongue either.”
She nodded. “It’s the same.”
Huh.
She pushed back from the fence and started making her way toward the house.
“Let me show you around the house and you can get your stuff out and get settled. You can help me milk this afternoon.”
“Like, the goats? Really?” The thought filled me with equal amounts entertainment and trepidation. What was happening to me?
She smiled over her shoulder at me. “Yep. If you want.”
“I do want.”
And as I watched her ass sway in front of me, it was true. Boy did I want.
Ivy
This guy. What was it about this guy? I mean, he was wearing loafers that he’d never be able to wear again. It’s highly possible his jeans at one time had a crease ironed in them. His ass looked great, don’t get me wrong. But I’m pretty sure everything he was wearing on his lower half cost as much as his car.
Don’t get me started on his car.
Still, there was something about him. He was endlessly curious. He gave his full attention to everything I said, even though I could tell he was taken aback by my lifestyle. Heck, I knew it wasn’t for everyone. But it was important to me.
He was hot too. And he seemed to be getting hotter the farther he eased the stick out of his ass. I’d thought he was kind of stuffy and arrogant at first. But as the layers peeled away, his magnetism grew stronger. Also, peeling away layers showed his abs, and I was way on board with that.
Connie was right. Things were slow out here in the… naked male department. I mean, I’m sure I could have found some naked males somewhere. Matt was clearly up to the task. But not only did I cringe at that thought, everyone would know about it. Everyone. So a naked male stranger held more than a little allure. Even just a glimpse of naked. Sure, those were inappropriate thoughts. Terribly unprofessional. But it was a Monday. All bets were off on Mondays.
I led Patrick up the back steps into the main house. He smiled at me as I held the screen door open for him to pass through before me. His arm reached above my head to hold the frame. I looked up at him. Way up. The sun setting behind him made me squint, momentarily blinding me. All I felt was his other hand move to the small of my back, encouraging me to go in first. I gulped in a quick breath at the feel of him, just that small amount of pressure. When I gulped, I caught a whiff of his scent, which made my heart flutter, and I wanted to sway into the heat of his body.
Whoa. When was the last time I felt that? A middle school crush? Maybe.
I was flustered and still couldn’t really see, so I stumbled my way in ahead of him, blinking to regain my vision.
“So, I have a question,” he said as the door clanged shut behind him.
I cleared my throat, composing myself. “Sure.”
“Well, this is a really big place. And it’s very quiet.” He paused. “Is it always this quiet?”
I chuckled at his discomfort. “No. It’s a real inn, I promise. Guests usually leave on Sundays, so most of the staff has Mondays off and I do the farm chores myself. Tomorrow the real cleaning period will start, and we spend the next few days prepping for weekends. Occasionally we have weekday guests, but
mostly on long weekends. We do a lot of corporate retreats, wellness programs, that sort of thing. Like this weekend a company is sending out a group of their top employees to spend time together, to work together manually. It helps people get to know each other in a way they ordinarily wouldn’t. It’s a great stress reliever to work with your hands, to physically exert yourself.”
He was behind me, following me down the back hallway, and there was a slight pause of silence where every bit of that last sentence I spoke became sexual in my head. Clearly I wasn’t grown-up enough to… be a grown-up. But he was quiet too, so maybe he could tell what I was thinking. That was awkward, unless he was thinking the same thing. Which made it more or less awkward? My plan was to pretend nothing happened. Because, you know, nothing happened.
“Do you live here? In this house?” he asked, his voice and our footsteps echoing down the empty wooden hallway.
“No, I have a cottage in the back of the property. It’s nice to stay separate, and I think it’s more comfortable for the guests too. I never really liked going to B and Bs where you felt like you were hanging out in someone’s home. It’s hard to relax. This way they have free rein and I have privacy.”
I stopped in the front foyer and turned around to see him studying me intently. I licked my lips and tried to ignore how much I liked the way it made me feel.
“This house used to be a boy’s boarding school. That’s why there are so many rooms. It was perfect to turn into a business. I wouldn’t want to live here by myself, obviously. There are eight bedrooms. It would be so weird.”
“And scary.” He nodded.
“Totally.”
He cocked his head to the side. “So you… own this place? Rent it? Just work here?”
“I own it and run it.”
“But you’re so… young. How did you get into this?”
One side of my mouth curved into a sad smile, and strangely, I wanted to tell him everything. Just not yet. “That is a long story. I’ll tell you over dinner. For now, we have barn chores to do and goats and a cow to milk if you’re done with the tour.”
“As long as I don’t have to milk one of the bulls, then yeah, I’m in.”
I snorted with laughter at that image and led him back the way we came. He followed me into the barn, where I put him to work mucking stalls and putting fresh bedding in. The muck pile was out back, so he used a wheelbarrow back and forth through the barn several times. Let’s just say his shoes were on a short path to ruination. I had to give him credit though. After the first few minutes of grimacing and trying not to get dirty, he gave that up and jumped right in.
When the last water bucket was cleaned and filled and the aisle was swept clean, I set to work organizing the milking equipment while Patrick looked on.
“You have to promise me something.” I propped my hands on my hips and turned to face him.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want any more squeamishness about getting dirty. It’s just dirt. It’s not even germs.”
“I can be dirty.” He appeared, once again, a little affronted.
“I saw you wipe your shoes.” He began to speak up, but I stopped him with a hand in the air. “Repeat after me: it’s just dirt.”
I gestured with my hands for him to continue. His eyes narrowed, but his mouth was curled in a smirk that I wanted to plant my own lips on. “It’s just dirt.”
“Excellent. Cow or goats first?” I asked.
“Goats.” He nodded.
“Really?” I cocked my head. “Most people choose cow.”
“Interesting. You’d think they’d choose the smaller animal.”
“You’d be surprised how many people are intimidated by the goats.”
I made him wait while I brought Elsie in. She was my better behaved of the three milkers. I got her set up at the stanchion and cleaned her udders while Patrick watched my every move as if he was in a class. He wanted to know what I was using and why I did everything. I felt like I was talking his ear off but he kept asking more questions.
When it was time to actually milk, I grabbed two stools and set them side by side so I could help him. We sat down next to each other, an inch of polite space between us. Fortunately or unfortunately, just depending on what the heck was going on here, polite space wasn’t going to work. I took a deep breath and scooted over so our sides were pressed tightly together. He turned his head to glance down at me and smiled his panty-dropping smile. One that I’m sure worked on every patient—and probably every city housewife—the guy had ever seen. It was working pretty well on me too.
In just that moment, I was aware of everything about him. Once again his scent, but also his temperature, the feel of his denim jeans, even through my own. How hard his body was under the softness of his cotton shirt. The masculine feel of his arm pressing against mine. Our closeness alone. The fact that we were this close. Alone.
Elsie stomped her feet and nudged me with her nose.
Okay, not so alone.
“You ready?” I asked.
“As I’ll ever be.”
“The key is to keep your hands relaxed. That way you don’t get tired and she doesn’t get irritated.”
“What happens when she gets irritated?”
“She kicks the milk bucket over, and I get royally pissed off.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “Ah, okay. Show me.”
He ducked his head to watch my hands start to milk. Once milk was streaming out easily, he reached to give it a try. I positioned his hands, ignoring that little flutter I got every time our skin brushed. Within a few minutes, he was milking easily and efficiently.
“You’re really good,” I praised him. “A lot of people don’t catch on right away.”
“Well, I’ve always been good with my hands.” He winked.
I snorted and rolled my eyes, but inside I loved seeing the spark in him as he lightened up. “Well, I’m sure this isn’t the first pair of teats you’ve handled.”
He started to laugh, his forehead resting on Elsie’s side. “Stop. You’re going to ruin me. I’ll never be able to think of them the same.”
“Serves you right.” I nudged his shoulder.
We spent the next hour milking the animals by hand. The time was filled with banter and laughter and lots of strange, inappropriate innuendo about teats and hands that had the potential to affect my perceptions of sex forever. I didn’t mention the fact that I had a machine, which technically would have taken less time and would have been easier. I tended to milk by hand on these quiet Monday afternoons. It was therapeutic.
When we were finished, we stood in the barn kitchen with pails upon pails of milk surrounding us.
“Okay, final question,” Patrick said, hands on his hips as he watched me.
“What’s that?” I asked as I strained the milk into sterile jars.
“What the hell do you do with all this? Do you get this much every day? Do you sell it?”
“That was three final questions.” I laughed at his incredulous expression. I’d done that a lot through the afternoon. “I use it. I drink it, cook with it, make butter, cheese, yogurt. But no, I don’t sell it. That’s illegal.”
He blinked a few times. “It’s illegal to sell milk?”
“Raw milk, yep. Farms have been raided by the government for it. Laws vary by state, and there are ways it can be done legally, but it’s nothing I want a part of. Any leftover the staff is welcome to take home, and they usually do. The chickens and pigs and Dimple love leftovers too.”
“Wow. Serious stuff.”
“Milk is a national threat.”
“I guess so.”
“The thing is, this is probably one of the best things for you. And so many people don’t even know about it. They think th
ey’re doing the right thing by buying organic milk at the grocery store in cardboard cartons lined with formaldehyde. But the truth is that it’s killing them a little more every day.” Patrick’s eyes grew wide, and I snapped my mouth shut, laughing it off like I wasn’t really a crazy person. “Sorry. I get a little worked up about it. It’s just that things as simple as real foods, from the source, can make such a difference to your health. It’s kind of my thing.” That was putting it mildly.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get it. I mean, I don’t really get it, but I guess I can see where you’re coming from. I don’t put much thought into what I’m eating. I’m usually eating on the fly, picking up whatever’s in the hospital cafeteria. I couldn’t even tell you what it was most of the time, let alone where it came from. My mom always cooked growing up, but I never paid much attention. I’m just not really a food person.”
I considered him for a long moment while inwardly shuddering at the explanation of his diet. “Come with me. I’m gonna make you the best meal you’ve ever had. It’s gonna change your life.”
“One dinner is going to change my life?”
I smirked at him. “With me it will.”
Chapter 5
Patrick
I followed her. Again.
Walking behind this girl for the umpteenth time was unforgettable. She was completely fascinating, unlike anyone I’d ever met before. Almost bubbly, warm, clearly caring, very intelligent, quirky as shit. But that wasn’t the whole story. She had an edge to her I couldn’t quite figure out, couldn’t quite pinpoint. At first glance, you might feel like she was an open book. But she flipped pages.
I felt myself wanting to open up to her, if only it meant she’d do the same for me.
“Tell me,” she called back to me as I followed her down a path heading toward what could only be her garden. “What was your favorite meal growing up? The one you’d ask for at every birthday?”
“Meatloaf.” My response was easy and immediate.