by Julie Reece
“A bunch of us went clubbing last night and he was there. He’s still hot, by the way. A sleeze but, yeah, he looks good. The boy came up and started talking like nothing’s changed. Asked all sorts of questions about you.”
My head swims with shock. “Why is Alex in New York?”
“How should I know? Something about a last guys’ trip before college. I didn’t even know he could read.”
“Surprise.”
“He asked how you were, where you were … if you were dating anyone. He’s definitely still into you.”
I hadn’t seen him since graduation. He hadn’t tried to contact me. At least, not after his two trips to my house where I refused to answer the door, and the fifty-something text messages that I blew off. “I seriously doubt it.”
“Now, now, mustn’t doubt my twitchy sixth sense. He figured out too late that your hippy-chic vibe was perfect for his charming, hipster, coffee house thing.”
She’s right. At first, Alex was funny, and talented, and had that bad boy smolder I loved. “Too bad I caught him charming another girl.”
“Hmm, yes. That was distressing. I predict someone bigger will wipe that cocky-ass smile off his attractive face one day. Or maybe the rats up here will eat his man parts.”
Castration by rat? Nice. “Unfortunately for us, this is America, not a fourteenth century French prison. But thanks for the sentiment.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe you ought to date one of the nerds Dad’s always trying to fix you up with. Geeks don’t cheat.”
“Nerds aren’t my thing. Besides, I don’t think cheating is exclusive to musicians, Syd. Even reform school musicians. Either way, I’ll find my own dates, thanks.”
“Or not. You haven’t dated anyone since Alex.”
She reminds me as though I’m unaware of this factoid. “Exactly. That’s how I prefer men right now. Absent.” Another hard sneeze threatens to rip my sinus cavity apart.
“So gross, but whatever. I have to run. Ta.”
Ta? I drop my phone in my lap, and wipe my nose.
“That was … educational,” a deep voice remarks.
I jump and drop the Kleenex in my lap. “Holy crap!”
When I glance up, Silas is leaning on the doorpost near the kitchen, all relaxed and smooth-like. I use the term kitchen loosely because we’re in one room, but there’s a support beam near the sink. He’s casually sipping something from a mug. Coffee, I assume from the smell that finally hits my stuffy nose.
“That was my Sydney. My sister.” Come on, Autumn, did you lose I.Q. points blowing your nose? There are a lot of things I might have started our conversation off with this morning. Sentences like: why the hell are you in my room, or do you always eavesdrop on your employees’ phone calls? All compounded with me in a T-shirt and underwear. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you like your men ‘absent.’” He takes the seat next to the bed. “Though I’m not sure what that says about you, Autumn.” He’s wearing a pair of khaki cargo shorts and hiking boots. The faded, red shirt he’s wearing compliments his tan. Not that I’m noticing.
“Lucky for me, your opinion is superfluous either way.”
“SAT vocabulary words before breakfast? Show off.” I catch his faint smile before he reaches to pet his dog. “Good morning, Gus.”
Drainage strangles my comeback, and I groan instead. Why is he still smiling?
“Rough night?”
“I slept in a bed with an animal.” A series of sneezes explode from my nose. I honk into the tissue again, and toss it on the pile covering my sketchpad.
Silas laughs. The timbre sends a quiver through my stomach. My drainage must be making me nauseas. “So you did. Let’s go. It’s a beautiful day, and you’re late.”
“Am I?” It’s barely light outside. I check my phone alarm, trying to figure out what went wrong.
“Yes.”
I lift my head to catch another grin, and I wonder what he finds so perpetually amusing.
“You need a shower?”
Desperately. But despite the fact Silas told me the water pressure works best in the mornings, I shake my head. “No. I’m okay.”
He glances at my hair and frowns. “You sure?”
“Shut up.” After my humiliating experience in the outhouse, I’m not risking creatures lurking in the concrete shower stall. “I just need a few minutes to myself, all right?” He stands. “And would you mind not coming in here when I’m not awake. Or dressed. Or awake.” Damn it. “Or anytime.”
“You’re right. That was unprofessional.”
“And inappropriate.” I sneeze and Silas’s brow lifts.
“That too. I’m sorry.” When he gives a little bow, I want to hit his chin. “I think you might be allergic to dogs,” he says, cheerfully.
“You think?”
“Meet me at the house in twenty minutes.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty. Or I’ll be back for you.” He glances down. “Gus, you hungry?” Gus scrambles off the bed and flies out the door. I can’t believe how fast he is for his size. Silas trails behind, and when I’m sure they’re gone, I get up.
I wash my face and brush my teeth in the kitchen sink. The polished wood floors are slick and cool under my bare feet as I hurry across the room to my duffle on the floor. There’s a small bureau on the wall. I guess I should unpack. All I want is escape, but to where? Going home is pointless since half the reason I came in the first place was to avoid my father … and, yes, I’ll admit it, so I wouldn’t face his disappointment yet again.
Miracles happen. I could wake up to a phone call relocating me to some boring internship in an office, filing papers, far away from guys who stalk deer, and antelopes, and girls in their underwear. I pretend for kicks that I’ve been sick with the flu, ate some bad tofu and hallucinated Silas and this whole trip. I sift through my clothes with a heavy breath.
Fine, that’s not happening. I’ll do everything that’s reasonable for this job, but if he thinks I’m going to shoot innocent animals, he’s delusional.
Taking a cue from what Silas wore, I pull on a pair of black cargo shorts, a white tank, heavy boots, and scrunchy socks. My arms stay covered in my usual bands of rope and leather bracelets. I’d like to braid my hair, but I don’t dare take the time. My favorite cap will have to do. The one with Marshall (as in guitar amps) stitched across the top. A gift from Alex, the cap was the last and best thing that came from our failed relationship.
The air outside is sweet with morning blossoms. It’s overcast, and not as hot, though the cloud cover will likely burn off as the day goes on. My mind quickens with curiosity over what I’ll be doing today. Silas mentioned testing outdoor equipment, which doesn’t bode well. I’ve been camping exactly zero times. Dad and Sydney aren’t really nature lovers, and what they say goes. Not that I’ve had a burning desire to sleep in tents, mind you, but Mom loved parks, and trees, and wildlife. When I lost her eight years ago, I lost my balance. Not just in choosing family activities but in everything since.
Waves from the nearby lake lap the shore. A few ducks feed near the dock to my right. The Behr’s house seems an awesome place for vacationing. For interns, well, that remains to be seen. I won’t hold my breath.
Silas waits by the porch. He eyes my appearance. I can’t guess what he’s thinking, but since he doesn’t criticize, I must pass uniform requirements. “You ready?”
“Guess so.”
I follow him through a long section of trees, wondering when I’ll meet everyone else. Our path widens out on a little meadow surrounded by fence and inside—goats. A barn stands off to the left. Painted red, the foundation is stacked stone and looks ancient and quaint as a Winslow Homer painting.
Silas heads toward the entrance. I’m trying to link goats with outdoor gear in my head when he says, “Behr Mountain has an interest in the company, Tranquility Holdings.” He walks too fast, and I jog a few steps to keep up. “You
with me?”
“Yep.” I pull a tissue from my pocket and blow.
“Tranquility makes natural bath and body care products from the extracts of flowers, fruits, honey, herbs, and goats’ milk. The Behr family, and a few key employees, come on and off all year to experiment with new ideas.”
“And that’s why the goats?”
He smiles. “That’s why the goats.”
My gaze lifts to the handsome boy at my side. How did he get the job as supervisor? Maybe his dad is friends with Mr. Behr, or their moms are tennis partners, or he played soccer with Caden Behr. My dad is always making a big deal about networking and contacts. It’s who you know as much as how hard you work, he likes to say.
“I thought this would make a good introduction,” Silas says. “Ease you into things.”
As though protesting our presence, barn swallows chirp and fly around the rafters. There are two rows of stalls down each side of the structure with a hayloft overhead. The barn smells like oats, and leather, and honeysuckle mixed with a solid dose of goat poo. My toe snags in the straw and the ground rushes up to meet my face. I yelp, my hands shooting out to break my fall.
An arm wraps my waist and my body stops dead. Suspended a few inches from the ground, I let out a long breath. “Whoa.”
Silas’s bicep hardens as he lifts me to a stand. His forearm flexes against my stomach, fingers firmly pressed to my ribcage. His palm slides across my skin. I’m annoyed because it feels nice, and I don’t want to be thinking things like that, especially not about my boss.
Anger is my longtime, kneejerk reaction to cover emotion, and today’s no exception. I tug my shirt down and roll my shoulders. “Let me go.”
He does. “You’ll need to watch for those … ” Silas points at my boots. My gaze follows his finger to the orange twine woven around them. “The hay bales come wrapped in the stuff.”
I brush my hands together, though there’s nothing on them. “Got it.”
“You’re welcome.” The words sound like an accusation. “Saving you is getting to be a full time job.” His jaw hardens as he lifts several pails off a long wooden workbench before setting them in the heavy shavings on the ground near a small wooden platform.
I’m aware I’m not the easiest person, but his constant sarcasm keeps me defensive. When I tried to thank him at the barbeque stand, he wouldn’t have it. Why should I make that mistake twice? “That’s the last time I’ll bother you, I promise.”
“No, don’t promise.” He motions to a row of stools by the first stall. “Sit here for a minute, and try not to need me too much.”
I do as I’m told, unsure what I’m waiting for. A minute later, Silas walks in with a goat on a leash and directs her toward the little stage. The animal is white with freaky, yellow eyes, and smaller than the dogs around here. Calmer, too. I startle when the goat bleats, almost falling off my stool. My cheeks burn as I right myself, doing my best to hide them with my hair.
“These are Saanen goats,” he says. When I adjust my butt onto the three-legged stool, his lips twitch. “There are several breeds of milking goats, but we only use this one.”
At his urging, the goat hops up on the stage and sticks her head through a square opening at one end. On the outside, a small metal pan is fastened to the wood. The goat drops her muzzle in the pan and starts munching on whatever’s inside.
Silas adjusts the wooden bar over her head. He twists, grabbing the metal buckets and two smaller silver cups. “The grain keeps her happy through the milking.” Curiosity has me leaning forward, watching every move. “Why don’t you slide your stool closer, so you can see. I need you to pay close attention as I run through these steps.”
I must move too slowly for his liking, because Silas leans out, hooks his fingers around one leg of my stool, and pulls until I’m right next to his seat. Our thighs touch. I brush my tingling skin, but can’t inch over without falling off my stool again, and I’m not giving Silas the satisfaction.
“Okay,” he says, “this first bucket is for washing the udders.”
Udders? Oh, hell to the no. “That’s seriously messed up.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s just a goat, Autumn. And we’re not going to eat her.” He dips a washcloth in a sudsy solution and wipes the entire undercarriage of the goat. “This gets rid of dirt and hair, and makes her milk come down.” After her bath, he lifts the silver cups and immerses each pink teat inside. “The dip is iodine and kills bacteria, so she won’t get infections.”
“Makes sense,” I say, but that’s so not what I’m thinking. I bite my lip. My butt squirms on my stool. I tell myself to grow up, but it isn’t working. While I don’t want to act immature or be unprofessional, I guess I am. Because if looking foolish makes me defensive, extreme embarrassment has a tendency to make me laugh (sometimes hysterically) at inappropriate times. Watching Silas wash goat boobies makes me uncomfortable on six different levels, so I pray, Dear God, do anything you want, just please don’t let me giggle.
Silas lifts his hand. “To milk a goat, you take your thumb and forefinger and make a circle, like this.” He moves another metal bucket under the goat. “Wrap your fingers around the base of the teat tightly enough to trap the milk inside, and squeeze with your middle finger, then your ring finger, and then your pinky, in one smooth, successive motion. Keep your grip tight on the base, or else instead of going into the bucket, the milk will slip right back up into the udder.”
This isn’t happening.
When he squeezes, milk shoots out making a hissing sound in the empty pail. “Careful not to tug or pull, it will hurt her and can cause infection.”
None of this is funny, and I don’t want to accidently pinch the poor goat. Yet, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snickering like a full-blown dork.
“Okay, now you try.” How can he say that with a straight face?
A small laugh escapes. Not a snowball’s chance in Hades. “Pass.”
Silas’s knee rubs mine. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and he clears his throat. “Sorry, refusal’s not an option.”
Other than the fact I’m used to being obstinate for no reason, I’m nervous. Meeting an udder in person is downright bizarre. The goat keeps chomping away at her breakfast. She seems like a nice little thing, and I really don’t want to hurt her. Or feel her up.
“It’s not a game, Autumn. Everything I ask you to do is part of your job and responsibility here.” I lift my chin. He doesn’t flinch, suggesting he’s every bit as stubborn as I am. “Don’t be a child. I’ll help you. Give me your hand.”
He ignores my glare of death and reaches for me. Paying no attention whatsoever to my indignant gasp, he takes my wrist, cups my hand within his, and pulls me closer. The calluses covering his palm surprise me. I didn’t credit my supercilious boss with any physical labor until now.
He makes a circle with my thumb and forefinger and holds it up to the goat’s teat. She’s warm, and soft, and nothing is what I expected today. Together, Silas and I squeeze, and milk shoots into the pail. Again and again we squeeze until a pattern is formed.
Silas’s arm and part of his chest press against me. His cologne is clean and understated. His every exhale a whisper in my ear. I can’t concentrate worth a damn, and worry he will feel my hand tremble. In the name of all that’s green and growing, why am I getting so worked up over milking a stupid goat?
Even after the cheating, I don’t think I hated Alex as much as I loathe Silas. I’ve known him what, twenty-four hours? And already, the guy affects my system on a chemical level. A drug you love to hate—one that leaves a person in a constant state of both heightened awareness and supreme confusion.
The barn is a symphony of rhythms: his heartbeat against my side, mine speeding up in response, our breath mixing as we lean into our task, his fingers kneading mine, mine against the goat, the heated milk spitting into the metal pail …
When Silas moves, his thigh slides against mine. His arm muscles flex. “Sh
it.”
“What?” I ask. My body tenses, worried I hurt the little animal. “Did I—?”
“No,” he mutters, but his deep exhale implies I’m the world’s worst milkmaid, ever. “Everything’s fine. Just … focus, all right? And can you wear your hair back from now on? It keeps getting in my face.”
Mortification at its zenith, I consider asking him to shove off. Actually, I want to dump the goat’s milk over his head, but I curb that impulse. After a few more minutes spent in the most awkward silence known to mankind, the goat milk lessens. Silas releases my fingers and shoots up so fast, he knocks his stool over.
How stupid is it that I feel rejected right now? We milked a goat together, for crying out loud. It’s not like we just … My gaze drops to my hand, skin still warm from his touch.
“So … ” He clears his throat. “That’s it. See, goats aren’t so bad.”
The difference of opinion must show on my face because his lips turn up. “Something to say?”
“Would it matter?”
“Nope.”
Thought so.
“Oh, I didn’t show you … ”
While I wipe my hands on my shorts, Silas resumes his seat. He leans over and re-dips the teats in iodine, explaining it’s to prevent bacteria. Before I know what’s happening, we’re done, and he’s leading the goat away. I drop my head in my hands and breathe out. At least that’s over.
“Goat number two!”
I lift my head again as Silas walks another animal into the milking arena.
I lean, trying to peer out the wide doorway. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this. “How many goats are there?” If I have to sit this close to Silas milking goats all day, one of us (me) will commit homicide.
“About twenty.” He puts the second goat in the stand and secures the latch over her head. “Every goat is different. Milking can take anywhere from four to ten minutes, depending on the animal. You should be done around lunchtime, give or take. I’ll meet you at the house later. We’ll eat, and then get started on our afternoon chores.”